The writer of Ecclesiastes says it is good to consider the beginning and the end of life.  My friend in Indianapolis has delivered thousands of babies, and he told me the beginning of life still amazes him.  Other times he performs cancer surgeries when he knows the inevitable. 

In those worst case scenarios, he always tells his patients the truth.  Sometimes they ask him, “Why do you think this happened to me, Doc?” 

“I always say the same thing,” he said.  “Because you’re human.”

Three weeks ago in a Minneapolis hospital, two swell humans in my family thought about life and death.  At 38, my youngest brother is a picture of health.  He willingly went under the knife, donating one of his kidneys to give my 46-year-old brother a new lease on life.

The day after the surgery both brothers walked down the hallway, amazed at what had transpired.  Suddenly my eyes caught those of a woman in the room next to one of my brother’s.  She smiled and invited me to come into the room for a visit. 

Her 60-year-old body was extremely puffy. She was alone and looked spent.  Reaching for my hand, she proceeded to tell me the story of her advanced liver disease.  “Got a liver for me?” she asked, smiling.  “The doctor says I might get a liver in about six months.  I hope I can make it that long.”

“I hope you can, too,” I said, the thought of life’s brevity hitting me straight between the eyes.

Life’s brief sojourn was brought home again this past Sunday when I attended Grace Church in nearby Mahomet.  Sitting in the sanctuary, I realized it was the first time I had been in the church since attending the memorial service for 18-year-old Jessica Seward in August of 1995.  Then I had gone to write a column honoring Jessica for a life well spent. 

After Sunday’s service I was greeted by 50-year-old Eric Seward, Jessica’s father. For nearly an hour we talked about the 8 years since his daughter’s death, and what it means to outlive your own children.  “Go and out and see Jessica’s headstone before you head back to Urbana,” he said as we parted.

Seward said I would see several other headstones of Mahomet young people who have died since his own daughter.  I made the somber walk from headstone to headstone, reading the dates and the words of remembrance on the marker of each young person buried there. 

Only 18 when she died of a brain hemorrhage, Jessica herself wrote these words in her journal just 12 days before she died.  They are engraved on the front of her headstone:  “Lord, I see how you have used me as an instrument of your work.  I feel so unworthy, but I know you have chosen me.”

Just this morning I received an email from a woman who also feels chosen and called by the Lord for her work.  And yet, she is fighting cancer and knows that her days on earth are but few.  She wrote, “I’m not sure I’ve stopped crying all day, for one reason or another.  It’s the first time since I’ve been ill that I’ve really cried.  … In spite of tears, and sadness about missing future events, I’m content to trust God for His provision.  In life and in death, we belong to Him.”

It is as the writer of Ecclesiastes says.  There is a time to be born and a time to die.  The New Testament book of Hebrews puts it in these stark terms.  “…It is destined that each person dies only once and after that comes judgment.” (Hebrews 9:27)

The eight years since his daughter’s death have allowed Eric Seward plenty of time for reflection. He now considers the theological significance of her life, saying that one’s appointment with death is unavoidable.  Seward said that God has marked down the moment when we must die and when we must stand before Him in the judgment. 

An old traveling preacher I heard as a youth said of our impending death, “You may say, ‘I don’t want to believe that.’  You may say, ‘I will live my life irrespective of that.’  It makes no difference.”

Indeed, the true and living God has marked down the moment we all will die.  No one, as such, dies of natural causes, but by appointment.  And none will be late for the appointment to stand before Him to give an account.