Life and Death

Today is my birthday, and at 78 I can no longer deny the fact that I’m gradually turning into…well, an old man. Other than occasional aches and pains, though, I don’t feel very old. And unlike many others, I’m certain I don’t look my age, but then I really don’t spend much time in front of mirrors. I’m still active, and try to make my doctor happy by slimming down to a healthier, more comfortable weight. I don’t run anymore, but my dog, Maddie, and I walk a few miles each day. My brain seems to be a reasonable facsimile of the brain I used as a younger man. Okay, I admit I suffer from occasional short-term memory lapses, but I blame this on the fact that my brain cells must store 78 years of rather intense memories and a tremendous amount of largely useless information, so there’s probably not much room in there for a lot of new stuff. And searching all those cells for memories, new or old, takes some time. I suppose, then, I should be happy given that I’ve been up and about and doing fairly well since leaving the womb on September 13, 1944. But whenever I start to feel so very good about myself, God comes along and points to someone who reminds me of my weaknesses and the amazing strength of others.

This afternoon, while searching through my messy, unorganized bookcases for a particular book, I came across another, a book I bought and read many years ago. I recall spotting it on a shelf in a used bookstore and being intrigued by its unusual title, Noor-un-nisa Inayat Kahn (Madeline). After flipping through its pages, I bought the book for just a couple of dollars. But once I began reading, I couldn't put it down and finally finished it late that evening. 

I was captivated by the subject of this true story about a remarkably brave young woman. It was the story of Noor Inayat Khan, an Indian-born, Sufi Muslim who volunteered as an undercover agent for the British Special Operations Executive during World War Two. In June of 1943 she was flown to a secret landing site in France. For the next four months she worked with the French resistance radioing critical information back to London. While in Paris, she was betrayed to the Germans and captured in October 1943. She underwent a month of vicious interrogation during which she revealed nothing. Labeled an "extremely dangerous prisoner," she was sent to Germany where she was imprisoned for months in solitary confinement with her hands and feet shackled. Eventually Noor was sent to Dachau and summarily executed along with three other female undercover agents captured by the Germans: Yolande Beekman, Elaine Plewman and Madeleine Damerment. Their bodies were burned in the camp's crematorium.

Dachau Crematorium 

It was then I discovered that all four women were executed on the day I was born, September 13, 1944. I found this particularly moving since I had actually visited Dachau with my family in the winter of 1951, not that many years after their deaths. Although I was just seven years old at the time, that visit made a lasting impression on me, especially the crematoria. Now, 78 years after their deaths, I find myself celebrating a birthday while at the same time thanking God for Noor Inayat Kahn are her three courageous, freedom-loving companions whose lives ended just as mine was beginning. 

Life and death, beginnings and endings -- every ending, every death, brings a new beginning, new life. How did Jesus put it?

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life” [Jn 12:24-25].

When I once related this story to a friend, who lives a rather closed version of Christianity, he stated it was too bad the Kahn woman was a Muslim because she could never be saved. I, of course, disagreed and chastised him for assuming he could tell God to whom He could extend His mercy. Before he could respond I just quoted Jesus:

"Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” [Jn 15:13].

Though these four women never knew me, I think of myself as one of their friends. I pray for the souls of these wonderful women every day and especially on this day when so many wish me a "Happy Birthday." For them, we pray, it was a happy day of new birth.

Aging Benchmarks

There comes a point in life when birthdays become somewhat less celebratory, and I think I might have reached that point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy enough that I’ve lived this long, and will certainly welcome the typical low-key celebration Diane and I enjoy on each other’s birthdays. But with aging comes the realization that perhaps I haven’t used all these years as well as I should have. Yet, as I try to avoid dwelling on the past and it’s many errors, I find myself looking instead to the future, as brief as it might be, wondering how I can best use my remaining years. And then the Lord brings me back to reality as I recall His words:

“And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life?…Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day” [Mt 6:27,34].

