“What do you want your obituary to say?” My husband asked me this shortly after 5:00 on a Saturday morning. I joked, “I’d want it to please people.” I’m a people pleaser, according to a test I took in a sort-of self-help book. Richard laughed and said he’d want his obituary to convey that he didn’t miss out on anything, since his major obstacle in relationships and decision making is the fear of missing out.

All joking aside, wouldn’t it be good to live a life so that you’re missed when you’re gone? And I don’t mean this in an egotistical sense. But what if your existence, your life, your actions and words actually did make the world a better place? What does this look like?

I recently told a co-worker who returned from a few-months’ long hiatus from the office (after her mom’s unexpected death) that she was missed. I meant it. I told her I don’t get to say that about a lot of people. But this particular co-worker actually is pleasant to work with and I think everyone in the office would agree. She always has a genuine smile, is gentle, is kind, is quick to help others. She’s also calm and laid-back. She doesn’t panic, doesn’t rush people. As simple as it seems, she actually does her job. She takes a genuine interest in other people. I’ve witnessed her return kindness for less-than-kind comments. She’s radiant. Her kindness makes her attractive and her presence missed when she’s gone.

I’m thinking about Jesus this morning. He never goes away. The Gospels paint him as compassionate, someone who met people in their sin, sickness, and despair. He had the authority to judge – but he granted people mercy. And healing, and forgiveness. He gave people hope for something better to come. His followers were crushed at his death. But then hope was sparked again when he was seen alive after a horrible death. That conquering of death had massive implications. What he said was true, then.

I just read some blurbs online about the 18 people who were tragically gunned down earlier this week in Maine. Some were remembered by loved ones for their love and kindness. Beautiful souls, killed while enjoying an evening with others.

We’re all terminal, Richard just told me. Pardon the cliché (or the great song by Tim McGraw) but we should live like we’re dying. What matters, then? I think lifting others up: taking an interest in them, extending kindness and gratitude, encouraging them. Maybe even simply doing our jobs with a good attitude, like what we do and how we treat others matters. I’d like my obituary to say I was kind, patient, a good listener, helpful (my husband is all of the above). Not for the sake of pleasing people, but hopefully to please my Maker. Help me, Jesus.