This year, several neighbors have passed away suddenly, and I have found myself attending more funerals than usual. The shocking news of young people dying without warning, and the bewildering grief of families and friends when someone who seemed perfectly fine only hours before departs without a word or farewell—such sorrow and emptiness are beyond description.

We may come into this world in order, one after another, but when the Lord calls, anyone may be the first to go. I remember, as a child in Korea, seeing an elderly neighbor open her wardrobe and proudly—almost playfully—show me the burial clothes she had prepared for herself. She wrapped the white silk skirt and jacket carefully in a white cloth and placed them deep inside the wardrobe again, saying she was waiting for the day she would go to heaven. Her words frightened me then. I had no understanding of eternal life, and imagined only darkness crouching beyond death.

But now I see that death is not something only the elderly must prepare for. Everyone living on this earth must prepare for it. It comes to all equally, and when that moment arrives, we must open the hands that once clung to everything and depart freely, without regret or hesitation.

Among the American members of our church was a man named Cliff Quibell. Throughout his life he served both church and community, and even on the day he died he was still working for the homeless. When he passed, he donated his eyes to someone in need. His body was cremated, and the small box of ashes was buried in the garden beside the church. He is not the only one—several such boxes rest there.

Recently, I read the will of Dr. Gong Byung‑woo, the ophthalmologist and pioneer of Korean typewriter mechanization, who passed away at age 90 on March 7. His will moved me deeply with its simplicity and freedom. He made no mention of dividing his estate, but asked that any material or immaterial possessions be used for the welfare of the disabled, especially the blind. He requested that, if possible, his organs be donated to patients in need; that the remainder of his body be given to a medical school for pathology or anatomy training; and if that were not possible, that he be cremated or buried at sea. If even that was impossible, he asked for the smallest burial plot, no new clothes, the cheapest coffin, and that relatives be notified one month after his burial. It was a remarkable will—free of regret, free of burden—befitting a man who lived without remorse. I do not know how his descendants carried out his wishes, but it is certain that not many can leave this world with such dignity and openness.

How many people live each day with such open faith and such freedom toward death? I once thought of myself as someone spiritually awake. Yet while I have agreed to donate my organs after death, I had never seriously considered offering my body for medical study. I still resist acknowledging that a human formed from dust must return to dust, clinging instead to the illusion that I am something other than earth.

We must recognize that unless we live each day as if it were our last on this earth, we will leave behind only regret—regret that cannot be undone. Because we are alive today, we must serve God, the Creator of our life, with all our strength; honor our neighbors; and love our families. These may seem like ordinary tasks, but within them the journey toward eternity has already begun. And when we remember this, we realize how precious each day truly is.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, 2001