The daily confrontations which tragedy creates are not to be desired by any sane person. But they do force spiritual growth in a way that affluence forestalls. Insulated by our material wealth, we are unwitting carriers of death's virus. Richer in things, we are poorer in spirit. We are deeply infected by death's subtle surrogates.
Death is the ultimate insult.
No matter what we do, no matter what we feel, no matter what is built or experienced or said or known, the final sentence is a flat line and a period. This is true every hour, and every day. It is true about every time in our lives. And it is true, especially, at the end. In one form or another as we get older, or for some who are young, death nags and nags at the good things of life and threatens to drown us in a flood of futility.