I had just turned sixteen. My school choir was on tour – forty-eight teenagers loaded in a bus. We were exhausted.
It was twilight and everyone was napping when a semi-truck collided with the tour bus. Head on. The bus rolled on its side, spilling students and stuff across the lonely highway.

Almost an hour later, the ambulances arrived to help the wounded. That night, our choir director died. He was also the headmaster of the school, and deeply loved by his students.

I’d never lost someone close before. I’d never stared death in the face. It was shattering.
I began to question everything I’d known about death.

What happens when you die? Where do you go? What’s the truth? What is the reality of death?
I had to find out. I needed to know.

My teenage zest for life was suddenly dampened by this inner longing to understand death. It had to make sense, somehow. The pieces had to come together.

I read. I prayed. I asked questions from people who were supposed to know. It took a while. But it worked. It started to fit together. I understood that death wasn’t so scary after all. It was just a part of life. It didn’t mean an eternal end. It’s just a pause in between stages of living. Like going to sleep at night in between living the daytime.

    The truth was comforting. Reassuring. I’m glad I didn’t give up before I understood.