Warren's Farewell Letter
Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of Warren's death. I thought it'd be nice if we all read his farewell letter in commemoration of the day. This is the letter that Warren's good friend Fulton Wright read at the memorial service. (For those of you that weren't there, a bit of background on the letter: In 2005 Warren had a medical exam that showed a serious problem with his heart. The initial prognosis was quiet bad. At that time, Warren wrote the following letter to his family and friends, then just saved it on his laptop in case the dire prognosis turned out to be correct. Luckily, with further tests, we found out that Warren's heart was healthy. It was just an error on the initial report.) And that is how we have this beautiful farewell letter from Warren, saying one final goodbye.
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My dearest Elizabeth, Betsy, woman of my dreams, etc., etc.,
I don’t have much to will, or much of a will, and the world is too parceled a place to have the luxury of getting buried under an oak without some copper-clad sarcophagus. So here is what I know now, what I would like, now, as I consider the possibility, however remote, that I won’t have the opportunity to be this verbose in the future.
I’m sitting here in bed, watching your back, as I ever will be. I think it’s human nature (however flawed) to believe in an afterlife, and thus the first stipulation of my will: I will that there be an afterlife, and I will that you be there in it, and I in yours.
This whole step, “the last will and testament” seems melodramatic. I’m alive, I plan to be alive. In fact, I think I’ll be more alive than I ever have been, having brushed with death. But my grandfather passed in his sleep, and ever since, I have wondered whether this sleep would be my last. When I think of the “what if” of it, all I can think is what I would have wanted to do with you, the two of us together in all the back yards of the world, finding meaning in the mundane.
Some stuff I would have wanted to do with you before I die:
-Watch the lights of NYC come on from the 64th floor of 30 Rockefeller Center
-Exchange vows in Central Park
-Show you off at my high school reunion
-Breathe in the fresh air of Assisi
-Exhale the foul air of Venice
-Hike across the backbone of New Zealand
-Rub each other’s necks after craning at a total solar eclipse
-Fly in some developing country to deliver something useful
-Sit together at a table where a deal is struck that does some good in the world
-Watch the midnight sun
-Watch the aurora australis
-Help others care, even if caring doesn’t matter
-Experience the moments where we’re being the change we want to see
They grow sort of amorphous from there, but get more specific as the horizon nears. Learning is what I care about most, and I learn by doing, so doing things with you is the best of all worlds.
If you’re reading this, and I’m gone, I hope you do all those things anyway, because whether I’m here or not, we’ll be together doing them. Then, I hope you find joy in letting go of me—not my memory, but the regret of my absence—and you let me fly off into the universe to keep the exploration going. Then, if you will, join me someday far in the future, where I’ll be waiting.
Mom and Dad:
If the world were full of people like you, it would have been taken up into heaven. I feel like I cast you away as a kid, trying to square the perfect world they taught in church with the imperfect one you did your best to make better. I’m sorry for that, but I hope sticking around these last few years has made up for it. I’m proud to have had you as friends, and I love you for letting me become just that, not telling me how to behave.
If my short life has been for anything, I hope you see it as a reflection of the wonderful combination of two pure, imperfect but loving hearts. I feel that love, and will feel that love, beyond the grave. And don’t let my departure from the fold bug you too much: if your God exhibits any of the attributes you claim, then we’ll see each other again. If not, he’s a pretty crappy god, and I don’t want to meet him anyway.
Thank you for teaching me to see the universe for how it is, and for being willing to accept the consequences of that. I hope other parents will show the courage and restraint you have. Thank you for letting me be, and letting me be me.
To my sisters and relatives and those in my pitifully small circle of friends:
Some of you have said I’m smart, “brilliant,” or whatever. And look what it’s gotten me. Many of you are vastly wiser (you know who you are, because we’ve talked, and lately I have always tried to talk with those who are smarter and wiser than I have been). But here’s what I know (not think—know): we are conscious observers of an unimaginably vast universe. We are each unique and beautiful, like the stars we’ve seen through telescopes or the shapes and scenes we’ve witnessed from the air. We are all a part of this universe, to act in it as we see fit. If you believe something because you fear knowing otherwise, stop believing and start learning. Belief gets people hurt. Especially when believers think they know something.
To me, there should be no room for fear or regret (as I sob in the writing of this), and I hope I exist in your memories as someone who didn’t fear much. So I ask this of each of you: go out today and do something you’ve wanted or needed, but have feared to do. At least at the moment of this writing, I will feel like I’ve accomplished something, which has always been a challenge for a neurotic overachiever such as myself.
So, uh… I should probably finish with TS Eliot’s passage, since it’s some of the only truth I know, but I’ve used it in my email forever. So here’s my own, from the healthy heart of a kid half my age:
Oft I’ve stood in the starlit silence
Of the boundless heavens.
In awe and wonder at the things that I see,
In comfort with the frigid peace of Creation.
Someday I will know the heaven’s secrets.
