It wasn’t anything remarkable.  Just a simple gold bag, almost square in shape except not quite, the little bit that it was off making it technically a rectangle. (And yes, I know all squares are rectangles but not every rectangle is a square . . .) It was the kind of bag you might receive when buying makeup in a department store like Macy’s instead of off the shelf at Wal-Mart. Like so many of us do, she had set the bag aside “just in case” she could recycle it later, maybe not for holding makeup but for some other something.

Her first stroke came when she was 68.  The doctors didn’t give her family a great deal of hope for her recovery and a semi-normal life to follow.  But they didn’t know her very well.  Actually, it seems they didn’t know her at all.  She was eventually able to return home and, for the most part, to the life she had known before her illness.  That’s when she pulled the bag out of storage.

It was just the right size for what she needed, and as her strength returned she began packing that bag.  I don’t know how long it took or how many times she changed the contents.  But she was finally satisfied with her work and set it aside until the day when its purpose would be fulfilled.

That day arrived recently; eight years after her first stroke, her family came for their arrangement conference . . . and with them came the bag.  The gold bag that had been pulled from storage and carefully, lovingly packed with everything they would need.

She had always taken care of everyone, staying in the background, never calling attention to herself while making the path easier for her family and friends—and anyone else who needed her help.  It was simply who she was, and Death hadn’t changed that.  At the appropriate time, her daughter unzipped the bag and began going through its contents.  There was the jewelry her mother had selected.  And the makeup she wanted used.  The pictures for the DVD were in a small zip lock bag.  There were notes about what she wanted for her service . . . and a letter for each of her children, to be read after her death.

Her thoughtfulness made that moment so much easier for her family.  There were no doubts about how to honor her life.  No questions about what she wanted.  One last time, in a final act of love, she had taken care of her family in a way no one else could.  Just like so many times before.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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