Its recipient, I fear, is no longer there, and for better shores has sailed.
I suppose I could reuse the card and send it across the miles,
But I think, instead, I’ll keep that card.
At least for a little while.
Rebekah Volk and I were not close friends. We carpooled together a couple summers ago while attending the same writing institute at Eastern Illinois University. We worked together on a group project that became her catalyst for the Teutopolis High School Writing Center. A couple months later, we presented a workshop at the annual Tri-County Teachers' Institute. (And by presented, I mean she did most of the talking while I passed out papers. It’s generally best to go with your strengths.)
After that, we shared a couple friendly emails, we ran into each other at a writing workshop at EIU a year later, and that was that.
I never saw her again.
And not because of any animosity between us, or ill-will. Rebekah was one of the best people I’ve ever met, and I suppose she must have at least found me tolerable enough to work with for a short while. But, life, as you know, moves quickly. Babies are born, children grow up, careers need focus and chores need done. I lost touch with Rebekah for mostly the same reason I’ve lost touch with dozens of friends over the years: life moves quickly.
Life sprints like a ghost.
I bought the get well card a few months ago, when I found out she was again ill. For a few days it sat on a desk at home while I occasionally contemplated what I ought to write. Soon it found its permanent residence in the back of my day-planner. A week or two went by, and then those weeks turned into months, and now she has no need for it at all. Rebekah is doing much better than any of us can quite imagine.
This column is not about the temporal nature of life, nor is it about the importance of telling those you care about how much you care about them before they’re gone. Those topics are old. Those tropes are cliché. If you’re reading this, you probably already now that life is short, and if you truly care about someone, they already know that, too. Actions, I fear, shout out loudly what words can barely whisper.
Instead I want to touch—very briefly, because I know you’re busy—on another topic all together:
Purpose. Why are we here? What are we to do with the years and decades we’ve been given? As strange as it might sound, I believe I have the answer to that question, and I also believe the answer is curiously simple.
Our purpose in life is to love God.
Our purpose is to love people.
Our purpose is to share that love as much as we possibly can.
Our hobbies, our professions, and even our most precious relationships are useless without love. Sure, this sounds like a Beatles’ song, and I realize that those of you who know me best also know me at my worst, and so this message may sound a little contrived. It’s not. I’m not a very young man anymore; I’ve paid attention to and paid penance for many of my mistakes, and I’d like to believe I now know better.
The purpose of life, I think, is to love God, love people, and to share that love as much as you can. Discover what you’re good at, and then focus your talents and energy on those three tasks. I fail everyday, of course, often quite miserably. (Just ask my wife, my daughter, or my students.) But I think, after thirty-five years, that I’m moving in the right direction, or, at the very least, no longer facing the wrong way.
According to those who knew her best, Rebekah’s philosophy on life could be summed up with the following quote from St. Catherine of Sienna : “If you are who you are meant to be, you will set the world on fire.”
There’s a simple reason why the outpouring of support during Rebekah’s long, hard struggle with her illness was so immense. There’s a simple reason why the outpouring of grief and condolences since her passing have been so profound. Rebekah Volk was one of those rare and precious gifts: a person who knew what she was supposed to do in life, and who did just that, daily and with focused enthusiasm.
Rebekah did set the world on fire. God blessed many of us with light from that flame. It is our daily privilege to keep such a flame burning, and to use its energy to kindle our own.
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