Yes, indeed, today, and every other today, bring enough, both good and ill, to keep me busy. 

As you have probably guessed, today is my birthday, specifically, my 77th. Having survived for so long might seem like quite a milestone, unless like me you live in The Villages, the world’s largest retirement community. The homes in our neighborhood, our particular village, for example, were built in early 2004 and Diane and I were among the youngest of those first settlers. As one of our friends said to me the other day, “77? You’re just a kid.” Yes, indeed, in The Villages age becomes a relative concept. Where else can someone my age be considered just a youngster? 

I suppose these thoughts will bounce around in my tired brain for a day or so until they are overwhelmed by what seem to be more pressing needs. In the meantime I’ll meet today with two of our Bible Study groups to celebrate God’s Word in our lives. And then this evening Diane and I will join another deacon and his wife at a local Greek/Italian restaurant where together we will thank God for allowing me to enjoy this gift of life for another year.

Sudden Unexpected Memories

Sometimes memories of people and events from long ago just pop into my aging brain. Only rarely can I articulate why this happens. Often enough there doesn’t seem to be an obvious cause. For example, yesterday evening, as Diane and I watched one of Agatha Christie’s “Miss Marple” mysteries, out of the blue I thought of Aunt Ella and Uncle Edgar. Neither had crossed my mind in years, but there they were, interfering with my ability to follow a sinister plot that led to multiple murders in a quaint English village.

"Aunt" Ella and "Uncle" Edgar were not actually my aunt and uncle. I'm pretty sure Edgar McManus was my dad's second cousin, the first cousin of my paternal grandfather, making him my third cousin. Ella, of course, was related to me only through her marriage to Edgar. Edgar was born on March 13, 1876 and Ella on May 29, 1883. Moved by the arrival of these unexpected memories, I looked all this up last night. Their dates of birth surprised me since this discovery caused me to realize I have known people who were born almost 150 years ago. But that was true as well for all four of my grandparents. I just never thought much about it. The only conclusion from this revelation: I, too, am getting old.

Both Ella and Edgar died in 1959, she on August 22, at the age of 76, and Edgar less than a month later on September 15. He was 83 when he died. My folks were very close to this wonderful couple who I discovered were married on June 12, 1907, two years before my mom and dad were born. Interestingly, I'm currently the same age (76) as Ella when she died, and like Diane and me, this couple had been married 52 years. To be brutally honest, I thought Ella was very, very old. Of course, in September 1959, I had just celebrated my 15th birthday.

Back in 1959, we lived in Larchmont, New York, and Edgar and Ella lived in Holyoke, Massachusetts. We visited them occasionally, perhaps once or twice a year but, sadly, were not informed of their deaths. Both had already been buried before we learned anything. I can recall how devastated my folks were when they found out. It seems that Edgar just gave up the will to live after Ella's death and simply longed to join her. 

Edgar was an executive in the Insurance industry and part of what my dad called the Protestant wing of the family. The religious difference was absolutely irrelevant, though. Dad truly loved his cousin and whenever they got together the conversation would cover the waterfront. I learned a lot just sitting nearby and listening to these two men as they talked. Mom and Ella would, of course, carry on a simultaneous conversation as we all sat in their Victorian-furnished living room. I sometimes slipped away into the kitchen where I could watch the birds and squirrels come up to Ella's kitchen window to eat the seed and nuts she placed on a platform Edgar had attached to the window frame. And Ella always had a ready supply of cake and cookies which she would tell me to "eat until your tummy tells you to stop."

Ella, whose maiden name was Mayhew, was a descendant of an old Yankee family that arrived in this country in the 1630s. Her branch of the Mayhews descended from Thomas Mayhew, one of the original settlers of Martha's Vineyard. Ella had a huge (3 foot by 4 foot), very elaborate, and beautifully framed Mayhew family tree made in the late 19th century. It was truly a work of art, and included the names of hundreds of Mayhew descendants, including Ella herself. A few years before her death she inexplicably gave this family tree to my parents, even though we certainly had no direct familial connection to the Mayhews. Years later, I "inherited" the tree which we displayed on the wall of our family room until the day of a remarkably serendipitous phone conversation.

