And in my understanding;
God be in my heart,
And in my thinking
God be at my end and at my departing.
didn't want to be blunt. They refused to see reality. They preferred the polite
term to the direct one "dying."
I'm now eating my words.
A transition is another step on the road. It's a change. It's an alteration. It's
not an end.
A death, on the other hand, is the end. It's final. It's the last stop. There is nothing more.
I came to my linguistic epiphany on July 10, 2012, when my godmother "transitioned" into the next phase of her existence. She has taken the next step on the road--the one that my faith tells me leads to heaven. Cancer helped her get there faster than any of us expected.
I don't find that the word "transition" in any way diminishes my grief. Rather, it feeds my faith. I saw firsthand how her body failed, but her spirit did not. I witnessed a woman who could, herself, see her journey taking another turn. She did not face this transition with dread or timidity. She took her last breath on this side of mortality, but my faith assures me that she has much more living to do.
I look forward to seeing her, and others who are now in the "great cloud of witnesses" when I, too, take the next step on the journey. Meanwhile, I will grieve this loss, knowing that it is heaven’s gain.