I never understood Christians who were afraid of dying. Not that Christians should *want* to die, but dying shouldn’t hold the same terror for Christians as it does for people who don’t know Christ. All of which is easy to say when it’s not you in the hospital bed. The truth is, we’re all human. And every human is born with the instinct to survive. Fear of death is natural. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn’t mean you lack faith or that God has somehow abandoned you.

I’ve decided that I’m not really afraid of death so much as I’m afraid of dying. Getting run over by a bread truck has a certain dignity to it that a long, drawn-out battle with disease inevitably robs you of, as you become increasingly helpless and tortured by pain. The fact is, these bodies we inhabit are merely flesh and bone. They are only for a certain time and, I promise you, they will, absolutely and inevitably, break down.

Last month I had my very first prescription filled. I didn’t know what to do. I kept asking the pharmacist what did I need to sign, did they need a fingerprint or a retina scan or how did this go. She looked at me like I was nuts. I said, “I’ve never done this before, I don’t know how this works.” “You’ve *never* had a prescription filled before?” she asked. “No.” “and you’re 45 years old?” “Yes.” Oh, I’m sure when I was a kid my mother had a prescription or two filled for me, and when I broke my ankle some years ago, my wife picked up some prescription-strength ibuprofen, but, yes, that’s been about it so far. But I’m getting older now and stuff is starting to break down. Still it was remarkable and an enormous testimony that I’d been, relatively speaking, incredibly healthy most of my life.

Back when he was sick, I told Pastor Johnson I didn’t mind hanging around the hospital. He was often in and out of it and didn’t really track who was there most of the day, but he knew his friends were nearby. That kind of monitoring would drive me nuts; I need lots of alone-time. Please be compassionate from a distance. Anyway, I told Henry I didn’t mind being there, just make sure that he’ll be there for me when it’s my time—and believe me, my time is coming, So is yours. I told him, “Today it’s you. Tomorrow, it’ll be me.” One day, it will be all of us.

Preachers like to scare folks with talk about death. Accept Jesus because death is inevitable. You’re going to die, be sure you die in Christ. I think we might all do a bit better to realize death is only the final stage of dying, which is, itself, a vital part of living. From the moment we are born, we, all of us, are dying. Our bodies grow and flower and decay and break down. It’s inevitable.

Knowing Christ when you die is a vital, inescapable imperative. But having a relationship with Christ while you are living, while you are healthy, while you can walk and talk and dance and sing—that’s just as important. Many people think of Jesus as the last ring of the bell before lights out. Letting Him in does, indeed, save you from a lost eternity.

But knowing Him, actually having a relationship with Him, may be the only comfort many of us have while we are dying. While we are transitioning from birth to life, from childhood to adolescence, from adolescence to adulthood, from adulthood to maturity, from maturity to middle age, from middle age to senior citizen, from senior citizen to Marvel Of The Age—at every stage of life, knowing Christ, serving Him, is the most rewarding and fulfilling experience any of us can have. And when that time of final transition comes, whether it’s the short bump of the bread truck, or the long good-bye of suffering and disease, our comfort, our hope, is in that relationship—not just the quick fix of a last minute repentance but a life spent knowing, serving, loving and having been loved by God—that reassures us that, despite the seeming unfairness of life’s final curtain, there is logic, reason, and hope in the plan of our Father.

Which, of course, is the best medicine of all.