To lose a loved one is to lose a piece of ourselves. I suppose this should be expected in marriage when the two become one flesh (Gen. 2:24). Loving deeply brings immeasurable joy but also an acute void when the cruel sword of death makes its cut.

Cold driving rain pelted my umbrella as I shrugged my shoulders and held them, hoping to absorb another centimeter of comfort from my wool scarf. Looking around, I saw the grief on the faces of friends gathering to pay final respects to one who has recently passed from this life into the next.

I considered my mortality, keenly aware that my funeral is soon approaching. The beating heart in my chest is something of the drumbeat in my funeral procession; when it stops, I’ll be at my destination.

I inserted myself into the shoes of those in front of me. I thought of how I’d grieve the loss of parents, siblings, or friends. Then I looked at the husband, and I considered how painful it would be to stand in his shoes.

However morbid this exercise might first appear, I think it’s wise to linger awhile and consider our mortality (Eccl. 7:2). Facing death helps us to embrace and live life. Claiming moments like these as a personal memento mori or reminders of death serves us well. The practice injects a dose of reality into our sluggish hearts hypnotized by the cultural catechesis of immortality.

But as our graveside service and my personal reflections concluded, I saw something I’ll not soon forget.

About three hundred yards away, a taxi pulled up, and a man slowly climbed out. He extended his umbrella and began walking, at a snail’s pace, away from the cab. Undeterred by the relentless rain, the older man methodically marched to his destination. Upon his arrival, he stopped, took off his hat, and stood still in front of this familiar place, a headstone. He stood there for about 10–15 minutes. Then he put his hat back on, turned, and slowly trudged back to his taxi.

Read More