I am ignorant of the fragility of life. I stake down roots and spread out where I am, gathering the material goods I deem necessary for existence. I make choices dependent on the course I intend to take in the future. I live for myself. I live for my tomorrow.
Yesterday, I was faced with the harsh reality that none of us is guaranteed tomorrow. Thurman, the ever-smiling wiry black man at work who emptied our trash cans on a daily basis passed away this week. We thought he was on vacation when he didn't come to work for a few days. Our trash started to pile up and day-old apple cores started emit their stale stench. While we wondered if Thurman had been affected by the rearranging of staff, we lugged our own trash down the stairs and out to the dumpster.
When I heard the real story, I gasped and clutched my chest. He was just 59 years old, a picture of health. He fell in his kitchen one morning a few days later, into a coma that took him quietly into death. It just doesn't seem feasible that a man could be in this world one day and gone the very next. I knew little of the kind fellow, save that he loved to road-trip on the weekends, sometimes going as far as Philadelphia (Mississippi, that is) to play the slots. He had knowing eyes and a chuckle that communicated wisdom and joy.
I've seen Thurman's face in my mind countless times since I heard the news. I'll be in the middle of some task, and he'll show up in my thoughts, reminding me that none of us is promised tomorrow. For those that trust Jesus, leaving this terrestrial place is a major upgrade. It's those that remain that are left to take out the trash and try and discern what it all means to be here.
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