Meeting My Makers

I believe in the afterlife. Maybe not in the same way you do. Definitely not how my mom did. But I believe.

I don’t believe because someone told me I had better or else. Or to hedge my bets just in case, you know, it turns out to be real. The afterlife I recognize is most certainly real. That is affirmed practically every day, each time my mom or dad comes to mind. Every time I think of my late brother and sister, rarely a day having passed since the last time. Whenever my thoughts circle back to an influential teacher, a valued mentor, old friends, that stranger who crossed my path just the once but made a lasting impression.

They’ve all left behind the physical vessels they used to journey through this mortal life, but they are not gone. I see them, plain as day. I hear them, as clearly as ever. They still guide. They still comfort.

No two of us are exactly alike, but we all have much in common, including mortality. The shared knowledge that our days in the flesh are numbered prompts a…