When someone close to us dies, part of our life goes missing. We grieve our loss and mend in time — not “restored” to past unbrokenness, but recreated for a changed reality.

What about facing the frontier of our own death, though? For me, my mother was a long-time teacher in that regard, not by words but by her attitude, her style, her certain lightness of being.

My mother was an avid bridge player, at one time belonging to an incredible 27 bridge tables around Birmingham. She moved to a retirement community at age 86, and after a while my wife asked her how she was managing her game.

“Oh it’s better than ever, Cile,” she said. “One person dies and there’s always somebody else to take their place.”

Whether that’s a prevailing sentiment among bridge players in retirement communities, I

See Full Page