During a recent meditation session on Headspace, I heard something that has stayed with me: a wise person keeps death nearby — not as a morbid fixation, but as a reminder of how thin the thread that tethers us to this place and this moment. That idea has taken on new meaning for me these past few weeks.
For several months I had the privilege of being part of a “Faithful Friends” home visitation program, a ministry that pairs volunteers with people whose mobility keeps them largely homebound. My Faith Friend was Brent Belcher. Brent was 56 years old, blind since birth, and had lived his entire life with his parents, now in their eighties. Along the way he’d faced kidney failure, a kidney transplant, heart issues, and a long list of other health challenges. By any measure, Brent’s life was hard. By every measure that mattered, it was full.
We met every other Tuesday for an hour. From the very first visit, Brent was the one doing the teaching. He had a positive outlook that never felt forced. He had simply made peace with his circumstances and decided to make the most of them. He’d learned Braille, earned a college degree, and went sailing with his parents. He devoured audio books. And he had an ongoing relationship with Alexa, an AI assistant who woke him each morning, played NPR, and helped him structure his day. Brent was an early and enthusiastic adopter of AI as a practical tool for independent living something that resonated deeply with my own work.
Brent had a vivid, restless imagination. He had already created and recorded a series of children’s stories when we decided, together, to write a children’s book, “The Adventures of Eddie and Poncho,” loosely inspired by Don Quixote. We’d dictate chapters to ChatGPT, which compiled and shaped our narrative, offering suggestions for character development and plot lines. It was a genuine collaboration between two people and an AI, exactly the kind of human-machine partnership I’ve spent years thinking and writing about. The last chapter we recorded together was Chapter Seven: The Lighthouse in Frankfort, Michigan.
When I texted Bud, Brent’s father, to confirm our next visit, Bud replied with the sad news that Brent had passed away two days earlier. It came as a shock, even if not entirely a surprise given his health. I sat with that text for a long time.
Brent taught me more than I can fully account for here. He modeled acceptance without resignation, faith without rigidity, and a mindfulness about the present moment that I still aspire to. He was utterly nonjudgmental, gracious every time I carelessly said, “Did you see that?” or “Let me show you.” He made me acutely aware of my senses I take for granted. Using a topographic globe, we’d run our fingers over mountain ranges and ocean trenches together. He reminded me that curiosity, kindness, and presence are not passive virtues. They are daily practices along empathic listening.
He also reminded me to appreciate simple pleasures. Brent loved root beer from a small brewery in Louisville. Pizza was his favorite meal but low sodium, carefully prepared by his mother Jeanie, who watched over his diet with the quiet devotion of someone who has spent decades loving a complicated, extraordinary person. His younger sister and her family visited regularly, and those visits lit him up.
Perhaps the greatest gift Brent gave me was the chance to give and to receive. Those are not the same thing as doing someone a favor. Brent received with dignity and offered something real in return. He offered his stories, his perspective, his time, and his trust. That is rare.
His passing has left a genuine hole in my life. I cycle through the stages of grief in no order from disbelief, anger, sadness, acceptance, and back again. Walks in nature help. So does the belief that Brent is, at last, free from the physical limitations that shadowed his life. And so does knowing that “The Adventures of Eddie and Poncho” are now dedicated to him, his imagination, his spirit, and his willingness to start something new right up to the end.
Keep death nearby, the meditation said. Brent showed me what that means. It means not to be morbid, but to be awake. To be present. To treat each visit, each chapter, as if it might be the last.