The Vampire Chronicles

I used to want to be a vampire.

Really, I did. I'm not kidding. I had such a deep fear of death, I wished I were a vampire who would live forever – even if that meant I'd have to skulk around, steer clear of garlic and sip blood.

I'm exaggerating only slightly. The truth is, I was terrified of dying. I couldn't fathom not living. I couldn't imagine the fact that I would cease to exist while the world continued to unfurl around my lifeless body.

This was before I believed in God, of course, so I couldn't rely on Christ's promise of resurrection and eternal life. All that lay before me at the time was a finite period of life on Earth. And then nothing.

I went to a lot of wakes as a kid. I can't say the experience was traumatizing; riveting yes, but not traumatizing. Most of the deceased were old, after all, and most were distant relatives – great uncles or aunts, second or third cousins.

I'd respectfully make my way toward the open casket set beneath grandiose sprays of gladiola and lily, lower myself onto the padded kneeler and pray. My prayers were quick, routine – hurriedly mumbled so I would have time to absorb the body through slit eyes. I fought the desire to touch the peachy, waxy hands, but I wondered what that dead flesh might feel like.

Many years later as a mother, I was constantly presented with backyard deaths and the questions related to them.

"What's that, Mommy?" my toddler, Noah, would ask, pointing at the desiccated cricket, stiff legs upright on the patio paver. "Oh. That? That's just a cricket. He's a bit past his prime," I'd tell my son, nodding and gently ushering him past, kicking the dead cricket under a shrub when Noah wasn't looking.

I referred to all dead things – dead flowers, dead plants, dead insects, dead animals – as "past their prime."

I finally stopped using the euphemism when Noah pointedly asked, "Mommy? Are you past your prime?"

Slowly, as I've come to believe in and know God, my paralyzing fear of death has eased. I no longer lie in bed each night, gnawing my cuticles and obsessing over dying. I no longer panic over every mysterious pain, convinced that it's incurable elbow or ankle cancer. I no longer use euphemisms to talk about death with my children, but instead explain it as clearly and matter-of-factly as I can, always reminding them about God's promise of Heaven and eternal life.

I don’t think very many of us ever get over the fear of death entirely. There’s so much we don’t know about it, so much we can’t know – the mystery alone is frightening. But I’m grateful for the comfort I find in God now. He has liberated me from the chains of death.

His promise of eternal life beats a vampire’s existence any day.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man’s life is but a breath…But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you.” (Psalm 39: 4-7)