My friend Blair recently died unexpectedly. He was only 47.

Blair was Kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Funny.

Blair was an HBS grad. And a startup guy.

He was a husband. And a father to three girls under seven.

He was a friend.

At church, during the celebration of life, his wife bravely offers a beautiful and heart-wrenching tribute. She describes finding her soul mate, a love-at-first-sight type of thing, lines of fate crossing at the edge of a pond. She shares their life full of laughter and joy. Small details that, over many years, became everything.

The church is standing room only, colorful in a muted way. Blair hated the color black.

Early in the service, dozens of children form a circle near the chancel.

The Officiant explains it's natural to feel sadness and anger. She acknowledges fear and confusion.

She reminds the children that Blair will be with them always, and forever.

Nearly twenty years prior, my best friend’s sister passed suddenly at 31 - complications from severe dehydration while breastfeeding her three-month-old and a nasty stomach bug. She went into cardiac arrest while exercising. The service was a Jewish one, full of love and readings from her recently published book of poems. Her father stepped to the podium to deliver pre-scripted words, but midway through he became agitated and pounded his fists on the lectern.

"Why is no one talking about how unfair this is?" he shouted toward answers out of reach.

Why? He chastised us.

What possible reason could there be?

Blair's house sits just down the road from ours. They'd been clearing land; footpaths to a pond they were stocking with fish.

The earth is coffee-colored, scarred with tractor marks and downed trees, still wet from mud season.

A new barn sits mostly finished, less a building than a memorial. Each time we pass by, I think on Blair, on his family, on the senseless incompleteness of projects left mid-sentence.

We are in Episcopalian territory. From the hymnbook we read passages of Jesus's doings. Dust to dust. We rise and are seated. LORD and GOD. The Father and Advocate.

The Spirit of Truth.

We are told to trust the larger tapestry. That there is a plan.

In honor of Blair, we sing Danny Boy, and then Amazing Grace.

I reread old texts; an invitation to dinner he couldn’t make because of time promised to his family. These are ordinary things, banal things, messages written with the assumption of another day, and another moment. His family would surely give anything for the same.

I've never found my way to the depths of religion. At church, during the celebration of life, I study the passages. I respect faith, but find myself challenged:

If there is a greater good - if there is truly a reason for everything - what the hell could possibly be the reason here?

Selfishly, my mind turns inward. To my own children and to Sarah. I am interrupted at work, jolted from a spreadsheet with the anxiety that we haven't said the right things to each other. That any day could be the last.

The clink of a fork on a plate, the rustle of bedsheets, the front door shutting on the way to work - the smallest of sounds become sacred, vibrating with newfound appreciation. Sarah and I agree to take more moments, to be thankful for every day.

Blair passed at 47, suddenly. This is unfair. It's incomprehensible.

I’m no more religious today than I was yesterday, but maybe this is the small blessing: grief rearranging the living.

An unfair trade, but something nevertheless - his memory carried by the people who knew him, nudging toward deeper awareness, presence, and love.

And of that, I suspect Blair would be proud.