The Virtue of Detachment
On change, time, and the longing for eternity.
I don’t know, man. It’s just been on my mind lately. I close my eyes at night and immediately start seeing visions of my last day on earth. It feels so real. I see myself as an old man, just waiting to draw my last breath, waiting to close my eyes for one final time and open them again in the presence of God, and I can only hope everyone I love who’s gone before me will be there too.
And suddenly, twenty years have passed. The toy guns my brother and I used to play with are still lying around the house, a thin layer of dust covering them evenly. We picked them up one last time and we never knew we’d never use them again. We laughed, cried, and ran around with them, oblivious to the terrible, looming end of our blessed childhood.
You look back a moment later and everything is different. You missed it, unaware of the fleeting nature of life itself. Every moment you’ve ever lived has slipped through your fingers, cascading into a void of memories. You try to hold on but you can’t, your awareness always just a second too late to grasp the fact that your life is truly ending.
Tomorrow, I’ll be in my deathbed. I’ll stare into my wife’s eyes, those big, brown, beautiful eyes, still as beautiful as when I first saw them, but different, terribly different, sadder than they were, wiser than they were, dimmer than they were, worn out by all the things they’ve seen, and darkened by the knowledge that we are nearing our end. We’ll share a final moment of intimacy, knowing that we spoke about this moment hundreds of time, knowing that the time to depart has come, knowing that we did our best and that through God’s grace, we might meet again in Heaven, never to separate again.
All the faith in the world is not enough to expel those last remnants of uncertainty, and we try our best to believe that something eternal exists, if only to not suffer the horrible pain of there being a final end.
It’s inevitable to ask yourself then what’s the point of it all, to wonder why you loved the things in this world so deeply, why you cared about them so much, and if it was worth it to trade your entire life for them.
You realize that every effort you made to hold on to worldly things was a failure to shift your focus towards the things of eternity. God was calling for you all this time, and you ignored him so you could buy more things, hoard more gold, and store up a decaying treasure that could’ve never brought you peace.
In that final moment between life and death, you are transported back to the present and realize that everything you know will be gone forever, that everything you build will be forgotten, and that you’ll leave this world behind sooner than you think.
You’ll lose people that you love, things that awaken memories in you, you will move out of your home, you will see your friends for a final time, and the weight of constant change will turn into unbearable nostalgia unless you learn to detach and shift your gaze towards heaven.
God is waiting for you, calling out for you, promising eternal life, promising the peace that you mistakingly seek in the things of this world.
He wants to welcome you into His presence, along with everyone you’ve ever loved, so you can turn all your grief into joy, so you can know that there is an eternity to aim for.
Maybe if we trust Him enough He’ll fix the cracks in our human heart.
Maybe if we put our faith in Him will we find ourselves an eternal home.
Maybe if we let Him heal us will He close the wounds this world has opened up.
Maybe if we set our gaze on Christ will we endure change without grief, knowing that every day, every loss, every wound gets us closer to Heaven.
All we can do is try our best, and hope that we find a home in eternity.
But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal.
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
— Matthew 6:20-21
Thank you for reading!
I know this was different from my usual work, as I tend to try and keep my articles practical and applicable. Every once in a while, however, I like to write more freely. More soul and less intellect, you could say. That’s how I believe I produce my finest work.
Let me know if you like this kind of articles in the comment section!
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Your thoughts on detaching from the world come across less like giving up and more like learning to hold things with an open hand. Life keeps changing whether we want it to or not, and you’re acknowledging that the heart can’t survive that weight without looking beyond it.
I appreciate how you end your piece by turning toward hope rather than fear. You’re leaving space for the possibility that God really can heal what time cracks, that eternity is not just a concept but a home, and that love doesn’t have to stop at the edge of life.
Over the last few months, on the occasion of entering the third third of life, I've spent some quiet time reflecting on the end of This Chapter and your words capture beautifully the sorrow and the joy set before us.
I believe the ways we engage with God and each other matter a great deal more than the things of this world. To the degree I can live this out over the time I have left on earth, I will be holding secular things loosely, and the my attachment will be to eternity.