How I Came to Terms With Death as a Child

I attended my first funeral when I was 6 years old.

A child at my elementary school in Iowa died in a horrible accident involving farm equipment. His name was Brian.

As I peered into the casket at his funeral, I saw what looked like a swollen, waxy version of Brian’s face. I whispered to my mom, “Why did they make a doll that looks like Brian?”

“Oh, that is Brian, honey—at least, that’s his body,” my mom whispered back as we took our place in the church pew. “Brian’s body is there in the casket, but his spirit is in heaven with Jesus.”

When we got home from Brian’s funeral, I tiptoed to my room and closed the door. The fragility of life pressed all around me. After some serious reflection, I had a vulnerable chat with God. I said, “If you need to take me to heaven when I’m still a kid, too, that’s OK, because I trust you, Jesus.”

As it turned out, Brian wasn’t the only child I knew from school who would die. There was a sweet eighth-grade girl named Missy who liked pushing us little kids on the swings; she died in an accident almost exactly two years after Brian died. Then, when I was in fifth grade, a preschooler at my school died of brain cancer.

As a child, I accepted the reality of death and God’s sovereignty in the timing of people’s deaths. I recognized that heaven was a wonderful place to be, too, because that’s where we can be with God face to face. As a little girl, I had an implicit trust in Jesus that today I have to work harder to achieve. I have responsibilities and worries as an adult and have a harder time giving those over to God. I need to become like a child again, trusting God completely with my life and the lives of those around me.

Last summer, my husband’s grandfather died. We attended a beautiful service. It was my 7-year-old son’s first time at a funeral with an open casket. Holding his hand, I whispered to him, “Do you see that box over there?” He nodded. “Great-grandpa’s body is in that box, but his spirit isn’t there any more. It’s in heaven with Jesus.” My son’s eyes grew round as he processed the information. He took a peek in the casket before running to hug his grandparents.

After the ceremony and burial, we got in our car to head home. From the back seat, my son said, “I loved Great-grandpa, and I’m sad he’s gone.” He paused, then added, “It’s sad for us, but happy for Great-grandpa—right, Mom?”

I smiled, tears coming to my eyes at my young son’s insight and understanding.

“Yes, honey,” I replied. “That’s exactly right.”