Last night I went with my parents to the funeral of an uncle, one of my father's two remaining brothers. I wasn't particularly looking forward to going, but it was one of those things that you simply have to do, if nothing else than for the sake of your family. It may make me sound insensitive, but I've always had a strong dislike for going to funerals. Maybe because my younger sister died when she was twelve, and that was the very first one I had gone to.

Anyway, my uncle's funeral was pretty crowded, so I spent a lot of my time there standing outside and talking to family I'd not seen for a while. But at one point I got a sudden urge to go inside and have a last look at my uncle all by myself. And as I was standing there by the coffin for a moment, gazing at my Uncle Kenneth lying so peaceful and still on his pillows and cushions, I had one of those sudden experiences in which times seems to slow way down, and everyone around you seems to almost freeze in place. I kept looking up from Kenneth to the crowd of people filling the room, and I couldn't help but contemplate what it was that was missing from him, but which all the others had in such abundance. Of course he was dead, and they were all quite alive. But why was that so? What part of my uncle had left him that changed him from a priceless being into a simple prop to be looked at for a while and then ritually disposed of?

His arms were still there, lying limply across his torso. His closed eyes and the relaxed muscles of his face made it appear as if he were just resting for a while. Anatomically, there was no reason why those eyes shouldn't open, the lips smile, or the arms to uncross and lift him to a sitting position so he could look around. All the muscles were still there; the sinews, bones and joints. But the only part of him which could make that happen was gone. And in that short time it hit me. The only part of any of us with real and lasting value is the spirit which we contain. Our bodies are nothing but vessels. Once the spirit is gone, all that is left behind is even less valueless than a pitcher made of dirt and clay.

This was not the first wake I had gone to. Nor was this uncle the closest person I've ever lost, to be perfectly honest. I've had thoughts before about life and death, and what it is that makes us so much more than the sum of our parts. But this time perhaps, for reasons I don't understand, I came the closest I'd ever been of actually understanding something I know I will never fully comprehend. This great world which we live in, despite all its complexity and wonders, is really no more than a place which we pass through on our way to another destination. Like passing through North Carolina to reach the Outer Banks.

I've always liked to joke that life is not a destination. It's a journey we take, and we better enjoy the ride because we all know how it ends. But maybe I have been wrong. Maybe it leads somewhere after all, and my uncle has now reached a place he's been traveling toward along, for better or worse. One think I've become sure of is that there is something inside us all which is not linked to our physical bodies, or the world we see around us with mortal eyes. And when that part passes along into the next realm, our physical bodies can't follow. They'll be left behind to receive their last respects and then be discarded of just like the body of my uncle.

I remember years ago when I was first learning the teachings of Sigmund Freud. He made a great deal of the fact that on a subconscious level, no one he studied was capable of imagining that one day they'd cease to exist. They could accept that they would die, but to not exist at all was beyond their capacity to fathom. It occurred to me then, and I can't help but think again now, that maybe this is because on a very deep level we all know that we're immortal. And when you think about it, there is nothing illogical at all about believing in something you know.