What do we do when someone dies? We grieve and feel loss for the days ahead when we will miss their company. We celebrate their life and are grateful for our time with them. Perhaps we find solace in believing they are now in a better place. We tell stories about who that person was for us. We reflect on how their life impacted our own. We honor the dead by congregating as loved ones and letting emotions spill out, unharnessed and unfiltered.

Death is a difficult subject to approach, and I hope you forgive my naivete. My only experiences are my own, and I have been wrestling with some of these ideas for some time now. The formal ceremonies human culture has developed around death are full of sorrow and beauty. They are rare places where emotions are raw and connections between people are real. Between those who come to pay respect for someone who has died, there is a mutual connection and feeling of loss. I know exactly what you are feeling, and I am feeling it, too. These ceremonies are typically full of sadness, laughter, regret, love, and every other feeling one can conjure up in the human experience. As loved ones share stories of the dead, we are invited into unique aspects of their life and can paint a fuller picture of who this individual was in their life. I typically leave these ceremonies feeling a combination of cathartic, sorrowful, reflective, and togetherness with those around me.

I recently created my first will. The legal distribution of authorities and actions to be taken surrounding my financial assets, medical status, and post-mortem wishes are now iron-clad in the eyes of the law. It was a relatively quick process as my life is quite simple. While it was not a smiley and fun conversation to have with my mother, I am grateful for my family and happily burden them with all the responsibilities surrounding my death. As I raised my right hand (I could not stop thinking about how bizarre this tradition is, as if the physical act of elevating my right hand and showing my open palm would make it impossible to lie. There has to be some history to this action. Would they not allow me to sign the paperwork if I refused to raise my right hand? What if my right hand got blown off at the wrist? What if I did not have a right arm? Does a left hand raised suffice in the eyes of the law, given a missing right hand? What if I crossed my fingers with my left hand while raising my right hand?) I was grateful that I had some structure in place in the event of my unlikely passing. Yet I could not help but think that this only solved the superficial material issues of my death. Other questions arose. How do I want my death to be felt? Do I want to be honored and celebrated? Do I want to be forgotten and people to move on quickly with their lives? What do I want my family and friends to remember about me? What should people do when I die?

Exploring some of these issues can be a form of healing for my loved ones, as difficult as it will be. But as I pondered these questions, I remembered one of my favorite stories. The Speaker for the Dead, by Orson Scott Card, may be my favorite book of all time. As much as it discusses life and exploration, it takes a nuanced approach to death and mortality that I find particularly powerful. In the book, and even more clearly articulated in the introduction of the book, we find a very clear way to pay respect to the dead. The fundamental structure for what is discussed is summarized as follows:

• A Speaker for the Dead is an unbiased party who did not know the deceased.
• Anyone who wants one can call for a Speaker for the Dead. Attendance and acceptance of what they say are subject to each individual, but once the request for a Speaker has gone out, it cannot be rescinded.
• A Speaker for the Dead focuses on telling the deceased’s “self-story”: what they meant to do, what they actually did, what they regretted, and what they rejoiced in.
• The Speaker should be given access to any resources or information they need to compile their story.

A major theme throughout the book series is that to truly love someone, you must understand them. And when you genuinely understand anyone, it is impossible not to love them. This is the core pursuit of having a Speaker for the Dead. It avoids the common pitfalls of editing and revising those we loved who have passed away. I believe this does a disservice to the dead and to the lives they lived. A Speaker for the Dead examines someone’s life holistically, objectively, and carefully. The fear and inevitable pain that the truth will bring is difficult to accept. Why should we not just celebrate someone’s life and all the good it provided? This is merely a different way of respecting the dead that prioritizes truth in understanding to ultimately provide the greatest depth of love possible for the departed’s life. Pain and reconciliation are necessary steps to heal through the grief of tragic events and should not be avoided. Lastly, only when the truth is laid out bare and a person is truly honored for who they were is there space for genuine compassion. How could you not feel compassion for someone whose life you understood? Who among us does not deal with conflict and turmoil of the human soul? Through truth, there is understanding; through understanding, there is love.

So, after I completed my will and reread The Speaker for the Dead, I knew this was what I wanted when I died. I do not want my life’s power and truth cast in a magical vacuum of a well-lived life with nothing but positive contributions to those around me. I want a Speaker to tell my self-story, including all the intricacies and subtleties that governed my journey. I have someone that I have already talked to prepared to give my Speaking. While I know them quite well and am breaking the rules previously stated, I know they will carry out their responsibilities appropriately. I am confident that when my time comes, the confusion and ambiguous nature of dealing with my death will be full of pain, sadness, and regret but also clarity, understanding, and love.