A brief yet reflective walking through a cemetery is enough to teach us more than all the philosophy of the world during a lifetime. Giannis Delimitsos

It had been thirteen years since we made our Living Trust.

It was created a year before the unexpected death of my father in 2008. The task of sorting through 57 years of marriage in the two weeks following his death, while dealing with a terrible grief, left me with an absolute determination that our children would not go through this. Plus, the cost of dying, I discovered, was shocking, particularly if careful plans are not made ahead of time. Thankfully, with the Living Trust, we had designed the blueprint for a calm, orderly disposition of our property. The children would be grateful and could tell us how much someday in heaven.

When we left on trips I would remind one of our children where the binder was and watch the inevitable discomfort. Probably feels like being ambushed by your parents mortality.

The blue padded binder, professionally done, with its beautifully organized contents, sat serenely on a shelf in the study. Years ticked by. Then, after we built our home two years ago, I placed it on the top of a bookcase in the new study. Months went by. Then quietly but insistently, it began to chide me:

It’s been thirteen years. Your information is not up to date. Those trips you’re planning. What if something (fill in any number of possibilities here) happens. The children will not actually be happy with you in heaven if you don’t deal with me.

Finally, finally, one day I took it down and began with page one. I quickly discovered that many, many things change over the course of thirteen years. The marriages of children. The births of grandchildren. Devastating fires in our county. Moving. Moving again. A Living Trust is a overview snapshot of your life at a certain point and, boy, was there a lot to redo.

As those of you know who have created your own trusts, there are a number of sections. You and your spouse (should you have one) must complete each section individually. These will likely include:

• The original will
• Durable Power of Attorney
• Revocable Living Trust
• Distribution of Personal Property
• Determination of Incapacity

And then there is the section titled Final Arrangements.

Ah, here’s where mortality smacks you. Body donation, organ donation, cremation or burial. This is followed by a detailed list of burial instructions to consider.

We had not purchased burial plots.

It’s not because we don’t think we’re going to die, but because– what? We don’t want to tempt fate? No, no, it’s not that. It’s simply because preparing in such detail for one’s eventual departure from this mortal coil (there’s a Shakespearean phrase I’ll bet you haven’t heard in awhile) is disturbing. However, since we were guided by our mantra, we don’t want the kids to deal with this, we made an appointment at our town’s best-known cemetery, est. 1885.

We were met by Jan. Cheerful and clear regarding each detail, she made the ensuing hour both pleasant and interesting. They were even having a sale on grave plots! Oh, really, I said, with what I hoped was a straight face. A sale on burial plots? Wow. Two for one? No such luck, but substantial nevertheless. Plus, a smaller cemetery annex they owned had plots at an even more reduced rate. Wow, again! We left with our paperwork and a sense of relief. All those years of putting off this final decision were ending. We would make a decision, buy the plots, get everything updated and printed and into the Trust and head off on any trip we wanted with clear consciences.

But before we left, we visited the graves of my paternal grandparents. They rest in the aptly named Sunnyslope Lawn section of the cemetery. She passed in 1991 at the age of 94, he in 1997 at the age of 97. They were evangelists, missionaries, church planters, lovers of God. They are often in my mind even now. When I married Sam they welcomed him into the family like a long-lost loved one. And he loved them, as well.

We found the brass marker and brushed away a few leaves. Standing with Sam in the February sunshine, I prayed, thanking the Lord for the beautiful legacy of these humble, faithful servants, for their sweet spirits, their love for their only son—my father—and his family. Their deep, unflinching, undeterrable faith impacted me greatly as a child. I think it has, more than any other part of their legacy, marked my spiritual life as an adult.

I thought, too, as we stood there in the late morning light, that perhaps this scene was something to think about while we live—a life that results in family standing at the graveside years after your departure, thanking the Lord for the continuing influence of your life on theirs.

So, we’ll get the plots bought, get the hours-of-tediously updated Trust to a notary, and put it in the safe this time. And believe me, when we meet in heaven, the kids had better say thank you.