His name is Isaiah. I know that because he told me so. And he’s five. He told me that as well. And he wrestles forks encased in plastic. I’m not exactly sure why.

I was making coffee in the lounge when he popped around the end of the island and asked my name. I told him and, attempting to be polite, asked his. It was a good, biblical name and I told him so, which seemed to please him . . . maybe. There was the momentary, awkward lull in the conversation so I asked his age—a question that was both visually and verbally answered. He told me he was trying to open the fork, not with words but with actions, as he stood the handle on the counter and pressed the plastic down onto the tines with all the might his five year old hands could muster. It eventually surrounded and I congratulated him as he happily moved off toward a table and whatever was there that required a fork.

I took my freshly made cup of coffee, walked carefully down the stairs and into the office where I did I-don’t-remember-what and then started toward the door to the service hall, a trip that requires crossing in front of the stairs to the lounge and the hall to the bathrooms prior to reaching my intended goal. Just as my hand touched the door, I heard him. “Hi again.” I turned and there he stood on the bottom step, peeking around the wall in my direction. I stopped and responded, “Hi again to you, too.” He hopped off the step and I watched as his neck grew at least two inches longer in an effort to peer passed my body and down the forbidden hallway.

“Where are you going?”

“Down this hall,” and, in an attempt to head off the inevitable, added “but you don’t get to go.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to work here to go down this hall. It’s only for people who work here.” I motioned toward the stairs and the foyer, trying to make them seem huge and enticing, “This part is for people who visit here,” and, motioning toward the hallway added, “This part is for people who work here.”

“Do you work here?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How do you know?”

Hmmmmmm. An excellent question. It reminded me of the Gallagher sketch where he was describing his daughter’s first encounter with a UPS man who had come to their front door to retrieve a package he was trying to ship. He was dressed in the traditional brown, driving the traditional truck and carrying the traditional clipboard. As he took the package and drove away, she asked her daddy why he gave the box to that man and Gallagher replied because he’s the UPS man to which she replied with all the skepticism of a small child, “How do you know?”

I thought about his question a lot over the rest of the day. Not because I didn’t know how I knew that I worked here (read it a few times, it’ll make more sense . . . maybe), but because I really couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t a great part of my life. Early on I learned about death, mainly because I had no other choice. It was my father’s life and his father’s and his father’s father. And my mother’s. I was literally surrounded by it. It was the supper table conversation and the reason we didn’t get to leave on vacation when we’d planned, if at all. It was why my father never took off his dress shirt and tie until it was time for bed, and even then they were laid carefully to the side in case he had to leave in the middle of the night.

But Isaiah was a different story. I was fairly certain his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents were not nearly as immersed in death as my family. Yet, here he was, happily wandering about the funeral home, but not so much so that it became a problem for those who were grieving or those whose mission it was to escort them through the process. He was learning. Someone was making certain that he met death on a personal level, even if he was only five. Someone was telling him that it was important to be there when a life ends, to honor that life and to acknowledge the loss. Did they realize the impact of their actions? Probably not. Isaiah’s attendance may have been a matter of necessity more than intent, but even then it spoke of his family’s need to offer comfort and support . . . an example he would see and hopefully learn to follow.

We really don’t do our children any favors when we shield them from the one great certainty of this life. If we do not make the introductions beforehand, someday Death will take the lead and do it for us. Despite our best efforts, we cannot prevent it. How much better would it be if they gradually became acquainted over a lifetime rather than finding themselves caught by surprise when he arrives upon their doorstep or the doorstep of someone they love? We try to prepare them for the other great moments of life; why would we not prepare them for the final one?

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