Only One Life to Live

Clutching a bouquet of flowers, I stood by my father’s grave (my mom is buried next to him), and thanked God for blessing me with such a wonderful father. And, as I often do, I stopped by a number of other graves in the same general vicinity. One cannot visit a cemetery without being made acutely aware of the brevity of human existence and of one’s own mortality.

The George Washington Cemetery, off Riggs Road, in Adelphi, Maryland, is hallowed ground to me. Both my parents, as well as my wife Jessie’s dad, are buried there. And if time should last, my earthly journey will probably end there as well. Often on warm summer days I find myself wandering among the tombstones—quietly and reverently—dropping a tear or two—as I “relive” the stories of scores of people I once knew in the flesh. My only link with them now is through the slender threads of memory. But with the passing of time, that too will fade away.

Less than 50 yards from where my parents are buried, Neal and Eleanor Wilson lie side by side, beneath a three-foot-by-one-foot slab of grayish-black granite. Maureen Pfandl’s grave is a few feet to the left. Dorothy Eaton Watts, a former missionary to India and a close friend of our family’s, is buried nearby. And there are many, many others. In that one area alone I recognized close to 20 names; names of real people—flesh-and-blood individuals; people who were once an integral part of my life, my church, or the local Adventist community we belonged to. Etched in marble, and granite, and concrete—and spread across this sprawling cemetery—are the names of countless others. Most of them have long since been forgotten, the markings on their tombstones erased beyond recognition. The ravages of time and the unrelenting forces of nature have taken their toll.

The Tragedy of Death

Every death is tragic (it was not part of God’s original plan for His perfect creation) and an irreparable loss to those who remain. The poet John Donne was right: “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.” But the tragedy is hardest to comprehend when young lives are terminated, snuffed out, even before they have had a chance to live, and love, and dream.

Andrew Oey Kuntaraf was just 33 years old. A freak motorcycle accident would bring an abrupt end to a life of unbounded promise. Samantha Ann Singh was all of 30—and living life to the fullest. A woman of rare beauty and grace, she waged a valiant but losing battle against cancer. I attended her funeral. I witnessed the tears of her parents and of her younger sister and brother. On a visit to the cemetery I noticed three fresh red roses on her grave; and it wasn’t even her birthday or the anniversary of her passing. She will continue to be missed; not just on special days, but always.

Life may be tough and unfair at times, but God is always fair. We don’t all have the same amount of time, or the number (or quality) of talents, but we will be judged only by what we do with that which has been bestowed upon us by our Maker.

Death plays no favorites; it comes to all. Rich and poor, young and old, successful and struggling, believer and infidel. And it often takes us by surprise. It did for Aaron Anil Reddy. At the tender age of 18 he certainly wasn’t ready to have his life terminated so abruptly. An automobile accident ended his life just as he was entering the threshold of manhood. I know his parents and extended family. Time heals all wounds, they say, but the gigantic hole he leaves in their hearts will always remain.

Life Is Fragile

A couple years ago I was winging my way to Loma Linda, California, to attend a memorial service for William G. Johnsson—beloved pastor, teacher, editor, scholar, friend. He succumbed to cancer. At 88 his mind was still sharp, his prolific pen still churning out books—40-plus and counting.

From the vantage point of my window seat, I saw nothing but brown, barren, mountainous terrain—spread out below me. We must be flying over Arizona, I thought to myself. I asked a steward for confirmation, but he was not sure. He buzzed the pilot. The answer came back immediately. “Yes, we are indeed flying over Arizona; and if you look out from the left side of the airplane, you will see the city of Phoenix—disappearing in the distance.”

At an altitude of 38,000 feet, I am faced with the sobering reality that death is only a split second away. This thing called life is so fragile; so unpredictable. We have only one life to live; and when it’s over, it’s over. There are no reruns, no do-overs, no second chances. “So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Ps. 90:12), wrote Moses. He was certainly not fixated on numbers. He was not referring to the length of one’s earthly existence. What he meant was “We need to meditate on life’s brevity, that we may be wise in employing the time that God allots us.”[*]

Life may be tough and unfair at times, but God is always fair. We don’t all have the same amount of time, or the number (or quality) of talents, but we will be judged only by what we do with that which has been bestowed upon us by our Maker.

Harry Chapin was an American singer-songwriter, philanthropist, and hunger activist. Through his concert tours he raised large sums of money and drew public attention to the problem of world hunger. His example encouraged other celebrities to do the same. A tragic car accident would silence his voice at the age of 38. His brother, Tom Chapin, stepped in to continue the noble cause Harry was so passionate about. Asked by a reporter if he was “filling” his brother’s shoes, Tom replied: “The last thing Harry would want is for someone to fill his shoes. What he’d want is that we fill our own shoes a little fuller.” The same is true when it comes to our use of time. We cannot live someone else’s life, nor can we slot into their time-space. Our time on earth is uniquely ours, our only opportunity to make a difference in other peoples’ lives. All that God asks is that we joyfully embrace the life that has been granted us and strive to fill each moment with meaning and purpose.

The Hope of Resurrection

The George Washington Cemetery is hallowed ground to me. But without the hope of the resurrection it is a place of defeat; a cul-de-sac; a dead-end street; a place of no return. A place where hopes, and dreams, and memories—and joy, are buried forever. A long, cold winter of despair, without the promise of spring to look forward to.

Make no mistake about it: death is real. The grave is real. The pain we feel is real. The separation is real. Through tear-dimmed eyes it is difficult for us to see beyond what seems like the awesome finality of death. But thank God, that is not the end of the story. The grave is not the final word; Jesus is. That is why I am a Christian; a believer in Jesus, who alone is “the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25).

[*] In Francis D. Nichol, ed., The Seventh-Day Adventist Bible Commentary (Washington, D.C.: Review and Herald Pub. Assn., 1977), vol. 3, p. 842.