And then ...?

Stephen Colbert asked his guest, Ian McKellen, “What, do you think, happens after you die?” The Shakespearean actor paused, then said, “Well, I hope there’ll be a funeral.”

I don’t blame McKellen for his witty dodge. The question of what follows the end of our consciousness is a tough one, and it has been on my mind. Last week, friends and family gathered to celebrate the life of my mother-in-law, who passed away last month. It is hard to imagine that a woman who touched so many lives is no longer alive herself. I don’t know what the afterlife looks like, but I’ve created an image of her arriving in heaven to be greeted by my mother. “Why, Martha,” my mom would say with her warm smile, arms wide for an embrace. “So nice to see you.”

Maybe it happens like that – our after life is like the good parts of our during life – but I doubt it. It is nice to imagine that my mother, who had passed a decade before my mother-in-law, would be there to welcome her recently departed co-grandmother. This type of pleasant reunion is my attempt to tackle Colbert’s question: Do we exist after we are no longer alive? We cannot answer that because perception and beliefs are limited by our experience, and our experience is limited to our lives.

Imagine if we posed the question to a baby in utero, What happens after birth? Nothing in the warm, dark womb of a mother resembles what the baby is about to face. Shadowy lights, muffled sounds from outside, and the comforting rhythm of a mother’s heart cannot prepare her for the coming assault of light, sound, cold, or hunger.

So how about this? Instead of asking, “Where do we go after we die?” we might consider, “What do we leave after we live?” That was the question that was answered beautifully at my mother-in-law’s memorial service. Her children and colleagues spoke about how she touched their lives. Friends and family came from down the street and across the country to celebrate the woman they mourned. My children were greeted by people who wanted them to know what their grandmother meant to them.

Then, we returned to her home of hand-made quilts on beds in a house full of found treasures and inherited heirlooms. In many ways, Mark’s childhood home exists as it did a month ago, full of Martha’s collections, books, and interests. Her spirit feels present, even if she is not.

As for comprehending her current state, we are like that fetus in a mother’s womb: limited in our imagination, using what we know to fill in the blanks of the unknown. There is no telling what my mother-in-law and mother are up to now, so I will imagine them carrying on as I knew them. Relishing one another’s company, and proud of what they have left behind.