What does it take to be at peace with death? Who can possibly know but the one who stares into that abyss? Who but the one, having seen but a flickering glimpse of a hint of what might lie beyond that veil, decides there is less to gain from fear than from acceptance? For what can fear honestly teach that might have value to the dying?

Some naturally spend their last moments in abject fear, irrational to a point that might drive such a one into madness, were it not that death soon stamps the words ‘paid in full’ upon his dying breath. It is not finality that men fear, but uncertainty.

For the rest of us, for whom death seems eons distant, death is something to strive against, tooth and nail, in the vain hope of adding another day, another minute, another second of life to a finality that comes whether we desire it or not. Every waking moment is either spent in pursuit of death, or an extension, however fleeting. And if death is that final threshold through which we all must one day pass, in its finality, the finality of death is a disease to be cured.

Exercise is the key—strong heart and lungs will stead you a minimum of ten years, some say. Some believe a diet rich in natural food, untainted by modern process and additive will stead you another ten years. Abstain from tobacco or alcohol and you may add twenty years—but who can honestly say? Because while a judge might extend mercy to the convicted by allowing multiple sentences to run concurrent, the same cannot be said of life extension. Each conviction of choice for which a man strives, is in hope of mercy handed down in consecutive sentences; but no, these sentences too run concurrent.

Search for a cure all you wish but everyone draws a final breath, hears a final 'I love you' —assuming one is so lucky. And everyone sees a last tear slip from the eye of a loved one—assuming one is so lucky. There is no cure for death, though it could rightly be called a disease… a disease fused into the heart of every man at birth, like a blending of metals—copper and tin creating brass, just as innocence and rebellion once created the human condition, and death through sin.

Death is a finality none of us can avoid, for none of us are assured the promise—a personal guaranty—of the sound of the last trump ringing in our ears, and the translation of corruption into incorruption. None of us are promised, but all are asked to hope; to keep our wicks trimmed, and to cease kicking against the pricks.

If ever death had a cure, it is hope. Those who see death with the promise of hope written on their hearts will see life again, for the grave cannot hold them. The Lord of death, having conquered death, has put an end to death. Perhaps that is what the dying see, who have surrendered to hope rather than fear—the slaying of finality upon the altar of God—the cross of Jesus... an end to death, and the beginning of life in earnest.


Finality