Bestowing an inheritance can be tricky, especially in turbulent family dynamics. As my friend, Max Raftner discovered, this is particularly true if there are significant riches. Sound values and discernment can help, but they aren’t always present.

Max, previously successful in Cadillac sales, had fallen out of favour with his wealthy father after taking down a power pole with his car. Now 5l, he walked with two canes and relied on medications, which only partially relieved spasms of back pain. No longer effective in sales due to the pain, he began volunteering at a shelter for street people. Sporting an unruly, prematurely greying beard, faded jeans and a plaid shirt he never tucked in, he had, since the accident, been regarded by his father as the family’s black sheep.

Recently the father had died and Max had been summoned by his financially successful brothers, Bill and Irvin, to Ricky’s restaurant to discuss the will. On a cloudy Friday morning, Max eased his battered green Volkswagen Beetle into a handicapped space. The brothers had already ordered coffee and muffins. Max noted the self satisfied expressions of his portly brothers.

He was scarcely seated when Bill said, “Max, it pains me deeply to tell you our father left everything to Irvin and me.” He’d never tried to hide his disdain for Max, and his expression gave no indication of discomfort. He patted his protruding stomach affectionately, then took a $100 bill from a jacket pocket and tossed it on the table in front of Max. “From Irvin and me,” he said magnanimously.

Ignoring the gesture, Max said, “I know the old man had no respect for my work at the homeless shelter. Still, I would have liked something to buy them a van.”

His attention was drawn to the lottery booth near the restaurant entrance where Herbie Smith, the town gossip, was watching to see who would buy a ticket. On a sudden impulse, Max reached for the $100 bill and his canes, then, without explanation he skittered across the floor to the booth.

“I’m feeling lucky today,” he said grinning at Herbie. After investing the entire amount in 649 tickets, he waved at his perplexed brothers and departed.

Several weeks later, when the winning numbers were announced, he invited Bill and Irvin for breakfast at Ricky’s. To the utter astonishment of his brothers, he was wearing new shoes, a sporty jacket and slacks, plus a striped shirt and silk tie.

“Hey Max,” Herbie called out from his usual perch, “where ya get the fancy outfit. You win that lottery?”

“Herbie,” Max said as he bumped determinedly toward his brothers, “don’t tell anyone that, ok?”

Max bought his brothers a hearty breakfast, but when they started asking about his new clothes, he pushed aside his plate. “Just thought of something I have to do, fellas. You carry on. I’ll catch the tab.” The two obese brothers watched in astonishment as Max hobbled hurriedly across the street to the Cadillac dealership. In a few minutes he sped away in a sleek new white Caddy. Overcome by curiosity, Herbie approached the brothers. “Is it true Max won millions in the lottery?” he asked.

The brothers stopped eating as though an electric shock of understanding had passed through them. Pushing aside his plate, Irvin said brusquely, “You’d best skedaddle. We’re busy.” Herbie lingered nearby.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Bill asked, wiping the sudden sweat from his smooth forehead. “Yep, we better do something quick.” Irvin said, already rising.

At that moment Max returned and wheeled the new Cadillac deftly into the dealership. He was crossing the street when the brothers hurried to meet him, breathing heavily.

“Let’s go to the bank, brother,” Irvin said excitedly. They rushed Max to the bank and could hardly wait to transfer a third of their inheritance to his account.

Once outside, Bill grasped Max’s arm. “Now, about the millions you won, Max.”

“What millions?” Max asked. “Is Herbie Smith passing that around?”

“Where did you get the new clothes then?” the brothers asked almost in unison.

“I’m a character witness for a kid in court today. His mom paid for them so I’d look respectable. The Caddy was a test drive for old man Winters.”

“Don’t feel bad about the inheritance fellas,” Max said with his usual grin. “Together we’ll be buying a new van for the shelter.”

I occasionally wonder about the experience of slipping into life’s End Zone. How will I respond when I get “the call?” In Tuesdays with Morrie, journalist and best selling author Mitch Albom provides a riveting account of watching his former, highly respected professor Morrie Schwartz deal with his own impending demise. “Each Tuesday I flew 700 miles to sit beside this dying man. It felt like a rinse of human kindness,” he says. “I liked myself better when I sat beside Morrie.”

Mitch picks up the story 16 years after taking several courses from Morrie at Brandeis University in Massachusetts. When he graduated he promised to stay in contact with Morrie, but ambition and lucrative opportunities intervened. While flipping through the channels one day, he was surprised to come across Morrie being interviewed by famed American television broadcaster Ted Koppel. The much loved professor had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease), and was confined to a wheelchair.

Mitch called Morrie’s home and visited him the next Tuesday. The former professor’s mind was still keen to learn and teach. His body though, had endured numerous indignities. He required frequent adjustments of his weak legs and arms. Even his head needed shifting to keep him comfortable. He could no longer dress himself. “In ALS patients,” Mitch observes, “the soul, perfectly awake, is imprisoned in a limp husk.”

The two men quickly resume their former relationship of professor and student. “We’ll write our last thesis,” Morrie says. “The subject will be the meaning of life.” They agree to meet each Tuesday.

When he was diagnosed, Morrie had asked himself if he intended to withdraw from the world, or was he going to live. He decided he was going to live, with dignity, humour, courage and composure. As Morrie discourses, Mitch begins to understand the dying professor is looking at life from a very different place, a healthier place.

Morrie had always gestured with his hands when he talked. Now he can’t lift them higher than his chest. “In the morning I mourn what I’ve lost,” he says. “A little cry, then I focus on the good things, especially the people in my life. It’s wonderful to have so much time to say goodbye to my friends.”

Morrie returns repeatedly to the matter of living a life that has significance. “Most of us walk around like we’re sleep walking,” he says. “We really don’t experience the world fully because we’re doing things we think we have to do. When we’re facing death, we strip away all that stuff and focus on the essentials.”

After several Tuesday visits, Mitch begins to think of Morrie as a man standing on the tracks, listening to death’s locomotive whistle. He knows he will die soon, and is very clear about the important things in life.

Listening to Morrie, Mitch recognizes his own priorities and decisions are making him feel unsettled. He becomes increasingly perplexed by the course his life has taken. Having traded in lots of dreams for a bigger home, more money and a nicer car, his days are full but he is unsatisfied. He yearns for the clarity he sees in Morrie.

Mitch realizes that his professor, now in the last weeks of his life, has attained an understanding of what has true value. Morrie talks about relationships, about loving people, listening carefully to their words, being devoted to community, and especially to creating memories. “All the love we have created,” he says, “and all the memories will still be there after we’re gone. We will still live on in the hearts of those whose lives we have touched and nurtured.”

Tuesdays with Morrie has prompted me to think about my Dad. He had been a skilled heavy equipment operator and an active member of his community. At age 89 his hip broke and he never walked again. During his six years in a long-term care facility, he couldn’t dress himself, turn over in bed, bathe himself and much more. I visited him almost daily and observed how considerate he was toward nurses and care aides. He asked about their family and their interests away from work. He expressed appreciation for their helpfulness to him, and he didn’t complain. Like Morrie, Dad was quick to forgive and refused to dwell on slights.

Tuesdays with Morrie, a great template for life this side of the End Zone.