Considering the end

Last night I found out that my childhood friend David had died.

To my shame I use the term “friend” lightly here. David was a couple of years younger than I, one of those pesky boys banished to the periphery of the youth group by us cooler upperclassmen. Lacking the physique of the athletes, the aloofness of the popular, the pedigree of the wealthy, David joked and smiled and participated as much as we snots would allow him, always happy and friendly, no matter how we treated him.

A few years ago David sent me a friend request on Facebook and, out of guilt, I accepted. Maybe, as a Facebook friend, I could atone a bit for ignoring him. Maybe I could like his status occasionally or say “Happy birthday” once a year or comment on how cute his new baby was.

Instead, David became the encourager. Despite having a deathly sick newborn and a recent diagnosis of stage 4 non-smoker’s lung cancer, David was the one who consistently liked my statuses and commented on my photos, and was one of those rare friends who would write something beyond the generic “Happy Birthday!” on my special day. He did this not only for me, but also for all his Facebook friends, which numbered in the hundreds. Announcements from him that his cancer was spreading were done without self-pity and with confidence in God’s love and care. He regularly posted comments expressing gratitude for his wife and community for caring for his baby and, later, for him. In his last posts, just days before his death, David thanked each and every person for checking in and writing on his wall.

David knew what mattered. And his life leaves an admonition in its wake: Do I know what matters?

I am chastened by David’s cheerfulness, his hopefulness, his care for others when his own sufferings were so great. Even without a cancer diagnosis, I struggle to care well for those around me. So often I push through the day in survival mode, just glad I only yelled at my kids three times. I wake too late for prayers, rush to get to school, fight being snappy with my students. Too often I think only of this frantic moment … forgetting that this moment is attached to other tiny moments that eventually add up to a life.

Thinking about the end of life makes me think of other ends as well: the ends of parenting, the ends of teaching, the ends of education. What is our end in any of these areas? Have we ever even thought about it or do we just drift mindlessly toward God knows what because that’s what we’ve always done?

Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, it struck me that David entered glory on Sunday morning, right as many of us were entering glory ourselves for a few moments in worship. David’s face-to-face worship was his end, the moment he had been waiting for. The end of his suffering, yes, but also another “end”—the beginning of his gloriously pain-free eternity with God. What other “end” should life have? What other goal truly satisfies or ultimately matters?

You knew what mattered, David. Enjoy Him forever, my friend.