Richard Beck’s post on the pornography of death prompts this thought. Richard talks about how any real conversation or encounter with death is not permissible in polite society. Hence the word pornography. We try to run from this thing. We try to hide it from ourselves.

It won’t work.

Death is. Death comes to everyone. Some see it as an enemy. The ultimate uncontrollable thing. It is a goad, a mocker, a cynic.

What if Death’s a coach?

What if Death walks beside us, daily, asking if what we’re up to is really what we want to be up to? And are we working our passions as hard as they deserve?

This is my new image of Death. Death is a coach. He roots me on. He’s urging me to be myself, fully, totally. To not spend any moment on that which isn’t worthy of me.

My fortieth birthday is two months off, so Death is not likely to come for me just yet. But that he is nearer now than he was is evident in so many subtle ways.

My legs and back respond completely differently to any use at all exercise. What I choose to eat changes my body more unavoidably than it did. My relationships with those who are just entering adulthood have changed. These kids are completely in my lawn. Love ‘em, but seriously, what they think is important is just so…

So reminiscent of what I thought was important…

wait for it…

when I was their age.

There. I said it. I’m officially old.

Death isn’t right around the corner, I don’t think. But he’s there.

And he’s rooting for me. Cheering me on. When he comes, he wants me. He wants the real me. Not some poorly constructed mash-up of me plus everyone I want to please.

He wants me. Pure me.

And I intend for that to be exactly what he gets.