The Measure of a Man

I received an unexpected letter in the mail yesterday. As soon as I saw the lone letter in the mailbox, I sensed that it might be something significant. When I noticed the return address, my eyes watered up. It was from the Willed Body Program from UT Southwestern Medical Center.

Bruce and I decided years ago that we wanted to will our bodies to science when we died. Way back then, it was hard to find information on how to go about doing this, so we did nothing. Fast-forward to the 21st century, and the process is as smooth as butter. After Bruce passed away, we simply made a phone call to UT Southwestern Medical Center and they took it from there, including making the necessary arrangements when Bruce’s body had to make a detour to the medical examiner’s office first, due to the nature of his death.

We had been told to expect to hear from UT Southwestern Medical Center within 19 to 24 months of them receiving Bruce’s body. 19 to 24 months. And, yet, here they were, 2 1/2 months later, sending me a letter asking me what I would like to do with his cremated remains. Ouch! It made me rather sad. My very first thought was that his physical body hadn’t been as important or significant to them as I had hoped it would be. Really? After all he had gone through? During my residency as a medical technology student back in the day, I had performed procedures on cadavers in the morgue, so I knew what the endless possibilities were with a cadaver. My second thought was that his body had already been cremated, and I didn’t know. Even though that was the plan, ultimately, it was disconcerting that it happened so soon. I thought that by the time 19 to 24 months had transpired, it would hardly bother me–not the fact of cremation but the finality of it.

One of the things that Bruce struggled with through the years, as probably everyone does one way or another, at one time or another, was feeling insignificant and under-valued–in his relationships and at work. I could tell he tried so hard and felt he consistently came up short. It wasn’t something that he talked about, as Bruce would be the last person on earth to discuss what he was feeling, for the most part. But an occasional comment now and then, or a sigh, was quite revealing. We were the children of parents who were part of a generation that characteristically didn’t acknowledge or discuss feelings, let alone teach their children how to identify them and manage them in a healthy way. Goodness, our parents weren’t taught that, so how could they teach us? So, regretfully, we both knew we didn’t do a very good job teaching our children how to manage their emotions. We didn’t have the tools. I know a lot more now.

A few short months before Bruce’s stroke, we were sitting together on our couch, and I was trying, once again, to get Bruce to tell me what he was feeling, which had always been nearly impossible for him in our 44 years of marriage but which was so important to me. When he was quiet, I threw in, “Anything at all!” I sat patiently and waited. He finally said, “I don’t feel appreciated at work.” “That’s wonderful!” I blurted out. What I meant was, I was thrilled that he was able to identify an emotion he was feeling. “If it makes any difference,” I continued, “I think most people don’t feel appreciated at work.” We talked more about why he might feel that way. It was a good beginning for what I hoped would be a regular activity. Because, I was going to have to ask again; he would not initiate such a conversation.

Anyway, back to the letter. I found it interesting that my first reaction to receiving it was immediately concluding that Bruce’s body wasn’t valued enough to keep it longer than 2 1/2 months. But then I realized that I was doing what Bruce always did–trying to measure the value of something or someone purely by a number. He was a numbers man if there ever was one, and if it couldn’t be quantified, it was extremely hard for him to wrap his head around its significance or value. He didn’t understand emotions because they couldn’t be quantified and broken down on a nice, neat spreadsheet. He tended to measure his worth and value, or lack thereof, by his income or what he contributed, in terms of dollars and cents, to the success of a company. And quite honestly, he tended to measure his success on the home front not only by how he could provide for us monetarily, as well as spiritually, but by how well his children and his marriage turned out. That’s a pretty human thing to do, but how do you measure it? I sensed it in him; sometimes he didn’t feel very successful.

Bruce didn’t have a lot of deep friendships, but in those deep friendships that he did have, I can attest to the fact that, even though he thought he didn’t make a difference, he meant a lot to those individuals, and they meant so much to him–even without numbers to quantify them. Bruce wasn’t a people person, by his own admission, but in his later years he stepped out of his comfort zone and made a concerted effort to reach out to many people–especially the “invisible” ones–to share God’s love and kindness. He did that very well!

All in this to say, one of the many things my long life has taught me is that no human can make another one feel loved, valued, understood or significant, no matter how hard one tries. Human beings are imperfect and, as such, we can’t fix other human beings. We can try, but that hurting heart needs to be willing to open the door and let someone in. And they have to trust them enough to let them come in. And they have to be willing to forgive when that fellow human being falls short of meeting those too often high expectations.

The great news is that we have Jesus–our perfect heavenly Father and Friend. He knows us intimately, for He created us (Psalm 139). He loves us unconditionally, He us perfectly and He longs to be longed for–for us to come to Him regularly and at all times–when we are hurting, discouraged, brokenhearted, misunderstood, as well as when we are immensely thankful and overflowing with joy for all He has done for us. He will draw us to Himself, but we must open the door of our hearts to Him. One thing that was evident about Bruce, without question, was that he loved his Savior throughout his life and couldn’t wait to be with Him one day. And now he is!

I am His and He is Mine

Loved with everlasting love,
drawn by grace that love to know,
Spirit sent from Christ above,
thou dost witness it is so.
O this full and precious peace
from his presence all divine;
in a love that cannot cease,
I am His and He is mine.

Taste the goodness of the Lord: welcomed home to His embrace, all His love, as blood outpoured, seals the pardon of His grace. Can I doubt His love for me, when I trace that love’s design? By the cross of Calvary I am His and He is mine.

His forever, only His–
who the Lord and me shall part?
Ah, with what a rest of bliss
Christ can fill the loving heart.
Heav’n and earth may fade and flee,
firstborn light in gloom decline,
but while God and I shall be,
I am His and He is mine.