You Do Know You’re Going to Die, Right?

A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI

That sentence lands with a thud. It always does. We spend enormous energy pretending it isn’t true—organizing calendars, buying planners, saving for retirements that assume tomorrow is guaranteed. And yet death remains the most certain appointment any of us will ever keep. The irony is not that we die, but that we so rarely prepare well for it.

Most people think preparation ends with a will. A lawyer, a signature, a folder tucked away “just in case.” That matters, of course. But a will handles assets. It doesn’t handle meaning. It doesn’t speak to the people who will stand in a quiet room, stunned by absence, trying to understand who you were and what mattered most to you.

What follows are not morbid instructions. They are acts of care—small, humane gifts you can leave behind so that grief is steadied by clarity and love is anchored by memory.

Beyond the Will: Preparing the Human Things

When you die, the people who love you will not ask first about your net worth. They will ask different questions:

  • What did they believe?
  • What did they love?
  • What did they hope we would remember?
  • What words would they want spoken over us now?

You can answer those questions in advance.

A Letter to Be Read—or Not Read

Write a short letter addressed simply: “If you’re reading this, I’m gone.”
It does not need to be profound. It needs to be honest.

Say what you’re proud of.
Say what you regret without defending it.
Say thank you.
Say “I love you” plainly, without metaphor.

You can instruct that the letter be read privately, shared with family, or even excerpted by the minister. What matters is that your voice—your actual voice—doesn’t vanish all at once.

Music: The Soundtrack That Carries Memory

Music has a strange power. Long after names blur, melodies remain intact. Choose them carefully.

Think in layers:

  • One song that reflects your faith or hope
  • One song that reflects your life before faith
  • One song that simply feels like home

Do not choose music because it is “appropriate.” Choose it because it is true. A hymn sung imperfectly by people who loved you will do more work than a polished piece that meant nothing to you.

Write down why you chose each piece. That explanation may matter more than the song itself.

Scripture and Words Worth Hearing Again

If you believe Scripture matters, do not assume others know which passages carried you. Grief makes even familiar words hard to find.

Select:

  • One passage that sustained you in hardship
  • One that shaped your understanding of grace
  • One that you want spoken over those you leave behind

You can also include poems, prayers, or even a paragraph from a book that formed you. Ministers are grateful for guidance. You are not burdening them—you are helping them speak accurately.

Notes for the Minister: Who You Actually Were

Funerals often default to politeness. That’s understandable. But you can help your minister tell the truth kindly.

Leave a page titled: “Things You Should Know About Me.”

Include:

  • What made you laugh harder than you should admit
  • What you feared, and how you dealt with it (or didn’t)
  • What you wanted people to understand about your faith
  • What you would want said to your children, your spouse, your friends

This is not about image control. It’s about honesty. Ministers preach better when they know who they’re talking about.

The Small, Human Instructions

There are quieter things too—the kinds that reduce stress when everything already feels fragile.

  • Where important documents are actually kept
  • What traditions matter and which ones don’t
  • Whether you want a gathering afterward, or quiet instead
  • Whether humor is welcome, or silence preferred

These details are mercies. They spare your loved ones from guessing when guessing feels impossible.

What You Want to Be Remembered For

This may be the hardest question, and the most clarifying.

Not what you achieved.
Not what you owned.
But what kind of person you were becoming.

Were you learning patience?
Were you practicing forgiveness?
Were you growing gentler, even when life made that difficult?

Write a paragraph titled: “If You Remember Me, Remember This.”

You may find, in writing it, that it quietly reshapes how you live now.

Why This Matters While You’re Still Alive

Preparing for death has a strange side effect: it clarifies life.

When you decide what music should be played at the end, you listen differently now.
When you choose Scripture for your funeral, you read it more attentively today.
When you write words for those you love, you speak them more freely while you can.

This is not surrender. It is stewardship.

You are not rehearsing despair.
You are rehearsing love.

We avoid death talk because it feels heavy. In truth, avoidance is heavier. Thoughtful preparation lifts a burden from the people who will one day miss you, and—unexpectedly—lifts something in you as well.

You do know you’re going to die.

The quieter, better question is whether you’re willing to help the living when you do—and whether letting that truth shape your days might be one of the most life-giving acts you ever undertake.

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