Missing the Dead

Last updated on: February 13, 2015 at 9:52 am by John Mark N. Reynolds

Missing the Dead 2015-02-13T09:52:27-04:00 John Mark N. Reynolds

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I miss my Auntie Karen: gone so long. I miss my grandfathers’ example and friendship: Papaw Earl played a great game of checkers and Papaw Shelby was a master story teller. I miss my grandmothers’ practical wisdom: Nana could create an “alternate” world when we played together and Granny was wonderful at creating restful space for her guests.

I miss so many people I love who are gone.

Once when talking to an atheist, they said to me: “You are afraid of death and so are a Christian.” He believed I was telling comforting stories to myself to feel better. Of course, this same person proceeded to attack my “cruel and inhumane” beliefs about Hell, undercutting his previous complaint, but the village atheist is not very demanding when it comes to consistency. I am not afraid of my death as much as I dread the death of those I love and miss those who have already died. I am not a Christian because of life after death and Hell, but I am glad that there is hope, though Hell complicates that hope. This hope is part of the Christian benefits package.

No political power defeats death.

Forget all the arguments, though, at fifty-one, when it comes to those who have died, I do not care much about the arguments: I miss my relatives and friends. I close my eyes and picture the moment of my death and I am full of hope. My next waking thought will be with Jesus and then a great reunion. Just writing that last sentence brings tears to my eyes. I love my life, but the other side of death can be better, though of course, it might also be worse. As for death itself: it is an enemy coming to rob, steal, and destroy.

Old cemeteries understood this truth and were unafraid to show us the bones we are all going to become: king or commoner. I am not afraid to die, but there is no reason to look forward to it, because even if there is absolute joy on the other side, death itself is horrible. If you tell me that a terribly painful surgery will end a sickness forever, I will long for the good that is coming, but still dread the surgery.

As for dying, it might be better for me, but my family (I hope!) will miss me. I know I miss the dead dreadfully, though I know (so far as such things can be known) we will meet again. Tomorrow’s joy does not always help with today’s pain.

Coming death does remind me to take care of myself and I do not mean physically. The best I can do physically is put off death a few years or so, but death is still coming. Much wiser is to go into death with hope that the pain will be worth it on the other side. This much is true: If I remain as I was at birth, deeply broken in my nature, then my next waking thought at death will be the best it can be: broken, isolated, alone. I must be born again in order to live again.

Mostly, though, I want to spend more time with those I love who are still alive. Is there any of us who disagrees? I do not regret one minute I have spent with my family and friends and when they die, I regret every minute I wasted checking work email when I might have been talking to them. God help me: how much time do I waste?

And yet there is hope for a better tomorrow. We miss them, but we will meet. Nobody can fill their place, but they are part of preparing a place for me. I will see them and they will be healthy, themselves, and without any psychological brokenness. That is hopeful, that is good, and that is worth much.

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