There is little that haunts me more than death; not because death is ultimately in charge, or because there is a finality in death for the individual who is leaving this life. I know and believe firmly in the resurrection as Jesus taught it.
Still, there is a taunting that happens when you hear about a death. The height of the tide of terror that comes with being human rises before you. You're confronted with the infinite in light of your finiteness, the magnitude of the goals you had in light of the miniscule and microcosmic life you lead. There, as the broken creature looks back from the mirror, you are reminded of what it means to be lesser than something, powerless against something.
Today I found out that an old family friend had passed away. As I sat at my desk,I was unsure what to do. My mom's voice left the message on my voicemail like a take it or leave it offering. As I deleted the message, I realized that until recently I had not thought about the kindness with which I had been treated by that friend, all of this in my younger years, many of these kindnesses forgotten in the propulsion of time. I wanted to curse. I wanted to cry. Our friend will be in heaven--I know that I will meet with him again.
But to live out this life, to continue to bear a facade of fluency and control of the art of living--that is what troubled me. I cannot continue to pretend that all is under my feet and that I tread upon it with the light steps of a hero. A hero I am not.
As my mind struggled to swim through this troubled current of thought, words that I had quoted in a paper I was writing earlier today came back to me.
"I am the resurrection and the life...Do you believe this?"
Oh God, with every fiber of my being, I am trying to not only believe this, but to live like it is truth as well.