Working on Sunday – a grave issue

“No-one,” said my wife, with the conviction of someone who indeed had asked everyone, “writes how much they loved working on their tombstone!” She paused for dramatic effect. For a moment she thought that the horror on my face was recognition that her powerful words had finally hit home.

She couldn’t have read it more incorrectly.

“Woaw!” I said in panic. “What are you going to write on my tombstone?” And then when I realised the danger of leaving this to someone else. “I swear, if there are any spelling or grammatical mistakes, I won’t forgive you!”

I imagined the embarrassment of a missing Oxford comma, or the use of lower case when it should have been capitalised, or a Biblical verse that might be inspirational, but that annoys me nonetheless. I pictured my tombstone with Proverbs’ “A man’s wisdom gives him patience” forever carved on a piece of granite for all to read. And I imagined the next generation sniggering as they left Westpark Cemetery, under the impression that I could hardly string a sentence together.

And I knew that I had better write my own epitaph.

The conversation hadn’t meant to go that way. It had begun as a standard long married couple discussion. The context is that I like to do some catch-up work on a Sunday. It gives me time to get ahead of the week, to consolidate, and deal with some of the things I might have neglected, and to feel a little bit more “in control”. It’s a time, without the pressure of meetings, to be a little more creative.

My wife doesn’t always see it the same way.

She believes that “we” (read I) should be focused on family on the weekend, and that all excess energy should be directed towards them.

I don’t agree. Being busy fulfils me, makes me feel like I’m contributing, and whereas of course I like my family (even love them), less time with me is probably a good thing for them in the long run.

It’s not unusual not to see things the same way. We often joke that although we fully intend spending eternity together, it’s because her version of heaven is my version of hell. While I might be condemned to spend the afterlife discussing heavy and weighty things, there couldn’t be a better place for her to be. For me, it would indeed be hell, for her it would be heaven.

What’s clear is that if it’s a challenge for couples to navigate marriage in this world, to do so in the next is going to be infinitely more complicated.

At 54 and in relatively decent health – Jewish Ashkenazi ailments aside – this is, G-d willing, not a problem that needs to be resolved this week. Especially with more earthly problems like Pesach preparation.

But the one thing I’m now certain of is that I must add “write epitaph” to my list of things to do this weekend.