Death is one word many people are not comfortable speaking about. It is a subject often avoided, yet it lingers in the back of our minds. One question that inevitably arises is: “What is the most appropriate time to die?”
Naturally, everyone hopes to leave this world at the "right time" - a moment that seems fitting and peaceful. Yet, the truth is that the sense of appropriateness is not for the dead but for the living. Those who remain are the ones left to bear the weight of loss. When death comes suddenly, as in tragic airplane disasters or other calamities, the grief of the family members and loved ones is magnified. Such deaths feel painfully "inappropriate," leaving behind shock, sorrow, and questions that will never be fully answered.
The wisdom of King Solomon reminds us: “There is a time for everything… a time to be born and a time to die” (Ecclesiastes 3:2). Death is part of the rhythm of life, and though we cannot dictate its timing, Scripture shows us examples of those whose lives ended in what can be seen as a timely and fitting way.
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Abraham lived 175 years. Then he breathed his last and died “at a good old age, an old man and full of years” (Genesis 25:8). His long and fruitful life ended in peace.
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Isaac lived 180 years. Likewise, he died “old and full of years” (Genesis 35:29), surrounded by the blessings of his lineage.
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Jacob’s passing was especially poignant. Before his death, he had the opportunity to gather his sons and bless each one. Scripture records: “When Jacob had finished giving instructions to his sons, he drew his feet up into the bed, breathed his last, and was gathered to his people” (Genesis 49:33). His death was not sudden or chaotic, but deliberate, calm, and filled with meaning.
However, just a day before our departure, we received distressing news: my father-in-law had suffered a stroke and was admitted to Batu Pahat Hospital. The stroke had left him unconscious and half-paralyzed. Our hearts sank as we adjusted our plans - not for a reunion of friends, but for what we feared might be a final reunion with him.
The very moment we arrived in Batu Pahat, we went straight to the hospital. Though he could no longer speak, we sensed he was still aware of our presence. When my wife held his hands, he gave faint but deliberate squeezes, as if assuring us that he could still hear and feel us. A brain scan confirmed severe hemorrhaging.
Difficult decisions soon confronted the family. His children were torn: should they consent to brain surgery, clinging to the fragile hope of prolonging his life, or should they forgo invasive intervention and instead ensure he remained in comfort, leaving the outcome to God? The tension was palpable. In the midst of these deliberations, one child expressed his struggle through a WhatsApp message: “Any positive side we could look to? Dad is still not giving up. Should we give up then?” His words reflected both love and anguish, as well as the heavy burden of letting go.
The intent was not to give up hope, but to remind them of the importance of presence - of being there to share in his final earthly moments before God called him home.
On 28 February 2015, at 6:57 p.m., my father-in-law breathed his last. Mercifully, almost all his children and family members were gathered around him, each one having had the chance to say their goodbyes and to spend those sacred final hours by his side.
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| Photograph taken at the front of the Church Building of BCCM KK immediately after the Wedding Blessing Ceremony. |
In the early years of our marriage, it was clear that he was a highly respected figure in the small town of Sri Gading. People from all walks of life - regardless of race or religion - would come to the house seeking his advice, especially on matters of land, dealings with local authorities, or personal disputes. He had a quiet authority, and in that little town, almost everyone knew him by name.
But as the years passed, the visits grew fewer. Many of his peers had passed on, and new rules and regulations introduced by the authorities were beyond his grasp. Slowly, his influence waned, and he became more and more of a lonely man.
Whenever I visited Sri Gading, I made it a point to let him “belanja” me - treat me - to breakfast, whether at his favorite roti canai stall or the little shop famous for its lontong. Over those simple meals, he would recount his life stories and recall the deeds he had done for the community. He took great joy in telling those stories, even if some were repeats. For me, listening to them never felt tedious; rather, it was a window into his past, and a way of honoring the life he had lived.
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| He stood next to the road sign named after him in Sri Gading. |
I may add that his close family members were with him when he died and many who knew him, his friends and acquaintances came to bid him farewell.
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| His children. |
