This year, I have found myself attending more funerals, as several neighbors have suddenly passed away. The news of someone who seemed perfectly fine just hours before suddenly dying hits like a bolt of lightning, leaving me in disbelief.

The sorrow and emptiness from losing a loved one carve deep valleys of pain within the soul. Though we are born into this world in order, we leave it without any order—when God calls, we must go. This reality makes me deeply grateful to still be alive today.

I remember, as a child in Korea, an elderly neighbor who once proudly showed my mother the burial clothes she had carefully prepared and hidden deep in her wardrobe. She had lovingly wrapped a white silk skirt and jacket in a white cloth and, with eyes like a bride awaiting her groom, said she was waiting for the day she would go to heaven. I found her words both confusing and frightening. At that time, I had no preparation for eternal life and believed that death was simply followed by eternal darkness.

But now I have come to understand that death is not just something for the elderly to wait for. Everyone living on this earth must prepare for death by living passionately and earnestly. Death comes fairly to all, and when it comes, we must let go without regret, without hesitation, releasing our grip on what we hold, and leave this world peacefully and alone.

I was deeply moved and refreshed by the will of Dr. Byung-Woo Gong, an ophthalmologist and pioneer of the Korean script mechanization movement, who passed away at the age of 88 on March 7, 1995. In his will, he did not mention the distribution of his wealth, but simply asked that, if he had any material or non-material possessions, they be used for welfare work—particularly for people with disabilities, especially the blind. He also stated that if his body could be used, his organs should be donated to help other patients, and that the rest of his body should be donated to a medical school for pathology or anatomy practice. If that was not possible, he requested cremation or burial at sea or mountain. Even then, if all else failed, he asked for the smallest possible grave, to be buried in the clothes he was wearing without changing into new ones, placed in the simplest coffin, and that the news of his death not be shared with relatives or acquaintances until a month later.

He truly lived without regret, and his final will was a remarkable testament to a life well-lived. I don’t know how his descendants carried out his wishes, but one thing is certain—it is no small thing to leave this world with such dignity and boldness before one’s children.

As we live, how attached we become to our possessions! Sometimes, even when lending a beloved book to someone, we hesitate: “What if they don’t return it?” We often feel the sting of letting go. And the same is true with our children—we hold them dearly. So how could Dr. Gong part so calmly with the body he had cared for over 88 years? It commands respect. Had he lived only for himself and his business, that kind of decision would have been unimaginable. But he followed in the footsteps of Jesus Christ, spending his life for others, doing his duty as a parent, and living as an example.

The Apostle Paul poured out every last drop of his life as an offering to God and boldly declared:

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—not only to me, but also to all who have longed for His appearing.” (2 Timothy 4:7–8)

Our Lord Jesus used His entire earthly life for the salvation of humankind and, as He breathed His last on the cross, proclaimed, “It is finished!” He died in radiant beauty and rose again to ascend into heaven.

I once came to understand the mystery of heaven while watching a butterfly’s transformation. A caterpillar crawls on the ground, becomes a chrysalis, and then undergoes complete metamorphosis, emerging as a beautiful, glittering butterfly. In this transformation, I saw a reflection of death and the transformed nature of eternal life. Though our flesh may remain like the cocoon in the earth, our souls will rise and soar like radiant butterflies in the freedom of God’s presence.

Every time we return a loved one to the earth, our hearts writhe in pain and grief.

“It’s truly heartbreaking. Just having him with us gave us strength and peace… But he lived a life free of regrets.”

These words, which I heard during a condolence visit, have lingered in my heart ever since.