I recently had one of those big birthdays. One where your odometer turns over and the numbers scream out: You are old!

I decided to accept aging in a graceful way, rather than making a big fuss about it.

I would not act like a woman obsessed with youthfulness. Instead, I would cherish each passing year, since it might deepen my wellspring of wisdom and inner peace.

That resolution lasted about six minutes.

Then I had to admit the obvious: Some birthdays make us flinch because they bring us face to face with an undeniable fact. 

One day, we will not be old. We will be dead.

That sobering thought spurred me to tackle a project I’ve been dodging for years, which is drafting a last will and testament.

This task should be relatively straightforward, since my husband and I have no children.
Thus, if I should precede him to the big chocolate factory in the sky, all my earthly possessions automatically would go to him.

This is all well and good, but what about my old stuffed dog?

Poppa is the only surviving item from my childhood, you see. He was originally a lush and fuzzy Pluto dog, a la the Disney comics, but over the years, he lost every smidgen of fur.

When his eyes shredded off during a particularly fierce skirmish between my sister and me, my mother embroidered him new ones. When he was beheaded in another battle, she lovingly stitched him back together.

My husband once declared that he would like to make a big bonfire and toss in all outdated items from the past.

Frankly, I don’t think I can trust this man with Poppa.

As I sat there with my pen and paper, I finally had to face the truth: The world will go on just fine without me, and many of my cherished treasures will end up in a yard sale.

Trying to draft a will sure makes you get philosophical in a hurry. You start to realize how many hours you waste dusting, storing, repairing and moving your precious stuff. 

You also realize how little time you spend polishing the one jewel that does last. Which is the soul.

Some weeks, I must confess, I expend more energy doing push-ups, painting my nails and putting on make-up than praying. All these endeavors seem like a sad waste of time, given that the body’s expiration date is no match for the soul.

As I was pondering my mortality, I stumbled upon a copy of the last will and testament of a woman whom I greatly admire.

Flannery O’Connor, who died in 1964, was hailed as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century. She was, like me, a Catholic who lived in Georgia and had no children.

The first item in her will illuminates what she held most dear. It was not her massive collection of books, her typewriter or even her beloved peacocks.

It was her soul.

That is why she earmarked $100 as a donation to her local parish, so that Masses would be celebrated in her memory.

I think I will take my cue from Flannery. In my will, I’ll mention a donation for Masses at the very top of my list. I will also ask people to pray that I make it to heaven.

As for Poppa, he’s coming with me.