I cannot recall the last time I attended church. I wager it has been three decades or more since I bent my knee upon an historic pew and repeated the Latin rhetoric of my youth at St. Andrew’s College (that haven of the Church of England and the Scottish Presbytery’s “Burning Bush”). Nonetheless I stoically confess and defend my lack of approbation of organized religion by accounting that, seemingly by entire accident this morning, I found myself absorbed in a report of the “cruci-fiction”.  It is not a new corruption of the Crucifixion; it has various expositions, some approaching research and scholarly enquiry, others clearly irreligious and unprincipled. I believe my descent into this Hell-hole of mockery and inquisition derived from an image of the Crucifixion I had seen last evening while reading the latest edition of Country Life intermingled with advertisements of real estate, paintings, jewellery, furnishings and cruises.

“If Christ be not risen from the dead, then our preaching is vain, and your faith is also vain.”

(1 Corinthians 15:14)

I was pointedly revived from this ignominious absorption by an email from Louise Stevenson, the widow of Jim Hugessen, both of whom I instantly blend with my past including the Anglican Church where Jim was lately celebrated upon his demise. Having known them both in the vulgar context of commerce and society, it spirited my otherwise desperate condition to an unprecedented illumination. Louise is forever one who rises to the top under all circumstances. I rather like people who do that.  If one were looking for a reason to dismay, to disappoint, to shed a tear even, the resources are unending. Louise is not that sort of person. Hers is by contrast an enviable catalogue of uplifting thought and encouragement. She has patently unmoored herself from unevenness and imbalance.

Part of the reason for this heartening evolution today was my earlier focus upon impending perils. Since the middle of last night I had entangled my thoughts with looming decrepitude and death. Actually, death was the least of my concerns; rather, I was preoccupied with how to survive if I hadn’t the courtesy to die.  This is more than a fiction.  Not long ago an elderly gentleman resident in an apartment nearby had quite literally blown his brains out on his balcony. This disturbs me for two reasons. One, I haven’t a gun. Two, we just yesterday bought new patio chairs from Levi’s hardware store for our balcony.  Otherwise I have to say I admire the fellow.  I believe his health was not well and that he was facing unwanted care and isolation.  And if you think this is at all uncommon, I can report having spoken only lately with another gentleman who lives nearby who is facing the risk of kidney failure.  He has made it clear he will not undergo the complicated and invasive remedies proposed by his physician. Years ago I attended upon a former client of mine who was young but severely alcoholic. He was rendered yellow by liver failure. His end was precipitous.  My own present conditions are far from those excesses; but, as one who is reputed to have spent a lifetime preparing others to plan for their own inevitability, I felt obliged to maintain a minimum character of credibility by making some plans for the future.

As might be expected, staring out the window, smitten by the thought, was my first move. Thereafter a constitutional and always improving drive in my automobile. I interrupted the two by asking Google to answer everything; and, finally sent emails to a number of organizations (both private and public) for the latest details of entitlement and cost. Meanwhile in preparation for the end I have resolved that my next automobile (I’ve already ordered it) will be my last. If by chance I have the strength to survive the warranty period I shall purchase an electric scooter since by then I imagine I will be a threat upon the highway to others and myself. And grocery stores now universally offer delivery. Naturally the trust agreement is already in place. I’m ready to go!