In Search of My Final Resting

Life is a journey that must be traveled no matter how bad the roads and accommodations. - Oliver Goldsmith

Just north of Lahaina, Hawaii, sits a wonderful little plot of sand between the shoreline and the road. Palms sway against the blue water, and if so lucky, you’ll see a couple of whales frolic in the distance. In the distance is Molokai, an island that used to be home to those afflicted with leprosy. The leper’s story, of which there are many, has been told in a most wonderful book titled The Colony: The Harrowing True Story Of The Exiles Of Molokai.

Today, Lahaina lies in ruins, having been turned to ashes in a horrific fire in 2023. One hundred two souls were lost that day, along with each of their stories. The patch of land just to the north was untouched, the palms still waving to the passing whales. The dozens of locals buried in that patch of sand seem unbothered by the tragedy. Their little piece of paradise is still paradise.

Years ago, I strolled past that little cemetery. I recall the timeless soothing crashing of ocean waves on the white sand just far enough away so as not to disturb the residents beneath the headstones. Underneath lie the departed, who are enjoying their special final rest- at least that is where my imagination took me. I nudged my mortal lobe and whispered, “Can you imagine being buried here? This is heaven!”

These days, my mortal lobe will occasionally nudge me back. “You remember the little cemetery in Lahaina? That little strip of sand with the palms, the blue Pacific, and the whales?” Maybe you should think about your final resting place.”

Another birthday. The candles are running out of real estate on top of the frosting. Maybe today is the day I think about it. But where do I start?

It wasn’t part of the tour narrative, but I didn’t miss it. A disheveled little cemetery sat between the sandstone antiquities deep in the heart of Oxford, England, to serve as another reminder. Oxford is home to a bunch of brainiacs. Even the intellectually gifted will fall to the decay of life. Amongst the towers of stone and brick, some starting their purpose in the 11th and 12th century, are the worn paths of some of the world’s greatest thinkers. Those who thought deeply and wrote books are buried here. Their names and likenesses lure the visitors in on colorful tourist flyers. JRR Tolkien frequented this pub. C.S. Lewis taught at this university. Kenneth Grahame, the author of “The Wind in the Willows,” is buried here.

My mortal lobe suggests much as Solomon did, “The man who walks with wise men becomes wise himself.” Perhaps if planted between these mental giants, a root might rub against me, and all of life’s mysteries will be suddenly knowable. The deep theological and philosophical questions they posed, and we’ve all pondered, will untangle our twisted souls. It is only then that we can rest in blissful peace.

My imagination is disrupted when I read the quotation on the slab that marks C.S. Lewis’s final resting place. Upon it reads, “Men must endure their going thence." His parting words offer no solace. No peace. Life’s mysteries remain as clear as the Thames River.

Thence from Oxford and nearly in the countryside stands the tallest spires in all of England. Large cathedrals throw large shadows over the towns, reminding the peasants of who rules. In Salisbury, England, is one of the most beautiful cathedrals in all the world.

In typical human fashion, the English edition, everyone is not stone-cold equal. A hierarchy existed that decided who was to be buried inside the church or outside. Major donors, dignitaries, church leaders, and those whose lineage had a reputation were allowed final rest under cover. All others were to remain outdoors. England can grow wet and cold and misty nearly anytime.

Inside, on rock slabs lining the great halls of the cathedral, are full-size wooden replicas of the long departed VIP’s. Lying down but face up, these wooden carvings are colorfully painted, with hands crossed in a typical pose of respite and eyes wide open, staring straight up. Underneath lie the earthly remains.

I, like many thousands before me, shuffle by staring back. It was not hard to attempt some imagination as to why they did death this way. Perhaps it was a high honor to be immortalized safe and warm inside a church. Your name and your position in society forever etched for posterity’s sake. But why the open eyes?

Volunteers roam the great cathedral looking for visitors to help. I cozy up to one and with a completely straight face ask, “How much money would it take to be buried here? I’m not talking out in the courtyard but inside, complete with wooden carvings, my name, a made-up list of accomplishments, and with my eyes wide open.” Carefully, he assessed my sanity and then, just as quickly, assessed my sense of humor and concluded I was just a bloke from across the pond messing with him. He let out a loud guffaw that still echoes through the great tomb, slapped me on the back, and said, “Let’s go meet with finance and I’ll see if I can get you into a spot before the end of the day.” He doesn’t know it, but to this day, we’re great friends.

Across a stormy little piece of cold water lies a small country, some of which lies beneath the North Sea. Generations of my ancestors are buried there, or at least thought to have been. My notion that the only things certain in life are taxes and the plot you’re buried under was completely upended on an exploratory trip some years ago. I discovered that the burial plots that tightly ring small stone churches are, shall I say, temporary. Unless financial arrangements have been made, your spot, including the tombstone, can be removed unceremoniously to make way for another occupant. And so the circle of death goes.

My imagination again tickles my mortal lobe to ask, “Look at that old stone church! Think of all the old Dutch hymns stoically sung there. Descend the steps and gaze at the woolly sheep grazing the greenest pasture you’ve ever seen. This idyllic postcard scene calms the soul to a kind of quiet serenity that downtown Oxford doesn’t offer. These roots have no end and are genetically twisted by centuries of human drama that connect us to the great philosopher Solomon, who said, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.”

Four thousand seven hundred ninety miles from this old stone church is my town of birth. The postcard of a church is older than the oldest tombstone in my town’s cemetery. But they both share the remains of distant and near relatives. But here is where my brother resides, along with my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. To return here is where my tribe is. And if the great awakening is a time of warm reunions, then it’s best to be near.

But I have spent most of my life living elsewhere. I’m not sure I’d be welcome here. Is my orthodoxy pure enough, my politics sufficiently in the middle, and will my indiscretions be forgiven? Will the residents accept my onery roots as knarly as they are? Or would they rather me on the other side of the street?

Ultimately, one must choose a final resting place with eyes wide open.

It would be fun to hear your ideas. Please leave me a comment. Have a great weekend.

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