Zoe Taylor had not been dead for fifteen minutes before my grandma, Holly Smith Jones, and I were beside her, taking her in, holding that which could not be fully held any longer. She had been in her early eighties. Her husband, Dave Taylor, had gone months prior. This was not a shock.

My grandmother crossed the threshold into the room where one of the greatest mysteries of existence had just transpired. I watched her come alongside the hospital bed, where her friend of decades had felt something she had not yet — the exhalation of her final breath. She stroked her companion’s white curls and smeared her leftover blush. With all her admiration, she kissed the forehead of a woman who had given her the privilege of sharing glimpses of life together.

Then my grandmother looked up at me as I stood in the back corner, wanting to be present for this moment, but not knowing exactly how to go about it. “Come here,” she said softly, “Touch her face. You shouldn’t be afraid of this.”

I walked over and gently placed my right hand on her forehead, just before her hairline. I felt the wrinkles of a life well lived. I let the coolness of a soul no longer at war seep down into the layers of my skin. This was peace. This was absolute. Mrs. Taylor would have no more pain. There truly was nothing to fear in this transition, not when it was clear that it was from life to life more abundant.

It was not for a few more hours until those from the mortuary would come to take the adored woman. When they arrived, so did last goodbyes. Again, I watched my grandmother make her way to her friend, who was engulfed in a black bag that did not suit her — that would not suit anyone. For the last time on this side of heaven, Holly Smith Jones cupped the face of Zoe Taylor.

“You were a good friend. I love you,” she said.

Until this night, I did not fully give attention to the beauty of a face and how that artistry can impact a person. I did not realize what it means to revere the bones of someone, so much so that even when the life inside of them is gone, you cannot help but grasp their frame for just another moment. Yet how crucial it is to cultivate this kind of love — one that continues on even when it can no longer be reciprocated. For by it, there is transcendence; we move, be it ever so briefly, into a place where the fragility of the human soul is no longer tarnished by the harshness of the world, but cherished by the kindness of eternity.

You shouldn’t be afraid of this, of the letting go and of the passing. Rather, you should be faithful to the gift of developing relationships that are not sequestered by the physical realm of affection. You should strive for the kind of admiration that is not dependent on sight. How do you do that? Perhaps make it a point to remember that if we can love Christ without the ability to see him in the flesh, so can we continue to love someone who has passed on. For we know that his or her death is not the finale, but the beginning of the second act.