On this uncharacteristically temperate morning , the Edinburgh taxi driver picks me up in a large van . For the ninety-minute drive to the small fishing village where my friend Heather lives , my new Scottish friend keeps up a chatty narration . Past the Queensferry Crossing , he indicates the Amazon fulfillment center on the left — the largest in the UK .
Ironically , I arrive at Heather ’ s house the same moment as an Amazon delivery guy . Together , we climb the stairs and ring the bell , peering through the glass . Heather , gripping her elbow crutch , her two miniature schnauzers circling behind her , opens the door to us both .
To see my friend on this day , wearing lipstick and earrings and having blow-dried her blond hair , is not to believe she is being treated for incurable cancer . “ Metastatic spinal cord compression ,” she tells me a couple of days later , as I reshelve books on the bookcases some of her other friends moved a couple of days ago . Avoiding her eyes , I don ’ t ask her about prognosis . I only know she has warned her mother not to look it up .
In chapter 4 of The Rule of Saint Benedict , monks are given instructions about “ The Tools for Good Works .” Tools are of course required , because in Benedict ’ s fourth-century version of life with God , obedience is “ labor ” and disobedience “ sloth .” The monks are reminded to love God , to love their neighbor , to obey the Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule . They are instructed in practices of self-renunciation : “ Do not pamper yourself , but love fasting .” They are commanded to offer practical service to others : “ You must relieve the lot of the poor , clothe the naked , visit the sick , and bury the dead . Go to help the troubled and console the sorrowing .” A couple of paragraphs later , monks are soberly reminded of life ’ s brevity on this tilting , turning planet — asked to regularly admit their fate .
“ Live in fear of judgment day and have a great horror of hell . Yearn for everlasting life with holy desire . Day by day remind yourself that you are going to die .” Death , writes Benedict , will regulate the monks ’ behavior “ hour by hour .” They will sense God ’ s gaze upon them , and they will guard their lips , their thoughts . They will even , as necessary , moderate “ boisterous laughter .”
It seems , at first glance , that Benedict offers obvious advice : remember that you die . Who can forget that life , like pouring cream , comes with an expiration date ? Who ignores that bodies can ’ t be refrigerated forever ? I think of death on the spring day Camille leaves me to cross a busy street corner and walk two blocks to a friend ’ s house . The robins are out , pulling fat worms from ground sodden from last night ’ s rain . My daughter is seventeen , long-legged , capable . In three weeks , she will take her final high school exams . In three months , she will be spun out into a world of independence . Still , I can ’ t help but issue stern warnings about “ crossing at the crosswalk ” and “ looking both ways .” I am a mother , and the hanging sword of Damocles is my business .
Remember that you die .
Then again , denial of death was humanity ’ s first seduction . “ You will not surely die ,” the serpent flattered Eve in Genesis 3:4 , plying her with lies of endless , ageless life , time
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