It’s the long weekend and I sit in the hospital, tapping my foot ceaselessly on the ugly laminate as the minutes exhale. I’m squeezing a dying man’s hand; the Present always writes itself into history books prematurely. I thought death was a fairy tale…until now. It’s like the doctor says, “People don’t think about death enough.” We think we’ll live forever. We will, but it won’t be here. We only have so long to decide where will be home in eternity.

Ecclesiastes is the only thing that makes sense this week: “Meaningless, meaningless…everything is meaningless.” Solomon says to “remember your Creator” because there is no hope in life apart from the cross. The cross turns death into a door for life. I feel a loved one let go of my hand and he walks across the bridged gap and steps into heaven. I’m a witness for only half of the journey.

Whatever was left of my child-likeness slips away with his last breath.