In a bit of terribly sad news, I received word the day before Thanksgiving that one of my cousins, a cousin with whom I had grown up and with whom I had many fun and enjoyable times, had died of mesothelioma.  She was 61.  Elizabeth left behind a husband, two children, three grandchildren, and a host of relatives and friends.
     In the days before she passed, I had occasion to chat with her husband.  He affirmed his belief to me that when Liz died, she would be with God in heaven.  Although he would miss her "immensely," he felt better knowing that she would be in a "better" place.  And she will be.  While given our finitude, it is difficult to describe precisely how much "better" this place will be, we can know this much:  my cousin now stands on the other side of the curtain.  For her, life's final drama has unfolded.  Eternity awaits.  Earth is no more.
     It is a world of faith, singularly, perhaps insuperably challenging to grasp.  We can accept it, we can reject it.  But we cannot ignore it.  We cannot ignore the possibility of the openendedness of reality.  Moreover, if possibility is ultimately probability, as theories of infinity seem to tell us, this is a world more real than anything we can imagine. It's a world without which this present world cannot credibly or meaningfully exist.
     Do we really live and die in utter darkness?