On that dreary November morning, I sat in my office chair, daydreaming about my recent engagement and upcoming wedding.  As I pondered the most important event to happen in my life, a customer entered the office.  “Have you heard,” she said, “they’ve shot the president.” I felt like a character from the past – an insignificant piece of a massive puzzle – knowing that I was part of one of the most historical events of my lifetime.  President John F. Kennedy had fallen victim to an assassin’s bullet and lay dead on an operating table.  The story began to unfold as we watched the scenes repeated over and over on our television screens.

As the events of this current tale of terror exploded rapidly, we watched the victim’s wife reach for the secret service man behind the convertible.  We saw her covered with her husband’s blood – her pink suit forever stained with crimson.  We witnessed the pursuit of the assassin and his eventual arrest and confinement.  We were glued to the screen as he was moved to a different area only to be confronted by a night club owner with a gun. We saw the assassin shot to death in an instant. It was like a bad nightmare coming true.

We looked on as a new president was sworn into office, while the dead president’s wife stood stoically alongside him – a look of dismay and shock on her face.  We suffered with the young children who were now fatherless – the many brothers and sisters who would mourn their sibling’s demise – the parents who had to endure losing a child again  and a country that would go through the process of grieving along with them.  A parade of dignitaries from many nations wept.  The youngest president to ever govern in the United States was dead.

Conspiracy theories were a dime a dozen.  Everyone had an opinion on who this man was. Was there a mob connection – was the assassin a communist – did he act alone or was he part of a greater plan?  A special commission was assigned to investigate. We were on-the-spot witnesses, watching the rendezvous with death unfold. The president was as vulnerable to death as we all are. 

Alan Seeger was an American poet who fought as a French Foreign Legion soldier during World War One.  This poem was favored by John F. Kennedy who shared it with his wife on the return from their honeymoon. His new wife, Jackie would later memorize it and say it to her husband.  The poem proved to be prophetic in a way, but we all have a rendezvous with that final stage of life.  Like all stories forged in fantasy, their relationship could be described as a great love story.  It continued even after death.

Death is imminent.  We can’t escape that fact.  When we’re convinced that death isn’t final, we’ve achieved true communion with God.