Not in the peace I now feel,
Not when my body shivers
In the pain of the cold night air.
Someday my Creator will sit with me,
And will teach me,
And all things will be revealed,
And my only shiver will be in delight.
I have delighted in knowing all of you, and I look forward to delighting with all of you in the eternities that follow.
Love,
Warren
---
My dearest Elizabeth, Betsy, woman of my dreams, etc., etc.,
I don’t have much to will, or much of a will, and the world is too parceled a place to have the luxury of getting buried under an oak without some copper-clad sarcophagus. So here is what I know now, what I would like, now, as I consider the possibility, however remote, that I won’t have the opportunity to be this verbose in the future.
I’m sitting here in bed, watching your back, as I ever will be. I think it’s human nature (however flawed) to believe in an afterlife, and thus the first stipulation of my will: I will that there be an afterlife, and I will that you be there in it, and I in yours.
This whole step, “the last will and testament” seems melodramatic. I’m alive, I plan to be alive. In fact, I think I’ll be more alive than I ever have been, having brushed with death. But my grandfather passed in his sleep, and ever since, I have wondered whether this sleep would be my last. When I think of the “what if” of it, all I can think is what I would have wanted to do with you, the two of us together in all the back yards of the world, finding meaning in the mundane.
Some stuff I would have wanted to do with you before I die:
-Watch the lights of NYC come on from the 64th floor of 30 Rockefeller Center
-Exchange vows in Central Park
-Show you off at my high school reunion
-Breathe in the fresh air of Assisi
-Exhale the foul air of Venice
-Hike across the backbone of New Zealand
-Rub each other’s necks after craning at a total solar eclipse
-Fly in some developing country to deliver something useful
-Sit together at a table where a deal is struck that does some good in the world
-Watch the midnight sun
-Watch the aurora australis
-Help others care, even if caring doesn’t matter
-Experience the moments where we’re being the change we want to see
They grow sort of amorphous from there, but get more specific as the horizon nears. Learning is what I care about most, and I learn by doing, so doing things with you is the best of all worlds.
If you’re reading this, and I’m gone, I hope you do all those things anyway, because whether I’m here or not, we’ll be together doing them. Then, I hope you find joy in letting go of me—not my memory, but the regret of my absence—and you let me fly off into the universe to keep the exploration going. Then, if you will, join me someday far in the future, where I’ll be waiting.
Mom and Dad:
If the world were full of people like you, it would have been taken up into heaven. I feel like I cast you away as a kid, trying to square the perfect world they taught in church with the imperfect one you did your best to make better. I’m sorry for that, but I hope sticking around these last few years has made up for it. I’m proud to have had you as friends, and I love you for letting me become just that, not telling me how to behave.
If my short life has been for anything, I hope you see it as a reflection of the wonderful combination of two pure, imperfect but loving hearts. I feel that love, and will feel that love, beyond the grave. And don’t let my departure from the fold bug you too much: if your God exhibits any of the attributes you claim, then we’ll see each other again. If not, he’s a pretty crappy god, and I don’t want to meet him anyway.
Thank you for teaching me to see the universe for how it is, and for being willing to accept the consequences of that. I hope other parents will show the courage and restraint you have. Thank you for letting me be, and letting me be me.
To my sisters and relatives and those in my pitifully small circle of friends:
Some of you have said I’m smart, “brilliant,” or whatever. And look what it’s gotten me. Many of you are vastly wiser (you know who you are, because we’ve talked, and lately I have always tried to talk with those who are smarter and wiser than I have been). But here’s what I know (not think—know): we are conscious observers of an unimaginably vast universe. We are each unique and beautiful, like the stars we’ve seen through telescopes or the shapes and scenes we’ve witnessed from the air. We are all a part of this universe, to act in it as we see fit. If you believe something because you fear knowing otherwise, stop believing and start learning. Belief gets people hurt. Especially when believers think they know something.
To me, there should be no room for fear or regret (as I sob in the writing of this), and I hope I exist in your memories as someone who didn’t fear much. So I ask this of each of you: go out today and do something you’ve wanted or needed, but have feared to do. At least at the moment of this writing, I will feel like I’ve accomplished something, which has always been a challenge for a neurotic overachiever such as myself.
So, uh… I should probably finish with TS Eliot’s passage, since it’s some of the only truth I know, but I’ve used it in my email forever. So here’s my own, from the healthy heart of a kid half my age:
Oft I’ve stood in the starlit silence
Of the boundless heavens.
In awe and wonder at the things that I see,
In comfort with the frigid peace of Creation.
Someday I will know the heaven’s secrets.
Not in the peace I now feel,
Not when my body shivers
In the pain of the cold night air.
Someday my Creator will sit with me,
And will teach me,
And all things will be revealed,
And my only shiver will be in delight.
I have delighted in knowing all of you, and I look forward to delighting with all of you in the eternities that follow.
Love,
Warren