Andrew Hudgins wrotewhat I believe to be a remarkably insightful poem, "Elegy for My Father, Who is Not Dead." Interesting title.

"One day, I'll lift the telephone and be told my father is dead. He's ready in the sureness of his faith. He talks about the world beyond this world as though his reservations have been made. ... He's ready. I am not. I can't just say goodbye as cheerfully as if he were embarking on a trip. I see myself on deck, convinced his ship's gone down, while he's convinced I'll see him standing on the dock and waving, shouting, "Welcome back!"

I have come to believe that preparing for my demise is much like making out a will, getting ready for retirement or buying a tuxedo. One never knows when I will need the document, the savings or if the party is formal.

I remember the time when one of my parishioners in Florida called very early one morning to tell me that her husband had just died and would I meet her as soon as possible. When I drove up to their house, I could hear her swearing at the top of her voice and yelling at her now deceased husband. For the sake of family readership, I will leave out that part of our conversation.

Her husband had been an executive and a controlling individual who believed he was in charge all the time. He kept all the records of the home: the bank accounts, correspondence, telephone numbers, and ... well, everything. He believed his wife was the keeper of the inside of their home, but he was the overseer. By the time I had arrived, his wife had discovered he had at least six or seven accounts in banks she never knew existed, phone numbers of their children had been changed and she did not have the new numbers, and as far as the insurance carrier, hospital cards, lawyers or final preparations were concerned, forget it! Close to noon, the children had been located and notified and — thank goodness — the funeral director had finally removed his body. Unfortunately, the house was turned upside down in the search for records he had carefully hidden from prying eyes. He was not ready to get his survivors ready.

Perhaps the first part of being ready is to know and accept the fact that death is not only predictable but inevitable. The next part would be to accept that the how, when, where and why are pretty sketchy, to say the least. I have always felt that I would be well remembered if I expired — that sounds better than died — while climbing Mt. Everest, sky diving over the football field or crossing the Atlantic on a bicycle. I do not want to be eaten by a shark, fall down an elevator shaft or in a car wreck while wearing three-day-old underwear.

The only thing within my power to know is that I have the absolute right to be prepared to the best of my ability. I have the right to be afraid of the unknown. Please don't tell me not to be afraid. I have the right and the time to forgive myself for the things I should have done and even the things I should not have done. I still have the time to smile at people, lend a helping hand, vote, stand up for someone, tell the truth, follow through, and maybe, just maybe, let go and have fun. Perhaps I will sit down and make a list of things to do, say, learn, try, undo and then run around like crazy getting the list done. That might be what life is all about.

Almighty God, help me to be the man or woman You made me to be. Here I am, no excuses, no false fronts, no hidden agendas, no mysteries.

By gum, I think we're ready!

Thanks, God!