"At length the long-expected knock was heard. She hurried to the door, and met her husband; a man whose face was careworn and depressed, though he was young. There was a remarkable expression in it now, a kind of serious delight of which he felt ashamed; and which he struggled to repress.
He sat down to the dinner that had been hoarding for him by the fire, and when she asked him faintly what news (which was not until after a long silence), he appeared embarrassed how to answer.
'Is it good,' she said, 'or bad?' to help him.
'Bad,' he answered.
'We are quite ruined?'
'No. There is hope yet, Caroline.'
'If he relents,' she said, amazed, 'there is! Nothing is past hope, if such a miracle has happened.'
'He is past relenting,' said her husband. 'He is dead."
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
This is the passage that popped into my mind when I read online that Fred Phelps, leader of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, had died yesterday. When someone has been the source of so much poison and controversy, it is hard to know how to greet that news. Yet, the death itself was inevitable.
There is no one, good, bad, or indifferent, who gets out of this alive. In the end, regardless of how we have lived, who we have loved or hated, who has been lifted up or crushed by our actions and words, we're all reduced to worm food. And it's going to happen in a relatively predictable timespan.
I think of myself as a depressive optimist. I know, I know. It doesn't make sense, but there you are. I love me some paradox. So I often dwell on this very topic, the fact that regardless of what any of us does or doesn't do, we all are dead in the end. When I think like this, sometimes it's horrifying, sometimes it grinds my wheels to a complete stop, but often, it's comforting. It gives me a silent pass to be just another human. So what if I haven't written the Great American Novel? Really, so what if I spend all day in my jammies, drinking coffee, reading and playing with dogs, and sitting on the swing with Jill? I can guarantee that tomorrow the sun will come up again (or at least that's how we'll perceive it) whether I set the world on fire, set my house on fire, or simply sit by the fire all day. When it's done it's done, and sooner or later nobody is even going to remember or care.
I had great admiration for my father's musical talent and his unshakable commitment to continued learning and practice. Yet, since he succumbed to Alzheimer's Disease 11 years ago, what difference does it make? There are a few recoverable recordings on outdated media. My own recognition and appreciation for the classical and jazz repertoire continues, even though he is gone. People who knew him sometimes tell me how much they enjoyed his playing, or learned from his instruction. But fewer and fewer people actually experienced his talent in real life. In another 50 years, he and Mom will be names on a stone in an Albia, Iowa cemetery that nobody remembers. And I'll be right there on the same stone ---- we put the whole family on one monument ---- don't you love cremation?
So the depressive side of me dwells on "What's the use?" while the optimist in me celebrates these passing days, each unique and special in its own way. Rare is the day that I don't feel overwhelmed with gratitude about something.
Fred Phelps? In 50 years, he'll be a name on a stone that people walking through the cemetery may or may not recognize. We still talk about the best of the best ---- didn't I quote Dickens above? ---- and the worst of the worst---- (I'm talking to you, Adolf), but most of us will simply be forgotten. May we all rest in peace.
