I really hope there is a big pearly gate.

I’d never been envious of those who believe in an afterlife until now. It would be so much cosier than dissolution. She’s gone to the next room. Nope, can’t manage it. She’s gone to dust and rubble. Gone nowhere. No where to go to. No she to go to it. Much easier to be convinced you will be met in Elysian fields by a thousand virgins, or drink from fountains of Manhattans. I can’t even get close to what they call faith, though I quite see Pascal had a point.

When my kids ask, “What happens when we die?” I say, “Do you remember the place you were in before you were born? I think we go back there.”

I would like to believe that you reunite with the people you love the most.

My father, with whom I had a complex relationship: often, when I was young, his desire to protect me clashed with the stubbornness of my choices.

I fear the arrogance we are all at risk of, the pride that pushes us to put “I” in place of “God”. More prosaically, I fear physical pain because it risks stripping us of our dignity.

Lack of humility, the absence of goodness.

As a young man I had a car accident on a foggy night that left the vehicle looking like a squashed box, even though, by some miracle, I walked away unscathed.

As a man who tried to respect everyone, treating them with a smile and with due regard, despite the limitations of being human.

The many nuns and priests who often work in the shadows, dedicating their lives to the service of others.