Death Ain’t Worth Fussin’ Over

There are few things about this life I’ll miss when I’m dead and gone. I’ll miss my family and friends, of course, and perhaps a few gastronomical delicacies (namely artichoke pizza and baklava)…but little else. I definitely won’t miss my degenerating body and its many ailments. Nor will I miss this world and the depraved state it’s in ecologically, economically and societally. I won’t miss housecleaning, no sir! I won’t miss having to live within a budget. I won’t miss car repairs or lawn maintenance or taxes. I won’t miss swimsuit season nor the painstaking process of trying to find a pair of jeans I can tug over my generous helping of thigh meat. I absolutely will not miss cellulite. I won’t miss counting calories, counting the seconds or counting sheep. I might miss music, but not speed metal…or smooth jazz…or anything by Justin Beiber.

I can’t wait for the day when I no longer have to persevere through check-out lines, rush-hour traffic, and automated phone systems. I won’t miss Washington or Hollywood and the volcano of sh*t that spews out of both. I won’t miss mosquitoes. Lord knows I won’t miss menstruation. I won’t miss Saturday nights with no plans and nothing good on TV. I won’t miss squabbling with my children, haggling with a salesperson or defending myself against the scores of people who dole out injustice like it was Halloween candy. I will, however, miss being around to witness my kids and grandkids experience the fullness of their lives; but I certainly won’t miss the pain of seeing them hurt, or God forbid, pass on before me. I won’t miss 25-or-more grams of fiber per day. I won’t miss sports commentary. Heck, as much as I love her, I won’t even miss my own dog.

Nope, I’m pretty content to leave this life behind. And, seeing as how I am a hard-core, born-again Christian, I believe I‘ve got a first-class ticket on the express train to glory waiting for me at will-call. When I die and my spirit reaches the gates of that supernatural Disneyland, I don’t think I’ll look back on my life on earth and miss a thing. No ailments, no torment, no cellulite – what is there to miss? I doubt I’ll find anything about my previous life attractive or compelling enough to be homesick for it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids like cRậziИesš! I am, without exaggeration, one breath away from a straight-jacket over my adoration of, allegiance to, and inextinguishable delight for my two amazing boys. Yet as vast as my love may be, I doubt I’ll have time to miss them in the human sense. I imagine that when I experience the Creator of the Universe, Lover of my Soul face to face, and when I am – in His presence – transformed into perfection, even the memory of my own children will seem like a vaguely familiar face at a class reunion…nostalgic yet trivial. I expect that they too will faintly recognize me once they come face to face with God Almighty, and I’m just fine with that.

And so I tell you: I’m not scared of death. The actual act of dying freaks me out a little – mainly because I hope it doesn’t hurt (I’m a bit of a pansy that way). But even if my suffering is long and unbearable, I know that it is momentary in light of eternity. I know that I will soon enough be taking a victory lap around the pearly gates wearing nothing but a firmly supporting sports bra and a thong to show off my cellulite-free angelic form. Hallelujah!

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