A better version of this post is due to be published at Fathom Magazine August 2019. I’m grateful for their support!

---

This weekend my husband and I attended a conference on Trauma, hosted at our church by CCEF, a Christian counseling organization. It was a helpful conference in a number of ways. But one thing one of the speakers, Ed Welch, said stuck out. 

He kept defining trauma as death entering into life—either in a physical sense, or an emotional or spiritual sense.

It reminded me of a text I got from a friend awhile ago when we were talking about some of the losses we’ve experienced.

“I think about death every day,” she said.

I responded, “Me too.” 

Does this sound strange to you? 

It’s such an everyday part of my life that it doesn’t phase me. It’s not even accompanied always by dread or fear. But still, it felt good to have someone else acknowledge experiencing the same thing.

I think about death in physical ways. When my husband leaves for work, I almost always think about what could happen on his commute. I double check my kids’ car seat buckles and avoid stopping in traffic on a bridge or under an overpass (thanks for that, 35W bridge collapse). 

I think about death in spiritual ways. I’m fairly certain I tear up every time we sing about heaven in church—to be free from sin and see the lovely face of Jesus (Come Thou Fount), to feast in the house of Zion with our hearts restored (We Will Feast, Sandra McCracken), and the list goes on. Heaven is real and near to me because of my losses. I remember death. My own, and my friends’ and neighbors.

The chapter I just finished in the history book I’m reading, Facing the ‘King of Terrors‘, was titled “Thy Death.” In it, Wells tells of a period that was was marked, literally, on tombstones and death announcements and funeral sermons (generally, with some exceptions and changing trends), in a way that signaled to the observer, “Pay Attention: You Too Will Die. Maybe Soon.” The goal, of course, was that the mourners, or anyone who happened to see the memento mori skull on a tombstone, would remember their death, and live accordingly in their remaining days.

We all experience trauma on some level in our lifetimes. Some has greater negative impact than others, some trauma is simply beyond imagination. In my case, the trauma associated with the losses in my life has been minor, compared to more serious instances of trauma. But it does serve as a continual reminder to remember death—it entered my life, and will continue its parade through my life in the form of sin and suffering until the day when my flesh fails utterly. And in the meantime I want those moments when death has entered my life, to remind me of that final entrance of death, when my life on earth will end and I step into eternity. 

When Augustine was confronted with loss, his impulse was to run.^[1] He described the loss of his friend in vivid, and violent imagery—he says that his soul was left “tattered” and “bleeding.” He didn’t want to, he couldn’t face this intrusion, the weight, of death into his life. The presence of his friend was as good as a blindfold to him; his loss made Augustine’s weakness clear. He wandered, literally and spiritually, restless until, as we know, he found his rest in Christ.

This wandering, purposelessness is not what Psalm 90 models for us when we’re confronted with the transience of mortal life. And what a better way it offers. Verse 12 says “So teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom.” Do you see? The value of remembering our death is wisdom for the days ahead. The last section of this psalm is really instructive, I think. 

After crying out for mercy and relief in verse 13 (a good thing to ask for!) the psalmist asks for the joy of the Lord in his remaining days. He asks to see God’s glory while he is still on earth, and then, finally, boldly, asks twice for God to establish his work on earth—for his work on earth to not be in vain. The wisdom gained by numbering his days caused first, awareness of the transience of his work on earth, and second, the desire for God to extend the value of his life’s work beyond his own short days. He wants to finish his days with direction and purpose, and God is the one who can grant that.

This is a great example to follow, isn’t it? It’s a tall order, though. Sometimes, like Augustine says, the weight of loss feels crushing. But even so, I want my memories of my death, and its intrusions into my life to cause me to number my days, and then I want to spend the rest of them working hard and praising God. 

---

So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom.
¹³ Return, O LORD! How long?
Have pity on your servants!
¹⁴ Satisfy us in the ^smorning with your steadfast love,
that we may ^trejoice and be glad all our days.
¹⁵ Make us glad for as many days as you have ^uafflicted us,
and for as many years as we have seen evil.
¹⁶ Let your ^vwork be shown to your servants,
and your glorious power to their children.
¹⁷ Let the ^xfavor⁴ of the Lord our God be upon us,
and establish ^ythe work of our hands upon us;
yes, establish the work of our hands!

---

^[1]Confessions, Book IV