This is the final installment of my “Memento mori” (Remember you will die) series of real-life scenarios to remind us of the brevity of our lives, and to be prepared for its inevitable, often seemingly premature, end. More details about my perspective and intentions can be found when you scroll back to the August 26^th, 2025 initial post. This last one is personal.

Last week we buried my brother. My one and only brother. My only sibling.

It was unexpected. He entered Methodist Hospital on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving for a battery of tests to identify why he had been experiencing some unusual symptoms his Primary couldn’t diagnose. By Friday he was in the ICU on a respirator. Early Saturday morning, with his immediate family present by his bedside, he died. He was barely 68.

When many of our family and friends heard the news, the common response was “What!” The shock, the disbelief went on for days as grief took over in the empty spots of the lives and hearts of those who knew him. How could this happen?

At the wake, his widow and two adult children testified to his many virtues as a husband and a dad, describing a man of character and compassion, consistently serving others.

I had the last words that evening, looking out on a crowded room of mourners at the mortuary. I prayed ahead of time that I could get through my eulogy without choaking up. With one trembling hand holding the pages and the other gripping the side of the podium, my voice broke the heavy aura of sadness.

I said, “I don’t want to be here, doing this. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

After talking about how well he lived and lamenting his sudden passing, I asked “But what does God have to say about such a thing, the unexpected tragedy, the terminal cancer diagnosis, the fatal accident, the death too soon?” I quoted several Bible verses that address this issue of man’s frailty and his inevitable end, including James 4:14, which states quite bluntly “. . . our life is just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.” My brother’s life vanished away, leaving barely a shadow.

Is there a lesson here, I asked? If there is, it’s this: We should never assume that someone we love, or care about, will be here tomorrow. Life is so fragile, life is fleeting.

In closing, I ended with this recollection: When a young 46-year-old John F. Kennedy passed — a horrible, untimely too soon death – this lyric from an old Irish ballad was quoted and later a book written titled: Johnny, we hardly knew ye. In other words, even at age 46, it wasn’t enough. Not enough days. Not enough minutes.

And then I spoke directly to my brother. “Nick, we didn’t have enough time with you. You slipped away too quickly. The sand in your life’s hourglass rushed through to the bottom and we couldn’t see it until the final grain fell with a terrible thud, like a boulder. So we’ll have to make up for it — in heaven.” Then I sat down, weeping.

Dear reader, will you learn from my admonitions, about the end of your days? How will you deal with this statement from Ecclesiastes, where the wise Preacher says, “The same destiny ultimately awaits everyone, whether righteous or wicked, good or bad . . .  religious or irreligious.”

The post-mortem is not the end. The grave is not the end. The afterlife is exactly that. But until then, today, will you Memento mori?