What if you knew how you were going to die?

If you knew what you were going to die from, would that change the way you live? That's the question I faced in my next assignment in 1999 at Patrick Air Force Base. That's the year my Air Force doctor, a graying 50-something flight surgeon, brought me in for my pre-deployment physical. I had mixed emotions about the physical. After all, if he pronounced me healthy, I'd leave my family to go to Saudi Arabia for four months. If he declared me unhealthy, I might face a medical evaluation board and soon find myself unemployed. During my 15-minute office visit, he hammered on my boney knees, peered into my uncertain brown eyes and shined his flashlight into the airfoils I call ears. He'd put a tongue depressor in my upper orifice and a gloved finger in its southern cousin. Just as I was refastening my shiny belt buckle, his assistant knocked on the door. "Enter," the doctor barked. A balding young airman appeared, handed the doctor a manila folder and was quickly dismissed with a perfunctory, "Thank you." "Ahh. Your test results," he said. The doc put on the eyeglasses dangling from his neck and flipped through pages of blood tests, pee tests and vision tests. All the while he was nodding, spouting numbers and mumbling approving words like "good" or "OK." He closed the file with a smile, so I ventured a guess. "Am I good to go to Saudi?" "Yes, but there's been a recent increase in your blood pressure, so I'm prescribing some medications." My face flushed with obvious concern, so he took a more optimistic tack. "Look at it this way," he said. "At least you know how you're going to die." "Excuse me?" I begged. "Most likely, a doctor will one day write 'hypertension' on your death certificate," he declared. I rubbed my eyes in hopes of dismissing the grim reaper I saw draped in a white lab coat. However, not to be dissuaded by my shaking head, Doc assured me any thoughts I was having of an early demise were "greatly exaggerated." With some enthusiasm, he added my problem would be defined as "service-related. That means that one day, your wife, Becky, will get a nice death benefit – all because of your hypertension." "Bless your heart!" I said. (Southerners know what this means.) He was predicting a silver lining in my death, but I didn't want to hear it. After all, I was planning to live a long life in a beachside home with my officer's retirement. My thinking was much like the greedy farmer Jesus mentioned in the parable found in Luke 12:16-21. The farmer was so successful he built new barns to store his abundant crops. With his retirement set, the farmer told himself, "Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry." The story concludes with God prematurely calling the farmer to the pearly gates, leaving all his crops to spoil in the cavernous barns. Then Jesus added his punch line: "That's what happens when you fill your barn with Self and not with God." These days, nearly every time I strap on a blood pressure cuff, I think about the survival odds quoted by that doctor. That cuff reminds me that although my earthly life is finite, God's love is infinite, and God always gives better odds. However, knowing how I might die has changed the way I live. I exercise regularly, eat better and take my medications. But most importantly, Becky no longer has to see me as a potential dollar sign from a VA pension. CORRECTION: Last week, I misspelled the Amazon website where you can donate supplies to Chispa Project. Our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season is https://go.chispaproject.org/supplies (Do not use "WWW.) Email me with questions or comment at comment@thechaplain.net.