Mortality Moments

Tarris D. Rosell, D.Min.
Assistant Professor of Pastoral Care and Practice of Ministry
Central Baptist Theological Seminary
741 N. 31st Street
Kansas City, KS 66102

We all have heard of Senior Moments–those embarrassing, sometimes frightening occurrences of memory lapse which seem to happen for the first time on or about one’s fortieth birthday. I am well past that landmark birthday and well into midlife. Authentic seniority is just a life-stage away. This may be the reason I experienced something else the other day, something that my spouse, upon hearing me tell of it, immediately recognized as a Mortality Moment.

We all have had Mortality Moments. Actually, MM’s began for us early in life, about the time our first fistful of luscious M&Ms melted in our hands and not in our mouths. We discovered in a moment of realism the truth that some things don’t last no matter how hard we grasp. Hanging on tightly to our little treasures, even purportedly durable candies, will not assure their perpetual duration. Clinging to things cannot thwart and may even hasten an inevitable demise.

By midlife, we add reluctantly to the list of such things-that-don’t-last our own embodied existence. Life doesn’t last–at least not in any particular sense. This body may not melt, but it clearly will break down and is doing so already. Still, we find ourselves clinging to passing stages of life, clutching favorite fetishes all through life, grasping ultimately at extension of life. It’s as though finitude was illusion, as though the truth learned via melted M&Ms had not yet really sunk in.

This is where MMs become important reminders of what we really do know already.

My recent Mortality Moment occurred at an estate sale. En route to the office, I detoured like dozens of others that morning and followed the signs that would lead me to Things. I hadn’t previously noticed the house nor known its former occupants, but at that moment it seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps we had the same builder?

I entered the home with the Sale signs out front–entered with the same sense of curiosity and sheepishness experienced as a boy attending farm auctions. Why are the neighbors selling all their things, Dad? What happened to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson? Mom, is it really okay to walk through their bedroom, even go in their closets? Do they know–I guess not–that we’re all here snooping through and buying their things? Is this a "bargain," Mom?

I remember Mrs. Johnson–kinda. But how did the Johnsons die?

Will I die?

As an adult, I have frequented garage sales. But until the other day, I had not been to an estate sale in years. I heard the salesperson tell some other curious shopper that "Mr. Minchart was eighty-five." Past tense. He must have died. No mention of Mrs. Minchart, although I’m guessing she has "passed" also. Silk and lace nighties, all sale priced, still hang in a bedroom closet–the closet into which I, with mixed feelings, enter.

His clothing hangs there, too. What did Mr. and Mrs. Minchart look like? I wonder. I try on an almost new flannel shirt with a $4.00 price sticker. According to a sign on the front door, everything is half-price. Bargains galore. I spot an almost new pair of New Balance sneakers, size 13. My size, or close enough. At half price they’re just $2.50. I take both the flannel shirt and shoes to the cash register set up in the Mincharts’ living room feeling now like a thrifty thief. Do they know–I guess not–that we’re all here snooping through and buying their things? At bargain prices.

Downstairs in the utility room I sort through the former occupants’ stash of old paint cans and tools and miscellaneous maintenance items that might have come in handy someday. On a workbench is displayed memorabilia, some with price stickers. Prominent among these items are a dozen or so wooden plaques with gold engraving. Mr. Minchart apparently had been a businessman with a corporation that rewarded his talents, diligence, and company loyalty. "Leadership Excellence in Management Award 1978." There are citations for prior years, also. But there are no price stickers on these plaques, I notice. And who would want them?

Driving by the Minchart home again the next day, I saw people hauling out boxes of things for the trash pickup. Probably the award plaques ended up in the landfill along with all sorts of other treasures that no one else would want.

Minchart wasn’t the name cited on those plaques actually. It did start with an "M", I think, but now I can’t remember the first or last names. Could this be a Senior Moment? I wonder who does remember them, who will remember and for how long.

I wonder how the "M"s died. Not causes of death, but how they died. Did they in any way have "good deaths"? At home or in hospital? Painfully or comfortably? Naturally or violently? Despite mechanical life-supports or free of them? Alone, surrounded by strangers, or with family and friends? Anticipated or unexpectedly? Terrified or peacefully? Sane and sentient or senile and demented? I wonder how they died.

For I too will die.

Back in my office later that morning, I look around at miscellaneous memorabilia: books, manuscripts, a guitar, many photos, paintings and kids’ drawings, an award plaque or two, and some diplomas. There are half a dozen coffee mugs that have special meaning to me. Someday, they’ll each go for about a quarter on my estate sale. Or else end up trashed with lots of other things I treasure now that don’t last.

The Journal of Pastoral Care, Spring 2001, Vol. 55, No. 2

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