He
will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or
mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed
away. (Revelation 21:4 (NIV))
When
I think of this question, I first asked not what place I would prefer
breathing my last, but rather what emotional or intellectual state I
would prefer experiencing at the final moment. The emotional and
intellectual state I would choose is hope and happiness. The place of
death frankly doesn't matter. For I could be happy and hopeful at
home; I could be happy and hopeful at the site of our wedding at
North Beach; I could be happy at the entrance to the St. Petersburg
Pier where when I was having a mental episode I felt very close to
God. I could be happy I think both emotionally and intellectually
firmly placed within my Sunday school class, or at work in the
office, or at viewing a sunset, or being surrounded by relatives and
friends, or being alone. Chances are if I live to an old age, I will
be feeble and frail. In this case I might be housed in a high-care
facility, perhaps even a hospital lying on my back with tubes
attached to my arms while I gaze at the ceiling as a television
babbles in the corner. In this latter case especially, I hope to see
a vision—a vision of sacredness, of light, of the face of Jesus, or
the face of God—welcoming me home. In this context I would be in
the same state of mind as elicited in reading the latter part of
Revelations where the new Jerusalem descends bringing with it no more
pain, sorrow, or death. It is an emotional and mental state that
brings about hope and expectation. So I suppose this is really what I
want in the end. I hope to see the faces of friends, the kind and
loving faces of relatives. But if this doesn't work out, I could rest
content with a personal vision of the New Jerusalem. I hope to
experience an epiphany—a filling up with a sense of purpose that
has an inertial force of continuance and hope that leads to the
actualization of essential love projecting into eternal life.
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