Death! Funny isn’t it? I mean, when we are young, the only time we think of death is when our favorite pet dies. If it is a person, it is someone “old” at least in our young eyes. As we grow older, it seems not to change. We are way too busy living. We have a family to care for, a job, a mortgage, a house to take care of, and all the bills that come with life.

During those younger years of our lives, we have death come into it. But again, it is someone old, at least to us. An aunt or an uncle. We go to the funeral home to pay our respects and console the family. Then again, at the funeral and cemetery. I am not saying we did not feel hurt by their loss. But in our minds, we are thinking about the football game I was missing, or the work I needed to get done at the house. Death was for old people. You swing back into your daily life. Work and family.

We travel through the years really, giving no thought to death. We are too busy living.

For me, it was my two boys that started me having thoughts about death. My favorite aunt had died, and we were at the funeral home. My uncle asked where the boys were. He had not seen them in over a year. I asked my wife if she had seen them. She had not. I looked around the funeral home. Finally, I went outside. There they were having a snowball fight. I yelled at them. “This is no place to play. For God’s sake, your great aunt died, and we are here to pay her respect. Now get inside.”

Of course they looked sadly at me. But when I started walking in. I turned and glanced at them. The oldest was poking his younger brother. Both were smiling. It was later that night when I was talking to my wife, and I mentioned the boys that it hit me. They were just like I was at their age. Death was for old people.

The significance of death, although a little more prominent in my thoughts, was still nothing I worried about or even feared. Our lives went on as usual. Parent-teacher conferences. Taking our daughters to dance or gymnastics. The boys to hockey or football practice.

The years passed for us. College, graduations, engagements, weddings, grandchildren and, of course, work.

During those years, I watched as my uncles and aunts began to pass away. It was my father’s death that brought me the fear of death. In my eyes, my father was everything. I had looked up to him with admiration as I grew. He was the type of father I prayed I would be just like. He knew the right things to tell us when we had a problem. When we did something wrong. He always knew just the right thing to do with us. I think I can speak for my brother and sisters when I say we knew it hurt him to discipline us and for us; it was that we had let him down.

I only recall my father crying a handful of times. I made him cry one of those times. Saturdays were my day to stop over to visit my parents. It was an excuse to have one of my mother’s big breakfasts. Well, I guess it was a chance to talk to them. At the time, I was in my late twenties with four children. I will remember what I said that day to my mom and dad. Mom had just sat down at the kitchen table to eat her breakfast. I knew what I wanted to say. I just wanted to wait until the right time. My mother knew me like a book and said to me.

“Son, what’s on your mind?” She smiled; “I know that look.”

My father had a great sense of humor and was not one to spare words.

“For God’s sake, if you have something to say, spit it out.”

I looked at both.

“Mom, Dad, I want you to know if I am even half the parent you are. I would be a great parent.”

My mom got up from her chair, and with tears in her eyes, hugged me. I looked towards my dad and saw tears running down his cheeks. My mom told me they loved me. My dad got up and out of his chair. He walked over to me as I stood up. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me.

“Son, in all my life, that is the finest compliment I have ever received. A father can only do his best to love and raise his children. Then hope for the best. Your mother and I have always been proud of you. You have grown into a good man, a good husband, and a great father. I love you.”

“I love you too, dad.” I replied.

MY father’s death hit me hard. Reality had sunk in. Staring at this frail man as he lay in his casket. In my mind, I still saw the man that could pick up his boys and spin them around like pieces of cotton.

The fear of death had reached me.

My mother passed away less than a year later. Her heartbroken, the man of her life was no longer there for her. I found her one Saturday morning when I was there for our usual breakfast. This time when I knocked on the side door by their kitchen, I did not hear her yelling the doors open.

I waited a few seconds and then tried the door. This time, I found it locked. I used my key and opened the door.

I shouted, “Mom it’s me.”

There was no answer. I walked into the kitchen and saw the stove light still on. Now fear began to take over me. I looked in the living room. The drapes were still closed. I headed down the hallway towards her bedroom. There she was asleep, or so I thought. My mom had joined my father in heaven. I cried uncontrollably as I had tried to wake her. When I got ahold of myself, I could not help but notice she had a smile on her face.

The doctor said she had suffered a heart attack. I knew better. She had died of a broken heart.

Over the next few years, the fear of death became more pronounced. My wife and I were nearing seventy. Our children were all in their forties. We had two grandchildren in college, the others in high school.

Hell, I would look in the mirror and see this old gray-haired man staring back at me. Now, mind you, I was in good health. But I began thinking, how many more years do I have left? Ten? Fifteen? It was only a matter of time.

That fear seemed to become increasingly more in my thoughts. I never told my wife how I felt. I thought it was best to keep it to myself. Yet that fear never seemed to leave my mind.

We had a neighbor that was battling cancer. My wife and I visited her almost daily. She loved when we were there. Although I think she loved our three labs. “Maxine “Max”, Doolin and Kerry.” They always brought a smile to her.

We watched as she slowly withered. Knowing death was not far. She eventually passed away, but not before doing something miraculous.

Just days before she died. I sat with her in the hospital. I needed to talk with someone about my fear. When I told her. She smiled and looked at me and in her frail voice said; “Do you believe in God and Heaven?”

Looking at her. “Yes, I do.”

“Then why do you fear death?”

I just stared, not having an answer for her.

“Richard, death is not to be feared. It is the next step in your life. For me, I will be back with John. I will be healthy, happy, and live eternity with no worries, only joy.”

She grabbed my hand and squeezed it softly.

“Now I want you to remember what I said, and you will never fear death again.”

She was right. That moment and those words took the worst fear I had in my life and lifted them away.

Now I live each day, with a joy, loving each minute, and knowing that my life does not end with death. It continues for eternity.