Deletable

     I currently work at a retirement community.  There are about 200 residents, all over 65 years old.  When a resident moves to into the community, they are given an 'emergency pendant.'  This pendant is wired so that, if pressed, it will transmit a signal so that the proper personnel can attend to the emergency.  I am responsible for programming these pendants, making sure they work properly, and updating information into our main computer.

     When a resident moves into a facility with a higher level of care or (more often) passes away, their name must be deleted from the system, and the old pendant is reset for the next resident who may use it.  Last week, it made me unbelievably sad to 'delete' a resident.  This particular resident was never married, had no children, and was old enough (93-years old) that all her friends had passed away before her.  Nieces and nephews came in the day after she passed and threw away most of her belongings, taking only things that they could utilize.  Nothing seemed to be sentimental to them.  They were only acting as a clean-up crew.  After the 'family' was finished, they gave me her emergency pendant.  I logged onto the main computer, selected the resident's name, and hit delete.  Finished.

    The scenario made me sad.  And then it made me think. When I'm 92, or 72, or 32, I don't want to be deletable.  I want to make an impact on someone or something that can't be erased.  I want to exist beyond death.  My Christian faith screams that I should be making a bigger impact in the name of Jesus.  My philanthropic heart tugs inside me, nudging me to adopt an orphan or mentor a delinquent. My aspiring intellectual brain tells me I should contribute to medicine or science, or some other worthy cause.  It doesn't really matter what the effect is.  It just matters that I do some affecting.  That I etch my name onto this planet in some way, shape, or form.  Because I don't want to be deleted when I'm gone.