"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild 

and precious life?"

--Mary Oliver, "The Summer Day"

On Stanley Avenue, just south of town, sits Andalusia Cemetery.  I haven't counted, but I suspect there are upwards of 2000 graves in the place.  My grandparents and my father are buried there.  Ben Bates is 50 feet away.  My aunt and uncle Hilry and Abbie Ryland are just across the way. There are, no doubt, a hundred or so other people there that I know.  But that leaves almost 2000 people that I never knew.  And there are people buried there that no one alive knows or remembers.  That makes me pause.

Recently, my brother-in-law, Frank Shaffer, and I were engaged in deep conversation, and as conversations always do when the participants are middle-aged fathers who are struck right between having grown children and aging parents, the convo turned philosophical.  Frank said something along the lines of "isn't is just crazy to think that we are here for a little while, and then not many years after we die, there will likely be NO ONE alive who even remembers us?!? While this might seem sad and depressing to think about (go for a walk--it'll boost serotonin), it's actually a very empowering thought, if you view it in the right perspective.

If we truly and strongly grasp on to this truth--that we will be gone one day--then we begin to live differently.  We begin to live with a different sense of purpose that we perhaps lived with before we crossed over into this knowledge. Or, as Richard Rohr put it, while we're still building our vessel.  Once we are in Rohr's second stage of life, and we begin to FILL OUR VESSEL, we see everything differently.  And this ultimately leads us to wonder what our legacy will be.  

Legacy.  (I actually want to buy a Subaru Legacy, but that's a different story.)

How are going to be remembered?  What difference are we making with this "one wild and precious life?"  It reminds me of Lin-Manuel Miranda's "who tells our story?"  

Early this morning, my mother's cousin, Dwight Ryland, died.  He was 81.  He had two daughters, Anna and Stephanie, neither of whom I've seen in many years.  The significance of this death is that there are now only THREE male Rylands left in my family:  Dwight's older brother, Wayne, Wayne's son, Justin, and Justin's son, Caleb.  Unless Caleb has a son, the name ends there.  But does it really???  

I've been thinking about Andy Andrews' "Butterfly Effect."  As I am one who believes literally everything has significance, I loved that book.  I suggest you read it if you feel like you aren't making a difference in the world.  My great-grandparents Lon Ryland and Ida Martin Ryland had four kids:  my grandfather, Alton, two daughters, and another son, Hilry.  From that farm in rural Geneva County came so many amazing things. From them came my amazing mom, and her sister, my Aunt Laura.  From them came Thomas and Jeremie.  From them came my niece Lorren who sings like an angel and her brother Riley who loves music almost as much as me.  From them came my kids.  And from them came all the rest of my Ryland family.  From them came everything that all of us have ever done.  And will do in the future.  All because two people got married and had four children.  From them came Dwight's many drives from Thomasville, Georgia to Andalusia just so could feast on home-made biscuits.  My mom's really are the best on earth.  Just ask me--I'll tell you.  From Lon and Ida came more things than I can type today.  The point is that they do live on--after death--in the lives of those who came from them.  They are not forgotten.  And neither will I be forgotten.  And neither will you.  

It is not what you achieve that will make you be remembered--it is what you contribute to the world.  As Kevin Kline's character in The Emperor's Club said "conquest without contribution is without significance."  What a powerful thought.  Some of you will contribute art.  Or you might contribute compassionate children.  You might contribute a life of faith that affects those around you.  You might contribute to those who are alone.  You might be the cause of 6.02 x 10^23 smiles. You might contribute by making someone believe in him or herself.  You might contribute by easing the paths of those around you.  You might carry a burden that isn't really yours to bear.  And the real, capital-T truth is that you will likely not even know that you contributed to the world in the way you did.  

Your birthday has already been put on your headstone.  If you are reading this, your death date hasn't.  You're working on that little hyphen that goes between them.  "So, tell me, what is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

Today's the 1st day of the rest of your life.  What's on tap??