The Dash

This will probably be my least popular blog post.  I have been thinking a lot about death lately. It started when I rewatched Serendipity, a movie I have always enjoyed. In it, there is a quote that has stayed with me:

"You know the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: 'Did he have passion?'"

While that quote isn't historically accurate in a literal sense, it captures an interesting idea. The ancient Greeks generally viewed a person's life as something to be judged in its entirety. They commemorated the dead through speeches, epitaphs, poetry, and historical writing rather than the modern-style obituary.

There is also a saying—often attributed to various people—that when you look at a gravestone, it isn't the dates at the beginning and the end that truly matter. It is the dash between them.

As I contemplate life, I find myself thinking less about accomplishments and more about legacy, especially the legacy I want to leave my kids. What memories do I want them to carry with them when I'm gone? What will they remember about the way I loved them, the time we spent together, and the example I set?  I hope they'll remember how I made them feel.  I hope they'll remember that I showed up. That I listened. That I laughed with them. That I made time for what mattered most.

One of my all-time favorite books is The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. After learning he had terminal pancreatic cancer, he chose to spend part of the time he had left writing about how to live well. It wasn't really a book about dying; it was a book about living with purpose.

This weekend I finished rereading another favorite, The Fault in Our Stars. Once again, a character is asked to write a eulogy—not a list of achievements, but a reflection on the impact someone had on her life. That idea resonates with me. In the end, perhaps our greatest accomplishments aren't the things we achieve but the lives we touch.

That leaves me wondering where those memories will live. My kids won't have boxes of old photographs to sift through the way previous generations did. Much of our lives now exist as digital files scattered across phones, computers, and the cloud. Will they discover who we really were through those? Or will it be the stories we told, the traditions we created, and the moments we shared that become their inheritance?

These past few years have been a gift. Slowing down from the pace I once kept has allowed me to write more, read more, and appreciate the quiet in ways I never expected. I've found joy in unhurried conversations, good books, and simply being present.  Maybe that's why I've been thinking so much about the dash.  Not because I'm focused on the end, but because I'm becoming more intentional about the middle.

I can't control how long my dash will be.  But I can choose how I live it.  And my hope is that, for many years to come, I spend that dash well.