This time next week I’ll be on my way to my brother’s memorial service. In the back of the car—provided that the U.S. border folks approve—will be some precious family items. Precious, in that my ancestors cared for these things, and handed them on; and precious, in that they will be gifts for my brother’s children. The only family items those kids will ever receive will come from their aunts and uncles.

It feels pretty shameful to say that my brother left his kids nothing. But it’s true. The brokenness in their family had been sort-of patched up by the time he died. But almost two decades earlier, in a fit of hurt and anger and spurred on by an insecure partner, my brother disinherited his children. He left that information behind like a time-bomb, to blow up after his demise. 

When we talked just days before he died, my brother assured me he was ready. He told me that he was relieved to have cleaned up the old hurts with his children. And maybe he believed that what he’d left behind wasn’t all that bad. But I think that he set that bomb and then forgot that he did it.

That’s the way minds work, sometimes. We are amazingly adept at forgetting; we are skilled at locking things away in our minds. This is one gift of evolution, which allows us to close off, at least for a while, horrific things which might otherwise cripple us. But it also means we often can’t remember the hurtful things that we say and do. We usually can’t hear our own tone of voice. We find it very difficult to imagine how another feels. We are normally incapable of putting ourselves in another’s place. 

It usually takes a lifetime to recognize how we have harmed others. It usually takes a lifetime to recognize that we are not the only person whose feelings get hurt. It usually takes a lifetime to say, “I’m sorry.” It usually takes a lifetime to forgive. 

But sometimes a lifetime isn’t enough. Sometimes by intention, sometimes by inattention, sometimes because we have simply run out of time or we forget, we leave behind us big, explosive messes that others have to live with. 

While cleaning out my office recently, I found the Mary Oliver poem, “Everything That Was Broken.” I wondered if I should bring this lovely piece about letting go to the memorial service. 

But I won’t. While letting go is essential, I’d rather bring a plea about what comes first: DO YOUR DAMN WORK. Clean up your side of every emotional mess you can, as soon as you can. Feel the feels, as a friend says. The only way through things is through them: not over, around, or under. THEN let go. 

The day will come for all of us when there is no more time. The best gift we can leave our families and loved ones is cleaning up after ourselves before we go.