I visited my daughter's grave today. Yesterday was her birthday—she would have turned 34 years of age. Nobody else was around as I stood on the grass where she is buried. A cold winter wind made me pull my coat tight to my chest and I stood briefly, praying for her soul and remembering the day she was born. I was with my first wife at home, with a nurse and doctor when Naomi was delivered around 11 AM. I never would have thought that she would die in 1999, before reaching twenty.
A few days ago, I was in California, visiting with my parents who are close to death. This all makes me think of my own dying. I do not know when it will be, but death is certain for every created thing. As I think of creation, I realize it is always renewing itself—almost like a wave that arrives at a shore and at last culminates in a surge upon land and then disappears. The disappearance is illusion, for the ocean remains and gathers itself together continually to transform and surge again, over and over.