Heaven on Earth: Love, Loss and Legacy

Last year, in the burgeoning spring of May, the unwelcome shadow of death fell upon my life, taking my elder brother, Julius Asiva, away from this earthly realm. Julius was not just my brother; he was a confidant, a friend whose presence was interwoven with the fabric of my existence. His departure has left an abyss that echoes the laughter and wisdom he once shared. He left behind echoes in the forms of his children, two boys, Bokilo and Bahati, and his daughter, Prisca, a namesake of our beloved mother.

At the time of Julius’s illness, I found myself amidst the intellectual rigour of Europe, concluding my first year of advanced philosophical studies. My mind was a battleground of existential ideas, pondering the fearsome concept of death from an academic lens. I had penned thoughts on thanatophobia, postulating that the fear of death mirrors a fear of life itself. Yet, this theoretical musing was abruptly displaced by the stark reality of personal loss. My ticket for a summer return was hastily rebooked, not for a reunion, but to bid farewell.

I journeyed back on May 30, 2023, drawn home by the sombre occasion of Julius’s funeral on June 3, coinciding with the feast of the Ugandan martyrs, a poignant intersection of faith and finality. My family, in a gesture of profound love and respect, had preserved Julius’s body so that I might be there to witness his interment. Together, we orchestrated a tribute that befitted a man of his stature, a send-off that resonated with his life’s dignity.

The cruelty of death is unlike any other force; it is indiscriminate, unforgiving, and final. It is a universal human experience that no philosophy can soften. Previous passings of relatives and friends had touched me with sorrow, but the loss of Julius was a tempest that shook my foundations. It forced me to confront the essence of my philosophical musings in the rawest form.

The teachings from my early days at the Catholic University of Eastern Africa, where I delved into the philosophical discourse of life and its inevitable end, now seemed distant, almost foreign. My thesis, which I had defended with such fervour, now read like a text belonging to someone else. I found myself in the throes of the fear I had academically dissected, living the paradox that had been a mere hypothesis.

Existential philosophy teaches us that authenticity arises in the face of death, the awareness that it could strike at any moment invites us to live more fully. And yet, what of the aftermath? The space left by Julius forced me to look beyond the fear of life and confront the fear of absence, of a narrative cut short, of stories left unfinished. His children, reflections of his spirit, are now the living legacies of his time on earth. In their questions, laughter, and tears, I see the reflections of a man who once stood among us.

In the quiet moments, when the African dusk wraps the sky in shades of grief and remembrance, I ponder the meaning of it all. Our existence, so fleeting, is a tapestry of interconnecting threads, each life a vibrant hue, each loss a tear in the fabric. The philosophy I once held as a shield now prompts a deeper introspection: What does it mean to continue in the wake of loss? How do we honour those who have passed? Can philosophy reconcile the heart’s relentless yearning with the mind’s stoic truths?

Julius’s passing has thus transformed my philosophical inquiry from an abstract engagement to a visceral quest for understanding. It has become a personal odyssey to find a balance between the intellectual and the emotional, a journey to comprehend the silent language of grief and the resounding call to embrace the full spectrum of life with all its love, loss, and longing.

As I grapple with the profound loss of my brother, my philosophical musings on death take on a painfully personal dimension. I find myself questioning the dichotomy between my academic understanding of death and the raw, visceral grief that now envelops me. Where once I pondered death as a mere conceptual endpoint, an inevitable cessation, it now presents itself as a stark, irrevocable loss, tearing at the very fabric of my lived experience. This personal tragedy challenges my prior belief that the fear of death is essentially a fear of life; it seems more like a fear of an irreversible separation, a void that life’s ephemeral nature cannot fill. My brother’s absence brings existential quandaries to the fore: What is the true essence of life when shadowed so closely by the inevitability of death? How does one find meaning in the fleeting moments we are allotted?

In this chasm of loss, I confront the limitations of philosophy’s cold comfort against the raw tide of human emotion. The universal narratives of mortality, once distant, now resonate deeply, intertwining with my own narrative, leading me to an empathetic understanding of our collective human fragility. In remembering my brother, I seek to find continuity amidst discontinuity, a way to bridge the gap between the philosophical and the profoundly personal. This journey, marked by loss and introspection, has carved a new path in my understanding of life, death, and the intricate tapestry of human existence.

The profound ache of my brother’s absence became a stark reality upon my return home for the summer holidays this year. A year had passed since we had huddled together as a family, united in our grief and seeking solace in each other’s company. The children, my nephews and niece, became closer to me during this period, their youthful innocence a balm to our collective sorrow. My mother, especially, seemed to carry the heaviest emotional burden, and I strived to support her, even from afar, as I continued my studies.

Now, walking into the family home, the silence spoke volumes. The evenings, once filled with my brother’s laughter and our shared contemplative walks, now echoed with the void left by his absence. His presence was irreplaceable. And yet, life at home continued with a semblance of normalcy. I slipped into the routine of household chores, often herding the cows with my nephews, their curiosity about the world unfettered by the loss we had all suffered.

During one of these pastoral outings with our cows, Bahati, the youngest at five, posed a question so innocent yet so profound that it darkened my countenance with its weight. “Uncle,” he inquired with a seriousness that belied his years, “you said Dad went to heaven, and we will see him again in the years to come. Where is this heaven? I cannot wait to see my Dad.” The question lingered in the air, heavy with existential weight.

As a student of philosophy, this moment transcended the pastoral scene. It catapulted me into the realm of existential contemplation. The concept of heaven, often offered as consolation, now confronted me with its philosophical inquiries. Does heaven exist? What form does it take in the minds of the bereaved, especially a child? And what comfort does it offer to those left to navigate the labyrinth of life without their loved ones?

