we all will


I watched my own mother file in, first in line of the four women. The two directly behind her I know well and have a heavy respect for as game-changers, rule-writers, integrity-definers, and culture-forgers. The fourth I’ve never met in person and somehow now in this moment feel embarrassed because I know her name and legacy well. These four women together are the honorary pallbearers for Ann Livingstone today, a funeral that is unwelcome and too early for her lifetime and her influence in our own. They are each dressed in black, of course, as they filed in St. Luke’s historic building, but with a sharp and intentional splash of red as Ann had instructed.

I picked up flowers later that afternoon for the tables and counters and surfaces at Mom and Dad’s house later that night. I was looking for all white blooms, and then remembered the instruction for a punch of red. So all white was chosen, and a punch of red per Ann’s request. A southern dinner for family and friends, and in Ann’s case…students, was held at Mom and Dad’s house the evening of the funeral.

The door I came home late through nearly two decades ago as a teenager I was now opening to one-time students who had become Ann’s students either officially in a classroom or practically in the world because she instilled in them this deep longing to work excellently and brilliantly and faithfully and daringly in their respective fields, whether political science or peacemaking or religion or community development or justice or healthcare or human rights. They were arriving on our from porch from California and Canada to who knows where paying respects and mourning the reality that Ann was now, whether she wanted to or not, offering the ultimate assignment: taking on the work that had now been stolen from her far too soon.


A few days ago, a good friend of mine posted online an image of our high school English Lit teacher Lisa Kee. She was too crazy to categorize, and too sincere to discount. She was diagnosed with cancer before our eyes as we watched from the desks in her classroom. She proceeded to teach us new ways of being honest with our own humanity, our own fears, our own faith, and our own responsibilities to read and write. She instilled in us the responsibility that by doing so we were shaping the world around us. She told us about the horror of waking up to baldness because of chemo, the value of fresh air and moon beams when you’re trapped in a sterile hospital room, and the fear of knowing that death is closer than it had been invited.

For me, and for many, she was the first person who ever made it clear that my voice was worth using and worth being heard, and therefore worth being trained and challenged because our shared humanity was at stake.


When Mrs. Kee died, her funeral was the biggest of any class reunion I’ve ever been to. To invoke her name shapes the conversation that follows, and raises the bar of what we expect among each of us. Ann was never my professor, but I’m the recipient of those she taught, both officially as students who are now my friends and colleagues, and unofficially as friends, like my parents, who have been shaped and challenged and pushed to live wholeheartedly because of what she has taught them.

Death is bullshit.

But shots of red, unexpected and insistent fugues, the filing in of these four pallbearers, and images of the past wrestle hard against it, fighting honorably against grief in making way to the surface insisting the work must continue. To live with honesty, teach with integrity and urgency, and die with dignity are a sharp lesson and challenge.

Justice waits for us to fight for it. Peace waits for us to make it. Goodness waits for us live into it.

And in the loss of our larger-than-life teachers who have now been stolen by the fight, we find ourselves pushing a little harder to pass on the imperative of living in ways that are worthy of the human spirit.

To Lisa Kee and to Ann Livingstone, I will do my best. And I will push my students with all I have to do their bests.

We all will.

Pine Tree

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5 thoughts on “we all will

  1. Carrie Whaley says:

    We all stand on the shoulders of giants, Donald, and it behooves each of us to acknowledge that and, as you have said, to do our best to live up to their legacy. However, your perspective on death may change somewhat as you age. I see it–and I believe the Bible sees it–as God’s gift to humanity, so we’re not stuck here in a sin-full world in our decaying bodies throughout eternity, but instead can leave this world for our permanent home, where there will be “no more tears or sorrow.” The older I get, the sweeter that promise becomes and the more frightening the alternative seems! Give it time, and you’ll see what I mean!… 🙂

    • Most Hopeful says:

      Thanks for your words, and good to see you today. While I see the wisdom in honoring passing from this world, I feel confident that death doesn’t belong and isn’t Gods plan; we work and wait for the day that death loses its sting and is no longer necessary or acceptable. Until then, we don’t fear it…but also don’t accept it.

      • Carrie Whaley says:

        There will be no day on THIS earth that death will no longer be necessary, but in the new heaven and new earth that Christ assured us He was going to prepare for us–now that’s a different story!

        • Most Hopeful says:

          That’s what I’m talking about! I woke up thinking about your comment. Death wasn’t a part of the original plan, and as such it isn’t supposed to happen. But we also don’t fear it or become defeated by it as we move closer toward it.

          • Carrie Whaley says:

            That’s what allowed the apostle Paul to proclaim, “O grave, where is your victory? O Death, where is your sting?” The knowledge that death is but the doorway to Life eternal becomes sweeter with every passing year….. 🙂

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