Live like you are going to die. My personal experiences

By Doug Reed, Op-ed contributor Sunday, February 15, 2026

I woke up recently to the kind of news that stops you cold.

A well-known pastor in our denomination — 62 years old, healthy, active, faithful — had preached an evening service at his church. Hours later, he was gone. A massive heart attack. No warning. No prolonged illness. Just suddenly absent from the world he had spent more than three decades shepherding.

He was a husband. A father. A grandfather. A pastor who had buried others and comforted grieving families, now himself mourned by them.

That same day, I stood in my own pulpit and preached two services. Later that afternoon, I attended a funeral for the daughter of one of our church members. She had turned 44, received a cancer diagnosis shortly thereafter, and was gone within ten months, never seeing her 45th birthday.

Two deaths in quick succession. One sudden. One drawn out.

Together, they reopened a wound I still carry from 2018.

The day after Thanksgiving, while on a family vacation, my wife’s father woke up not feeling well. By that afternoon, he collapsed in front of us. We dialed 911, performed chest compressions, and watched paramedics work. And then, at just 57 years old, he was pronounced dead on the floor of the vacation house.

That moment is seared into my memory and changed me.

Why tell you these things?

They are heavy. They are painful. They may stir up your own unresolved grief. But they are also unavoidable reminders of something we would rather not think about.

Death comes for all of us.

Whether it is a headline-grabbing celebrity or a beloved family member, death is no respecter of age, calling, health, or faithfulness. We all know this intellectually, but if we are honest, we don’t live like it’s true.

As people who believe the Scriptures, death should not be something we avoid or euphemize away. It is something we are meant to face soberly and courageously.

“It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart” (Ecclesiastes 7:2).

That is not a verse you will find stitched onto a throw pillow or printed on a coffee mug. But it is Scripture nonetheless.

Death is the great equalizer. Not one of us escapes it. The healthiest person you know will die. The most productive leader you admire will die. You will die. I will die.

Life is short. Life is a vapor. We are dust.

“As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass … But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him” (Psalm 103:13–17).

The Bible does not minimize our frailty. It names it plainly. And paradoxically, honesty is meant to lead us not to despair, but to wisdom.

Life is a vapor. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Perhaps our faith would be deeper and our lives more meaningful if we actually lived as if this were true.

So how do we do that?

The psalmist gives us the prayer we rarely pray but desperately need: “Teach us to number our days carefully so that we may develop wisdom in our hearts” (Psalm 90:12).

Notice what Moses does not say. He does not say, “Teach us to number our years.” Years allow us to procrastinate. Days confront us with urgency.

You are not promised tomorrow.

The ancient phrase memento mori — “remember that you will die” — was not meant to be morbid. It was meant to be clarifying. When death is kept in view, life comes into focus.

Steve Jobs once put it this way:

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life … Almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important.”

So many people, if they died today or tomorrow, would have spent their final day living in a way they would deeply regret. Distracted. Bitter. Avoiding what mattered most.

We must live each day as if it were our last: not recklessly, but intentionally. One day, that assumption will be correct. So spend your time on what actually counts. You are not promised tomorrow, so do not squander the gift of today.

If you hate your job — get another one. Make the call you’ve been putting off. Give the hug that is long overdue. Forgive the person who needs forgiving. Have the hard conversation you’ve been avoiding.

Give generously, because you can’t take it with you. After all, you never see a hearse pulling a U-Haul.

Live boldly for the Lord. Share the Gospel while you still can. Pray dangerous, faith-filled, heaven-stretching prayers.

Your goal should not be to make it safely into your casket.

The aim of the Christian life is not self-preservation but faithful obedience. Not comfort but calling. Not applause from people, but approval from Heaven. Live each day in a way that makes your Heavenly Father proud. Live for Heaven’s applause. Stop wasting your time and your life on what will not matter when you stand before God.

And when your time does come, and it will, I leave you with the powerful words often attributed to Chief Tecumseh:

“When it comes your time to die be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”