Living While Dying

I want to talk about something that most people don’t realize until it’s too late.

The dying are still living.

That’s right. That person in the hospital bed, hospice room of the friend who just got the terminal diagnosis. They’re not gone yet. They’re not a ghost of who they were. They haven’t crossed over. They’re still here. Breathing. Laughing. Crying. Remembering. Dreaming. Living.

And too often, we forget.

We start speaking about them in the past tense. We whisper in hallways. We tiptoe around their emotions. We make decisions for them instead of with them. Sometimes we disappear altogether because we don’t know what to say or how to act.

But let me tell you something that years of walking with the dying has taught me: the last chapter of a person’s life can still be rich, beautiful, full of meaning.

I’ve watched a woman dying of cancer laugh so hard she cried. I’ve seen reconciliations that should’ve happened 30 years ago finally take place. I’ve seen a dying father bless his children one by one, calling out the best in each of them.

Moments like that? They’re not about death.
They’re about life.

And if we’re not careful—if we let our fear, our awkwardness, our discomfort run the show—we’ll miss them.

Talk to the dying person like they matter. Because they do.
Ask them questions. Share memories. Tell them the truth. Say “I love you.” Say “I forgive you.” Say “Thank you.” And if you can’t say anything, just sit there. Hold their hand. Let your presence be the message.

And remember—just because someone is dying doesn’t mean they’ve stopped living. Don’t strip away their agency. Don’t treat them like they’re already gone. Until their very last breath, they are still on this side of the veil. Still here with us.

In this sacred window of time—when life is tender and raw and honest—God is powerfully present. And so can we be.

Steve