A Reflection on 2025—Life and Death

I believe I lost a record number of friends and acquaintances in 2025—more than 2 per month made the journey to the pearly gates. All my friends that are still walking around seem to be experiencing the same gloomy parade of departure. I know that we Christians celebrate well-lived lives instead of lamenting, but honestly, even temporary separations get “gloomy.” As the numbers mount, life changes. All sorts of memories become yours alone. It shines a spotlight on the fact that one of the great joys in life is SHARING with people you know. It’s our continuing passage—the rites of life everyone endures as they age—more funerals than weddings, more goodbyes than hellos. I caught myself complaining to someone about it. “They’re dropping like flies,” I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they were insensitive—even though the grief behind them was real and heartfelt. And then I remembered my initiation—the episode that began my long relationship with death. I was 12 when my Grandpa Horn died. It’s the first death of a loved one I can clearly remember, and I think it was my first funeral. At that age, I didn’t really grasp the gravity of it all. I remember the drive home from Concord after the service, sitting in the backseat while my parents rode quietly up front. Somewhere along the way, I started singing a song I’d heard on the radio—“The Three Bells” by The Browns. (I guess today it would be called corny; then it was a hit.) It’s a haunting tune with a lilting delivery that traces the life of a man named Jimmy Brown, from birth to wedding bells to the final toll. Partway through my rendition, my mother turned and gently shushed me, subtly motioning toward my dad. I suddenly understood that my father had just buried his own father—and here I was innocently, but carelessly, singing a song about death. It was one of those moments when childhood gives way to something heavier. I began to understand that death isn’t just an idea or a lyric or a story—it’s a gash, a tear in your spirit you will likely carry lifelong, first as a wound, then as a scar. Sensitivity isn’t instinctive; it’s learned, often through moments we wish we could redo. Though as a minister I’ve counseled and comforted a multitude of mourners, death still hurts. Experience doesn’t dull the pain. The pain is separation; it’s our greatest loss. But faith is an anchor that, near this last chapter of my life, makes a truth I’ve preached for more than half a century come alive: for the believer, separation is not the end of the story. The hope is reunion. The older I get, the more relevant and meaningful this becomes. When I was 12 and heard language like that, it felt abstract—something far off. After all, I had a lifetime to wait for those reunions. Now, losing a Christian friend simply means it won’t be long until we’re together again. Later gator. Death is hard. But eternity is forever. I’m no prophet, but 2026 will likely accelerate the departure of precious companions in my life’s journey. Then one day, sooner or later, it will be my turn. Though we may wonder where we stand in the line, that’s not for us to know. But this IS for us to know: “to be absent from the body [is] to be present with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8). My friends who have served Jesus have just gone ahead … like those that left ahead of us for a great revival meeting. Adventure awaits. Reunion is our future reality. I guess I have learned a few things in my lifetime. Death, you’re not so sinister. And one day, Death, you too will die. “Then death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. The lake of fire is the second death.” (Revelation 20:14) And the time will come when “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and death shall be no more neither shall there be any more sorrow nor crying nor pain; for the former things are passed away.” (Revelation 21:4) That day is near. Won’t it be great!