Mortality

Mortality

Medical School Class

“On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world.”—Henry David Thoreau.

In 2018, we attended our fiftieth medical school reunion. One of the most surprising developments I never envisioned was the substantial number of classmates who had died. We were invincible, ready to take on whatever came our way. We had overcome almost every possible hardship, including abuse, prejudice, poverty, humiliation, ridicule, and whatever else was presented to us. We knew how to work without sleep, be shamed for what we did not know in front of peers, and read and study until it seemed our eyes were coming out of our heads. 

But our death was never part of our own plan. It was something that happened to those we were unable to save.

We constantly walked with death and still remember every face of those we could not save because of our own ignorance or because the medical science that could have saved them was not yet developed. We never imagined that those with whom we worked so closely, sharing a common experience, would no longer be alive. How did they die? Was it a lengthy illness? We search for their obituaries: Ken, Jim, Charles. 

Of course, this has been a wake-up call about our mortality. There is always the question of why we are still alive while they are not. Did we take better care of ourselves, or do we have better genes? Today, I simply know that most answers are out of our reach. 

More and more, we have to live into mystery. We also want to thank those with whom we weathered a wilderness adventure. Somehow, each of them contributed to our becoming the person God created us to be. We send prayers of thanksgiving to them for how their lives touched ours. We also ask for their prayers until we reconnect with them and learn even more about each other.

We look forward to continuing our journey together with the God of our understanding, surrendering, trying to live one day at a time, being grateful for each day, and enjoying the journey without needing to know all the answers this time.

Last year, my husband planned another reunion, and we are planning another one for next year. There is something unique about the bond we shared with friends during our first walks, learning about life and death, that words cannot express. Only the heart knows.

Thanksgiving, All Saints, All Souls, and Advent are special times to remember and give thanks for old friends who shared our journey, both those who are still alive and those who have died.

Joanna.  joannaseibert.com

Celebrating Beauty and Meaning at Camp Mitchell on Petit Jean Mountain

Celebrating Beauty and Meaning at Camp Mitchell on Petit Jean Mountain

“By its very nature, life is full of meaning, for the God who said ‘let there be light’ also proclaimed it good. And the God who said ‘let us make humankind’ also blessed us and proclaimed us very good indeed.” —Br. James Koester, SSJE, from “Brother, Give Us a Word,” a daily email sent to friends and followers of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist (SSJE.org).

We have gathered for the past 12 years with a group of friends called the Board of Visitors, who meet once a year at the top of Petit Jean Mountain to give thanks for Camp Mitchell, the camp and conference center for the Episcopal Church in Arkansas. Our bishop celebrates Eucharist with us; we learn what has been happening at the camp over the past year; and we are informed of new volunteer opportunities while raising money for a project for the new year. We have paved roads and paths for those with disabilities, remodeled buildings, remodeled a kitchen, built an event deck, contributed to a farm program, and built an indoor chapel; but mostly we hope to educate people about the camp so they can go back home to remind others of this natural jewel.

Our camp has changed lives, especially those of our children and youth. Many have met God here.

The camp is strategically built on the brow of a small mountain overlooking the Arkansas River and the Arkansas River Valley. In the early morning, clouds fill the valley, and we cannot help but feel we are in heaven. Each evening, the sunset paints a new panoramic skyscape of pink, orange, and red that no other artist has been able to duplicate. Indian caves with their faint markings lie below, while three-hundred-million-year-old fossil rocks lie beside us at every turn, reminders that life was here long before we were. 

Every inch of nature on the mountain is spectacular, but living in dwellings on the brow is not an easy life for humans. The wind, rain, and electrical storms take their toll, And the upkeep of these habitats is high. That is why we come together to give thanks and care for the gift we have been given. 

We are paying it forward to care for a place that has changed our lives—to preserve it for those who will come after us, most of whom we will never know. The beauty of Petit Jean Mountain has not only brought us closer to the God of our understanding but has also been one of our best teachers in stewardship. We learn by caring for a precious pearl of great price, a place we have been privileged to witness for a nanosecond of its existence. 

I will keep this image from our opening Eucharist, just after sunset last night, in my heart forever. We light candles around the altar of our open-air chapel to remind us to give thanks for all who came before us and cared for this land. We also light candles to pray for our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who will come to enjoy and preserve this holy ground long after we are gone.

We also give thanks for the new executive director of Camp Mitchell, Monica Woods.

Joanna. Joannaseibert.com  https://www.joannaseibert.com/

What Matters Most

What Matters Most

“The things that matter most in our lives are not fantastic or grand. They are moments when we touch one another, when we are there in the most attentive or caring way.”—Jack Kornfield, A Path with Heart (Bantam, 1993).

This morning, I remember returning from my almost sixty-year high school reunion. There were thirty-three in my graduating class. We believed we could make the trip that year, but weren’t sure about the next, so we decided to go now. We had lunch with friends I knew from growing up in a small town in tidewater Virginia. Some might have called it a one-horse town, since we had only one stoplight. We would talk about driving up to “the light.” I am so glad we went. I spoke with one of my friends who now lives in a county in Virginia that boasts it has no stoplights! 

It felt as if it had been only a few days since we last saw each other—instead of fifty-eight years. Why is it so easy to reconnect with those we grew up with? They knew us before we wore many masks. There is no need to put on pretense around them. They know who we are and where we came from. When we meet again, we are all back on an equal playing field. 

Most of the women in my class went off to college. Many boys stayed in our small town, worked at the mill, and retired early. All seemed to enjoy life. Most seemed genuinely interested in what the others were doing and asked about them rather than talking about themselves. All had experienced some tragedy and some magical moments. 

Shortly after we returned that year, my oldest granddaughter sent us photos from her senior prom. I see photos of her friends and, in some small way, understand how important these relationships must be to her. I wonder what her fifty-eighth high school reunion will be like. We will have one more granddaughter going to her senior prom with dear friends in the new year.

I will keep that day and this visit in the memory book of my mind and hope to revisit them again, hopefully next year. I will give thanks for where I grew up and for the many friends who influenced me and taught me about caring. 

I cherish that my grandchildren are having these exceptional experiences, more valuable than gold. 

Joanna. Joannaseibert.com