What Matters More Than Any Thing

Yesterday I flew home to San Francisco after spending the weekend with my brother and sister, their significant others, and my nephew in Pennsylvania.

Yesterday was also my dad’s birthday.  I called him from the airport as I was waiting to board my flight because I wanted to tell him Happy Birthday, and remind him how much I love him.

On my layover in Detroit a few hours later,  I was watching CNN in the airport lounge when I learned of two tragic deaths.  Jennifer Riordan, a 43-year-old wife, mom and philanthropist who was killed in a tragic accident on a Southwest flight.  And Mrs. Barbara Bush, a wise, tenacious, gracious, determined woman who was known for her killer sense of humor and her ever-present strand of pearls.

On the last leg of the flight, I watched the sun set from 35,000 feet, casting a long, warm shadow over the towns and cities and homes below.

I thought about life and death and family and relationships and love.  I thought about what we mean to each other in life, and what we leave behind at our deaths.

*

I thought about my favorite family memories.

The tea party my mom and I had with my Florida grandma in her room shortly before she died.  I climbed into her bed and styled her hair so she could feel beautiful for our party.

I visited my Maine grandpa shortly before he died, and he took me into the spare room where my coat was hanging and, like a gentleman, held it for me while I put my arms in it, then gave me a long, long hug and told me he was proud of me.

I remember my Florida grandpa singing his favorite hymn, I Come To The Garden Alone, loudly and a little off key, always holding a plastic 20 oz bottle of Pepsi in his weathered, hard-working hands.

I remember the way my Maine grandma still sends me a card on my birthday.  Every year.  She never forgets.

I remember my mom sleeping on the floor of my studio apartment while I was going through chemo.

One of the warmest memories I have of my dad happened just a few years ago, when he and my mom and I were leaving a hotel room we’d stayed in the night before – and he took the time to stack the used towels so the housekeeper wouldn’t have to collect them from where they’d been scattered on the floor.

*

The objects I’ve inherited from my relatives who have passed are simple.   A strand of pearls.  A leather-bound collection of Emily Dickinson poems. A framed copy of Sea Fever, a poem my grandma and I both loved.  My family has no great monetary inheritance to pass along.  There’s no trust fund.  There’s no beachfront property. There’s no antique collection that’ll sell for millions at auction.

But what matters more than any thing are all the little kindnesses, the small acts, the faithful habits, the thoughtful words that add up to a life well-lived, time well-spent, memories well-kept.

None of us has knowledge of when and how we’ll die — whether it’s at age 43 or 92 or anywhere in between, whether it’s in a tragic accident or surrounded at home by family and friends.  But what we do have is the opportunity to live our lives focusing on what really matters, leaving behind a legacy that’s more valuable than any collection of things we could possibly amass. 

People we leave behind won’t care about our resume or how many social media followers we had or the title we had printed on our business cards.

They’ll remember us for how we showed up when they needed us, how faithfully we kept our promises, how thoughtfully we recognized significant events in their life, how we picked up towels from the hotel floor to show kindness to a housekeeper we’d never met, when we thought no one was watching.

What matters more than any thing is not a large fortune or an impressive career or a massive estate.

What matters more than any thing is a long line of small, consistent, faithful steps we left in life’s sand that, if we do it well, others will hope to follow.