Life and Death

I was four years old when my great-grandmother died, and hers was the first funeral I ever attended. I went to her several times when I was very small, and whenever I visited she would give me a dollar bill. After the funeral I knew there would be no more dollar bills, but beyond that I simply didn't understand what had happened.

Now as a parent I see similar patterns in the way my children view death. They have lost great-grandparents, but have been lucky not to lose anyone closer. Their grief in that regard has been minimal, but they have lost a few pets and have learned about death from those experiences. Several years ago one of our cats knocked over the cage where we kept our pet birds, and the door flew open. He grabbed a bird in his mouth and ran downstairs. When my wife found him about ten minutes later, the bird was still alive but didn't look too good. She set him on his perch and he stayed there for about 24 hours (he didn't move or eat or drink during that time). The next day my daughter went to check on him and saw him fall off his perch (he was dead). She was almost inconsolable. I talked to her a lot about death and resurrection that night, and she even wrote a song on the piano to work through her grief. The bird's name was "Stretch," and she called her song, "Stretch's Ode."

Several years ago I became friends with a man who was more than forty years older than me. We attended church and sang in the choir together, and I liked his kind temper and gentle demeanor. I visited him several times while he was in the hospital recovering from open heart surgery. He had a large family and talked about very little else; clearly they were everything to him. I walked around the hospital with him so he could get some exercise, and he would tell me stories about his children and grandchildren. He was even kind enough to give me one of the chocolate chip cookies his daughter had baked for him.

I visited him at his home when he was released from the hospital. He was in good spirits, but his time there didn't last. He soon developed a staph infection and returned to the hospital. Only a few days later, he was gone.

I only knew him for a short time, but he passed out of this world with perfect grace, ready to face God with a clean conscience. His greatest regret, I believe, was the family he left behind. He left something behind with me, too: an extraordinary example of a live well-lived. I thought I was visiting him because he needed me, but it turned out that I needed him.

When I was a teenager I lost a close friend in a gun accident. I had never experienced anything like the pain that followed his death; it was almost overwhelming. Fortunately I had a lot of family support, and my parents gave me exactly what I needed: space and time to grieve. I was kept afloat by another good friend, whose understanding and compassion astound me even to this day.

I wasn't able to talk about my friend's death for several years, and only recently took the time to write down my memories of those dark days. I also wrote a poem for him:

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Autumn has always been my favorite time of year.
There is a crispness in the air that mingles
with the crunch of fallen leaves,
making me feel more alive.

Autumn was also the season you left this world,
and I never got a chance to say goodbye.
Now, when the leaves turn,
I think of you and the days we used to spend together.
Time has brought a measure of solace,
and maybe a little healing,
but I still miss you.

Sometimes I visit the place
where your body rests,
though I know your spirit lives on.
I talk with you, and when I leave I always say,
"I'll see you later."
Because I know I will.

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I am comforted by the hope of a resurrection, and by a belief that death is simply a passageway to another world. I trust in God's word, which says: "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain" (Revelation 21:4). I look forward to the day when those words will be fulfilled.