Death

We seem to be losing friends and relatives to death at an increasing rate. That leads me to reflect on how we treat death, the last inevitable event in our lives—NO exception. When I was nine, my beloved grandfather died. My parents didn’t tell me for days—they all just looked sad. I was not allowed to go to the funeral. Nobody talked about him. I felt cheated, but powerless. It was clear that even the mention of death was to be avoided. It must be a bad secret, unmentionable. It was forty years before I finally returned to the cemetery [oh, yes—I’d heard where they’d buried him], locate his grave, and finally felt some closure. Since then I’ve lost a mother, a father, a wife, a brother, a daughter, many friends, and many patients. The way I look at death has turned 180 degrees: since only Jesus has survived it, it must be part of God’s plan for me and you. This being self-evident, who are we to either question it or fear it? And if we believe we know where we’re going, why don’t we look forward to it with eager anticipation? No matter how spiritually sophisticated we want to seem, way down in our secret inner space where NOBODY is welcome, are we still little kids, scared to die, scared of death? Why?