DEATH CAB FOR CUTIES

    Many of you already know that we formed a group of folks from church before the pandemic to talk about end of life issues, our living wills,what we wanted to tell our grown kids, and more issues. Rick named it, "Death Cab for Cuties," after the 90s rock group.

 

 We have had many wonderful, deep discussions over the years ranging from; do we want to compost our bodies? (Probably not.) Could we do a green burial if any options exist nearby? (The Haydenville cemetery does them, but it is quite small, and there are not many places open.)

 Do we want to be cremated? (The option of choice. Although I just read that folks who manage the Bridge of Flowers up in Shelburne Falls are pleading with people not to scatter their ashes on the flowers or scatter their pets ashes as it kills the plants!)) Or, how about an old-fashioned burial in a simple pine coffin in the Williamsburg cemetery.

 (My option of choice as it is right next to the field where I played with my brothers, caught fireflies, and skied when young.)

  Just a few days ago as I contemplated my mortality--something I do daily--this image and words came into my mind. Who knows if it was a God message or just my brain turning over. I saw my coffin in the earth and called it, "My sleeper car to the next life." Perhaps this image came from a book I just finished by Anne Perry, an Elana Standish mystery set in the time after the First World War, where the protagonists are taking many train rides trying to get out of Germany before the Second World War begins. Terrifying.

   At any rate, this image comforted me and gave me a good sense of how I might slip out of my body in this "sleeper car" 

and enter the life to come. I surely hope I get to see my darling grandparents again; my own beloved parents; some friends who have left this life way too soon; and my dear aunts and uncles who gave such richness to my early years. I was lucky.

  I picture this journey during the night, as I recall a train I took with my friend,

 Elaine, to Greece from London, chugging through France, Germany, Yugoslavia, and down through Northern Greece. I vividly remember looking out the dark window at the lights of houses near the tracks; how the train slowed as we came into a station and people shuffled their luggage on the corridor and stepped down onto the platform. Maybe the next life will be like that, carrying the luggage of my memories, stepping down onto the brightly lit platform, and greeting my beloveds with wide-open arms as they say, "Here you are at last, Annie! We have been waiting for you!"

  And if I am very lucky, maybe we will enter an all-night cafe for a flaky, warm croissant and a big bowl of dark French coffee. Because--given that God is merciful and loves all of us equally--why wouldn't she give us French coffee and croissants?