Dying to Live
In her novel, Death Comes for the Archbishop, Willa Cather crafts a fascinating portrait of a nineteenth century Jesuit priest.
Born and bred to a scholar’s life in France, Father Latour served instead in the obscurity of the wild and woolly New Mexico Territory. He battled harsh conditions, primitive superstitions, and renegade priests while building a thriving diocese in the greater southwest.
Now retired, he enjoyed a life of repose in his desert hideaway, the fruit of a long and productive ministry. Unfortunately, due to bad weather and an ill-timed trip, he picked up a terrible, hacking cough.
Calling his loyal assistant to him, Father Latour asked him to secure permission from the current Archbishop, his successor, to return to his old study for a few days. It is apparent that Father Latour believes he does not have much longer to live.
His assistant is happy to oblige but says to the aged Father, “You should not be discouraged; one does not die of a cold.”
Cather’s text continues: “The old man smiled. ‘I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.’”
As I re-read this book a few weeks ago, I mused again over these words. “I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.”
It is a good thing, I reflect, to die of having lived. It would be a tragic thing to die without having lived.
But what does it mean to truly live? “He who dies with the most toys wins,” the bumper sticker suggests. We chuckle at its inanity even as we pick our path through bulging three car garages.
After all, is the measure of one’s life the degree of our consumption, or is it the magnitude of our contribution?
A few days ago I attended the funeral of a dear friend. He was a simple man who lived an extraordinarily meaningful and productive life. I loved and respected him. Everyone I knew felt the same way about him.
After building a successful business in Arizona and raising a loving family, he retired to Cave Creek and built – by hand – an adobe home, brick by brick.
He loved the Christian celebration of Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples. It was my privilege to help him compile an illustrated book of meditations he had written about it. As his health deteriorated he said to me, “Once we finish this, I’ll be ready to go home.”
He is home now. He didn’t die of old age. He died of having lived. And everyone who knew him is the richer for it.
If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give up your life for me, you will find it” (Jesus, in Matthew 10:39).
Born and bred to a scholar’s life in France, Father Latour served instead in the obscurity of the wild and woolly New Mexico Territory. He battled harsh conditions, primitive superstitions, and renegade priests while building a thriving diocese in the greater southwest.
Now retired, he enjoyed a life of repose in his desert hideaway, the fruit of a long and productive ministry. Unfortunately, due to bad weather and an ill-timed trip, he picked up a terrible, hacking cough.
Calling his loyal assistant to him, Father Latour asked him to secure permission from the current Archbishop, his successor, to return to his old study for a few days. It is apparent that Father Latour believes he does not have much longer to live.
His assistant is happy to oblige but says to the aged Father, “You should not be discouraged; one does not die of a cold.”
Cather’s text continues: “The old man smiled. ‘I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.’”
As I re-read this book a few weeks ago, I mused again over these words. “I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.”
It is a good thing, I reflect, to die of having lived. It would be a tragic thing to die without having lived.
But what does it mean to truly live? “He who dies with the most toys wins,” the bumper sticker suggests. We chuckle at its inanity even as we pick our path through bulging three car garages.
After all, is the measure of one’s life the degree of our consumption, or is it the magnitude of our contribution?
A few days ago I attended the funeral of a dear friend. He was a simple man who lived an extraordinarily meaningful and productive life. I loved and respected him. Everyone I knew felt the same way about him.
After building a successful business in Arizona and raising a loving family, he retired to Cave Creek and built – by hand – an adobe home, brick by brick.
He loved the Christian celebration of Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples. It was my privilege to help him compile an illustrated book of meditations he had written about it. As his health deteriorated he said to me, “Once we finish this, I’ll be ready to go home.”
He is home now. He didn’t die of old age. He died of having lived. And everyone who knew him is the richer for it.
If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give up your life for me, you will find it” (Jesus, in Matthew 10:39).