Bahati’s question was not merely a location query but a question about the essence of existence, the afterlife, and the bonds that transcend the physical world. It invited an exploration into the nature of belief, the need for hope, and the human quest for meaning in the face of mortality. It raised further questions: What is the fabric of reality to a grieving soul? How do we reconcile tangible loss with intangible beliefs?

These thoughts, swirling in the realm of philosophical discourse, also brought forth the practical aspects of teaching the young about death. How does one explain the metaphysical to a mind still grappling with the concrete? The innocence of Bahati’s question served as a reminder of the profound responsibility we hold when shaping a child’s understanding of life’s most profound truths.

Thus, as I looked into Bahati’s expectant eyes, I found myself at a crossroads of emotional truth and philosophical reflection, needing to bridge the two with care and sincerity. Our conversations by the grazing fields became an unexpected classroom, where the lessons were not about society’s tangible aspects but rather about the intangible philosophies that guide our existence, our interpretations of life and death, and our place in the grand matrix of the universe.

I looked at Bahati, his wide eyes reflecting the vast expanse of the Kenyan savannah that stretched around us, a testament to life’s endless cycle. Crouching down to meet his gaze, I felt the weight of his question about heaven and his father, who had passed on.

“Bahati”, I said, my voice soft but firm, “when we talked about Dad going to heaven, we spoke of a journey to a place full of peace and love. It is not a place we can visit like Nairobi or Kakamega, but it is a sacred space where the Luhya people believe our ancestors watch over us.” I reached out and gently ruffled his hair, a gesture of affection and reassurance. “Our Catholic faith teaches us that heaven is where the souls of those we love rest. It is where they wait for us until it is our time to join them. And every time we do good, laugh, and remember how Dad loved us, it is like we bring a piece of heaven right here to earth.”

The African sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows on the ground and painting the sky with hues of orange and purple. “Our ancestors and our faith tell us that life is a precious gift and those who leave us are never truly gone. They live in the laughter we share, the stories we tell, and even our evening walks.”

Bahati’s eyes held a glint of understanding, or perhaps the beginning of it. “And while we cannot see Dad with our eyes right now, we hold him in our hearts. One day, many years from now, we hope to meet him again. Until then, he lives through us, in every kind act we do, in every memory we cherish.” I stood up, extending my hand to help him to his feet. “Come, let us head back home. Remember Dad and keep him alive in our hearts with every step we take. That, Dad, is our own little piece of heaven.” Together, we started the walk back to our homestead, leaving footprints in the dust, each step a silent tribute to the love and memories that bound us to those who had journeyed on before us.

Amid the profound void left by my brother’s passing, as I return to the familial embrace of our home for Christmas, the reality of his absence is palpable. The once vibrant atmosphere, echoing with his laughter and our shared moments of reflection, now lies subdued, the silence speaking to the depth of our loss. Our mother, a figure of strength, now carries a profound sadness, and as her child, I am propelled by a need to offer support from both near and far.

As I merge into the daily rhythms of our household, engaging in the simplicity of chores and the guiding of cows alongside my curious nephews, the stark contrast between life and loss is ever-present. It is during these pastoral moments that Bahati, the youngest, with the poignant innocence of his five years, articulates a question that encapsulates both the innocence of youth and the profundity of the human condition. His inquiry about the whereabouts of heaven, the promised reunion with his father, hangs heavy in the Kenyan air, demanding an exploration that transcends the physical.

As a philosopher in training, this moment transposes me from the tangible to the realm of existential inquiry. The concept of heaven, often a comfort in times of grief, now demands a philosophical and theological examination. This concept, intertwined with hope and the human pursuit of meaning beyond death, poses a profound challenge: How does one reconcile the tangible loss experienced with the intangible doctrines of faith?

Bahati’s query beckons a journey into the essence of our existence, the afterlife, and the enduring connections that outlive our mortal coil. It invites a dialogue on the fabric of our beliefs and how we construct the narratives of our reality in the shadow of mortality. The challenge is not merely academic; it also bears the weight of practicality; how do we impart the complexities of metaphysical beliefs to a young mind?

In the face of Bahati’s earnest gaze, I find myself at the juncture of heartfelt truth and philosophical rumination. Our conversations amidst the grazing fields evolve into an impromptu classroom of life’s greatest lessons, delving into the philosophies that sculpt our existence and understanding of life and death.

In my attempt to bridge his innocent curiosity with the teachings of our Catholic faith, I speak of heaven not as a physical destination but as a realm of peace and love, where the Luhya belief in ancestral guardianship converges with the Catholic promise of eternal rest. I explain that while heaven is not a place we can see or visit in our daily lives, it is where the essence of those we cherish resides, and through our deeds and memories, we bring its essence to our earthly existence.

The African sunset wraps us in its warm glow as I impart to Bahati the understanding that life, as taught by our ancestors and our faith, is a journey of interconnected cycles. The ones who depart from our sight continue to thrive in the joy we embrace and the narratives we uphold. In these moments, we honour their legacy, weaving their spirit into the fabric of our lives, creating our own little piece of heaven with each step.

As we walk back to our home, the footprints we leave behind are more than mere impressions on the earth; they are the indelible marks of our continued connection to those who have passed, a testament to the love that transcends the physical boundaries of our world. Contemplating Bahati’s question further, from a philosophical and theological standpoint, heaven can be seen as the ultimate expression of Catholic doctrine’s promise of union with the divine. It is the culmination of a life lived in accordance with the virtues and teachings of the Church, a spiritual destination where the soul is believed to find ultimate peace and communion with God. It is both the end and the beginning, an eternal home that lies beyond the limits of human understanding yet is deeply ingrained in the hope that characterises the human spirit in its search for meaning and continuity beyond the ephemeral world.

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