You are a good man.

(March 5, 2016)

I never imagined that I would think about death as often as I did these past couple of weeks. It’s certainly not the most pleasant feeling in the world. But it’s actually quite sobering to pause every once in a while and ponder your place on this earth, while simultaneously telling yourself that your stay here probably won't last very long.

And as if this wasn’t already unusual enough, I was surprised to find some degree of solace in the midst of my reflection from – of all things – a random pair of dogs.

It started with a few clicks on my Facebook timeline one February morning as I learned about the passing of US Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia. (I realize he is a relative unknown to most people living on this side of the globe, so bear with me for just a minute.) His name rang a bell because he was the butt of many jokes by the comedian John Oliver in his satirical news program that I watch every week. The first time I heard of him was two years ago, when the show went through the trouble of recreating part of a Supreme Court proceeding using live animals and Justice Scalia was portrayed by a goofy-looking bulldog. Needless to say, the resemblance is uncanny. And thanks to that segment, I couldn’t look at bulldogs the same way again without laughingly remembering him.

I would read about Justice Scalia again when the Obergefell v. Hodges ruling was handed down last year, which permitted same-sex marriage in the United States, and he wrote what many journalists called his “most scathing” dissent to date. I looked it up online out of curiosity, and it was exactly as advertised. His rhetoric was razor sharp, pulling no punches and making no apologies but constantly sticking to the core of his arguments and without resorting to ad hominem attacks. I learned it was a style he became known for during his tenure on the bench, armed with a vocabulary as sophisticated as his thinking, which earned him both the praise of his peers and the ire of his enemies.

But it wasn’t so much his influence in the American judiciary that struck me about his death, as I kept browsing articles about him. Rather, it was the impact Justice Scalia left in the lives of the people surrounding him that was so astonishing. Say what they will about his conservative stand on several hot-button issues or his "poor record" as a Supreme Court Justice, but not a single person had anything bad to say about the man. His family, his friends and his colleagues – several of whom he differed with politically – were nothing but respectful when recalling their many fond encounters, with some of them sharing stories of how often he made them all chuckle. Perhaps this was a testament to the quality of his character: that he was admired even by those who did not share his opinions, and that their most cherished memories of him were not of discomfort and disagreement but of joy and warmth.

I wonder if the same can be said of ourselves when it is our turn to go. What sort of memories will we be leaving behind? Would these also be of joy, of warmth? What will our friends say about us – or better yet, our enemies? And, most importantly, do all of these really matter in the end? Who the heck knows. We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we get there, I guess.

One thing I know for sure is this: death is a visitor that comes knocking on our doors suddenly and without warning. I learned this the hard way when I woke up to the news of my grandmother’s sudden death on March 23 of last year. Nearly twelve months have gone by, and the pain caused by her absence still remains in my heart. Yet the one thing that sustained me and the rest of our family throughout this period of grieving was the outpouring of support we received from our loved ones, especially the ones who have grown close to her over the years and whose lives she touched. Only then did I fully understand that what is essential in a person’s life is not who he was nor who he became, but what that person did for others.

Justice Scalia had a son, Paul, who is an ordained Catholic priest, and he gave one of the most profound homilies ever delivered during his father’s Requiem Mass. Doing away with the typical feel-good, trip-down-memory-lane type of eulogy, Fr. Paul chose to contemplate on the realities of our present day and how someone's death should force us to look inside ourselves and change what we can to make our lives more meaningful. He said:

“Every funeral reminds us of just how thin the veil is between this world and the next, between time and eternity, between the opportunity for conversion and the moment of judgment. So we cannot depart here unchanged.”

Dear reader, time is indeed running out. There may not be enough chances for us to do all the things we should so that our existence, however brief, may be of value. Let us therefore make use of this time wisely, and live as fully as we can. Do not settle for mediocrity; instead, strive for greatness in whatever walk of life you are in. Go where your heart leads you, always with one reasoned step at a time. Most of all, love one another. And know that you can never run out of love to give, because you were loved first.

One more reassuring thought came to me while watching my talented friend act in a play. A few weeks back I saw the Philippine production of Bert V. Royal’s “Dog Sees God,” a clever take on the iconic Peanuts characters with the plot centering on the death of C.B.’s pet beagle and how it affected him and the gang. Near the end, C.B. receives a reply from his pen-pal with some much-needed advice on how to cope with his present situation: “Don’t concern yourself with death. Immerse yourself with life. Enjoy every moment that you’re allowed to, but keep asking questions. My dear friend, don’t ever stop asking questions.”

The letter ends with words of encouragement, which I now offer to you in the hope that, should the thought of dying ever cross your mind again, these words will console you as it did me:

“Maintain in your heart all that makes you who you are. You are a good man.”

Yes, you are. And don’t you forget it.