Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
worm poop to worm poop.
Actually I donât believe that worm poop is our final destiny. Some years ago I was employed by an insurance company and made a good friend there. This gentleman was around 58 when he became part of a four person team I was on supporting a batch claims processing system ( I was about 40 then). As the system would sometimes go down at night, or sudden change requirements would come in, we would be working together well
into the evening and sometimes at 3 am in the morning. So after a while we got to know each other. He, as it turned out, had been a history major, who switched into data processing to make a living. History was his big love. Along with stamp collecting, which went along with his interest in history. But he also lived to travel. (Being a confirmed bachelor, he could do that). Every chance he got, he would vacation in some country youâd never heard of. (How many of you have deliberately vacationed in Iceland? He said it was really great). Anyway, the friendship grew because we kept having these sessions where we could keep a conversational tennis ball going back and forth for a long
time without a break. I was then, and still am, an introvert who loves books and has more acqaintances then real friends. Iâd never met anybody before who could keep a conversation going for such a long time without it breaking down into trivialities and clichés. He was a genuine raconteur. And I was able to consistently play his straight man. He was also a joiner, a member of various clubs where he would be a raconteur there as well. He said he did that to make sure he would be going out more nights that not. He told me, "You rust out faster than you wear out.".
Well, to get the point ( TOO LATE!) , he turned 60, and the company we worked for was now in downsizing mode. He was just months away from being able to retire. I was just within months of being able to vest for a partial pension (almost ten years of service). We were both scrambling to stay just one step ahead of the choppers. Eventually there was the day when the folks in our dept had to do the âgo in door numbered with the
number on your paper slipâ routine. By a hair, I had vested by then. By a hair my friend was able to get his pension. And thatâs when we got into another heavy conversation, in which he uttered a rare cliché by (mockingly) decrying our common destiny as food for worms. And of course I said âActually Jim, its worst then that. Weâll be worm poop.â He stopped for a second, and then bellowed with laughter like Iâd never heard him do before. Apparently I had broken a lot of tension he had been
under. Then he did a slight impersonation of a solemn priest and said âashes to ashes, worm poop to worm poopâ. Which made me laugh.
In the office, a month before my friend's last day with the company and the start of his pension, he had a stroke. I was the one that got in the ambulance to accompany him to the hospital. The stroke affected his speech to the extent that he now sounded like a mentally disabled person. He did not like to receive visitors because of this. A week or so later, they released him to go home. He had a distant cousin looking in on him from time to time. A week after that, just a few weeks before getting his pension, he had a heart attack brought on by his refusal to eat much of anything. And over the ensuing weekend, he passed away. I still miss him.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
worm poop to worm poop.
In sure and certain hope of
the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ.