I was on the phone with Chuck Smiley, my former commanding officer, a dear friend, godfather of our eldest child, and truly one of the best men I have ever known. Knowing we lived on Cape Cod, Chuck mentioned that in the course of doing some genealogical digging, he discovered that he was a direct descendant of a Thomas Mayhew of Martha's Vineyard, an island off the coast of Cape Cod. Had I ever heard of him? I simply said, "Chuck, as we speak I am looking at Thomas Mayhew's family tree, which is hanging on our wall." I then asked, "Would you like it?" I had it safely packaged and shipped directly to Chuck and Sally who lived in San Diego. Both Chuck and Sally died not too long ago, but I expect one of their children now has the tree which for them must be a wonderful family treasure. I've always thought there was a reason, at the time unknown to all, why Ella Mayhew McManus gave that family tree to my folks. Just look where it is now.

You see, Ella and Edgar had no children...at least that's what I thought. Because my dad was almost like a son to this couple, I suppose giving the tree to my folks made some sense. On all those many visits I can recall no one ever mentioning children, but I do remember my mom once saying they were a childless couple. But then yesterday I found a photo of their gravestone on findagrave.com. The stone contains three names: Edgar, Ella, and a child with the unusual name of Lepha Duncan McManus. It seems they had a daughter who was born on May 9, 1909 -- just weeks before both of my parents were born -- and died only six months later on November 23, 1909. I was astounded and saddened, and wonder if my parents even knew about this contemporary of theirs who died so young. I was saddened, too, that nobody had added the year of their deaths after Edgar's and  Ella's names. 

All of this began with last night's uninvited memory, caused by who knows what, and yet led me to recall this wonderful couple about whom I really know so very little. I will add them and their infant daughter to my prayers. And maybe, if I ever again get to Springfield, Massachusetts, I'll stop by their grave and leave a bouquet along with a prayer.

So many people I have known, so many I have forgotten, so many memories to arise when I least expect them.

On the road again...

It seems as if Diane and I just returned from our last trip (that one to the cornfields of Iowa), and now here we are again leaving the familiar comforts of home, driving north on the always exciting I-95. On the previous trip we celebrated the marriage of the son of our dear friends, Nancy and Dave Lee, but this time we will join in an even more personal celebration: the marriage of our youngest, Brendan, to his sweetie, Amari. The wedding will take place on October 1st on the island of Nantucket where they both live. Of course, we will also make the rounds and visit our other three children and eight grandchildren who, sadly for them, all live in Massachusetts.

I like to think age has had little effect on me, that I'm still as vigorous and healthy as ever, but there's nothing like a long rode trip to bring reality to the fore. It's especially evident whenever we stop for gas or a bite to eat. I swing my body out of the driver's seat and my aging back and joints rebel. I suspect it's quite a sight for onlookers. Also, in the past I often drove 700-800 miles I'm a day; now I'm lucky to log 500, which is how far we drove today.

This, I believe, is one of God's blessings. As we age and our bodies begin to deteriorate, we are reminded of our mortality, that death cannot be avoided. While pondering our faith and the brevity of our lives, we come to realize that we had better turn to our loving God -- Father, Son, and Holy Spirit -- and reorient our lives to God's will. There's nothing like advancing age to remind us of the true insignificance of our petty, worldly concerns and all the pomps and works of men, and force us to confront that which is truly important: our salvation.

Oh, yes, it's also cold here in North Carolina. Right now it's a miserably cold 59 degrees, which for us Floridians is downright wintry. We were looking forward to a nice balmy September in New England, but now I expect we'll be regretting our decisions on what clothing we packed. Ah, well, it will only make our return to Florida that much sweeter.

Keep us in your prayers as we negotiate the insanity of northeast Interstates. God's peace.



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Location:Lumberton, NC