Churches around the world are celebrating All Saints’ Day today. Well, many are. I wonder about the ones that aren’t. Personally, I think they’re really missing out on something substantive.

I know a Christian’s salvation doesn’t depend on observing a particular day. But then again, life in general doesn’t depend on celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, either. Still, we do our best not to let such remembrances slip by unnoticed, if only because we love the ones we’re celebrating.

So, why not celebrate All Saints’ Day? As I wrote in my little volume Kids in the Divine Service, the Church sets the day aside to “thank God for the saints who have gone before us because of their great example of faith and God’s great mercy in their lives!” Essential to this is the promise that death will never have the final word for those who belong to Christ. Even better, it means Christians who die are not gone. Not really. They’re just away. And we’ll see them again. It seems to me that a day devoted to such things is worth observing. It’s certainly more deserving than something like the Super Bowl, which is another day folks put a lot of effort into celebrating.

There’s another aspect to the day that resonates with me. Admittedly, it maybe even hurts a little. It’s not necessarily a bad hurt. But that’s because it sees the visceral nature of separation from the ones we love through the Gospel lens. And by the way, notice I said, “ones we love,” not “ones we loved.” A relatively unsung part of the All Saints’ Day celebration is its present tense focus. Dead or alive, past or present, everyone who believes in Christ is, right now, a saint (a holy one set apart from the world and a part of God’s family), whether in the Church on earth (the Church Militant) or the Church in heaven (the Church Triumphant). From that perspective, even as we’re separated, mortal time and location begin losing their grip. In other words, death’s past-tense grammar doesn’t really fit the situation anymore. We don’t say of someone who died, “He was my friend.” That would be weird. It’s weird because he’s just somewhere else. And so, we say, “He is my friend.”

I know that was a little bit of a tangent. I meant to say something about the part that hurts—the separation—and I’ll bet plenty reading this know exactly what I mean by it before having to read any further. I first experienced it in its fullest measure when my brother Michael died back in July of 1995. I was there when his chest lifted and then fell, exhaling for the last time. In one second, he was there. The next, he wasn’t. And I wanted nothing more than to be with him. I knew I would one day. But that didn’t change the fact that, while driving home from the hospital, strangely, the song “Rocket Man” by Elton John happened to be playing on the radio, and the line “And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time” hit so incredibly hard that I nearly drove into a ditch.

I missed him so badly. Thirty-one years later, the separation is a little easier, but I still feel it.

Maybe to unpack this a little more, let me share something I might not normally share—a more intimate moment between Jennifer and me.

A few weeks ago, we were driving home from Rogers City, Michigan. We’d taken a few desperately needed days to get away from the demands of the pastoral life. As you might guess, it was one of those long drives that gives two people time to talk about everything and nothing. Somewhere along the way, our conversation turned to family, namely, to thanking God for His countless blessings given to us over the years.

I don’t remember precisely what prompted the thought, but at one point, I told Jennifer something I meant with every fiber of my being. I told her that if she were to die before I did, and someone—an angel maybe—suddenly showed up at my door with the genuine power to grant me ten more seconds with her, other than my faith in Jesus (because there’s nothing in this world worth surrendering my Lord), I’d give everything I own to have those seconds.

When I said everything, I meant everything. The house and everything in it. Whatever money I have. Every possession. Every earthly comfort. Every mental and motor skill. Everything. Again, my faith is the one exception. But everything else? Take it. In exchange for only ten seconds? Yes. I’d spend the rest of my life with absolutely nothing. And I’d accept the offer without even blinking.

I suppose someone out there reading this might consider it a foolish bargain. After all, what can anyone accomplish in ten seconds? I’d barely get a few words out before she’d be gone again. And then what? I’d have the rest of my days, except now I’d have nothing.

Trust me when I say that I understand the objection. Jen certainly gave hers. But I also understand the value of ten seconds when no more seconds are left. I was there when the doctor said there was nothing else they could do for my brother. I watched those nurses walk around his bed, removing tubes and turning off machines. If that were my lot with Jen, I’d already know each second’s gravity. Ten more seconds to see Jen smile again? Yes. Ten more seconds to hear her voice? Yes. Ten more seconds to hold her hand, feeling its warmth? Yes. Ten more seconds to tell her how much I love her, and to hear her say the same? Absolutely, yes.

Anyone who’s ever sat beside a hospital bed watching someone they love slip away, you know darn well what I mean by this.

I suppose this brings me back around to All Saints’ Day. There’s something worth considering here, especially for Christians.

In Psalm 90, we read a prayer attributed to Moses. Praying along, right in the middle of it, we ask, “Teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom” (v. 12). Unfortunately, even as Christians, we remain remarkably good at counting so much of what doesn’t matter. We count the things we own. We count our money. Our curriculum vitae gets longer and longer as we chalk up our various accomplishments. We run ourselves ragged trying to keep up with this or that task, each piling on the one before it. That’s why I left for Rogers City with Jen. I was at my wits’ end from the demands. I’d become a genie in a bottle for too many, and I needed to get away.

But that’s not the point. The point is that we waste enormous amounts of time worrying about and doing and calculating things that will have no value or standing where faith is actually taking us. Meanwhile, the moments God gives us with the people we love pass by, one after another, and we rarely stop to consider their value until they’re no longer with us.

As a pastor who’s sat beside plenty of people in their last moments—and will likely sit beside plenty more—I always leave those events feeling the very real weight of Psalm 90’s words. I realize those words were written for people. I realize numbering our days means admitting that they’re actually numbered in the first place. But then I go home and hug my wife and children. That’s because I was reminded, once again, that time itself is a gift from God, and that each tick of the clock is incredibly valuable, and I want to apply my heart “unto wisdom,” using each as best I can.

It seems to me that All Saints’ Day is at least one day on the Church’s calendar when this very important realization comes a little more into focus.

But still, if you’ll give me a few more moments of your time, there’s a little more I want to say.

Don’t forget that for Christians, applying one’s heart “unto wisdom” begins and ends with Christ. That’s why I said I’d give up anything and everything for Jen except my faith. For as valuable as those ten seconds with her would be, the Gospel promises infinitely more time. By the power of the Holy Spirit for faith in Christ’s death and resurrection, I’m promised a place where she is, and in that place, a life unbound by time (John 14:19). The ten seconds I would surrender are hardly worth comparing to the eternity Christ has already purchased and won for both of us.

So, let’s be clear about something. All Saints’ Day is not about worshipping or praying or talking to or putting any mortal human being we love above Christ. Well, Confessional Lutherans aren’t doing anything like that. We’re thanking God for sending His Son so our family and friends who trusted in Him could be present in the Church Triumphant—where we want to be, too! But until we’re reunited, All Saints’ Day comforts us with the truth that the grave and the separation it appears to impose have an expiration date, and that while we can’t see or talk to our loved ones, one day, that’ll change, and the tears we shed now will eventually be wiped away by the very hands that were pierced for us, just as the reading from Revelation 7 appointed for All Saints’ Day declares (v. 17).

In the meantime, we’re mindful of the time we have with the saints who are still with us. We have opportunities to love them, laugh with them, forgive them, be forgiven by them, embrace them, and tell them what they mean to us. We have time to put aside the distractions, even for a little while, and pay attention to the living blessings sitting across the dinner table or riding beside us in the car.

None of us knows how long we’ll have with them, which makes even ten seconds worth everything. But again, by faith, we know eternity’s value. And together in Christ, we know that when we’re eventually separated, a glorious reunion is in our future. Indeed, and amen! We’ll be with them again in an eternal time and place where clocks cannot tick, and words like “separation” or “sadness” or “goodbye” lose all their meaning.