Why Buy the Dress?

If life is brief, and eternity cannot be proven, how should we live in the here and now?

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

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“I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.” ~ Ecclesiastes:12–13

Wednesday, I met a friend for lunch.

We hadn’t seen each other in over a year. Distance, responsibilities, caregiving, work, and the ordinary demands of life had quietly conspired to keep us apart. We chose Culpeper as a halfway point and spent the afternoon doing simple things—sharing a meal, catching up on life, and wandering through a few shops.

In one small boutique, my friend found an outfit she loved. It was adorned with bows and perfectly suited her personality. She admired it, checked the price, and reluctantly put it back. It felt like an unnecessary splurge.

Yesterday morning, she texted me.

She went back and bought the outfit.

Her message stayed with me longer than it should have. Not because of the purchase itself, but because of what may have motivated it.

Perhaps it was because my dad died recently. Grief has a way of stripping away the illusion that time is abundant. Whatever the reason, her decision felt less like a shopping choice and more like a response to a truth we all spend much of our lives trying not to think about.

We are only here for a little while.

The older I get, the more aware I become of how quickly life passes. Entire years disappear. Friendships stretch across months of missed phone calls and postponed visits. Children become adults. Parents grow frail. One season quietly gives way to another until you look back and wonder where the time went.

Death has a way of bringing that reality into sharp focus.

It makes me understand the impulse to buy the dress.

Take the trip.

Wear the watch.

Use the good China.

Stop saving everything for someday.

Savor the life that’s right in front of us while we still can.

This life is the only one we have personally experienced. It’s the only one we can touch, taste, hear, and see. We have no point of comparison.

Years ago, my dad and I were discussing Jesus, faith, and the Apostle Paul. We talked about Paul’s dramatic conversion and how such a profound change of heart seemed to require an explanation.

Dad’s response has stayed with me all these years.

No one he knew or loved had ever come back from the dead and told him Jesus was who He claimed to be.

Dad’s point was simple.

At some level, faith remains faith.

No one can prove eternity.

No one can prove heaven.

No one can return with photographs and firsthand accounts.

We are asked to trust.

I still believe there is more beyond this life. I believe Christ’s promises are true. I believe death isn’t the end of the story. But if I’m honest, I also understand the tension.

I understand why people want to squeeze every drop of experience out of life. I understand why they buy the dress, book the vacation, order dessert, linger over lunch, and spend money on experiences that create memories.

Life feels fragile.

Because it is fragile.

And once someone you love is gone, you become acutely aware that your own time is limited too.

For a while, I thought these two perspectives were in opposition to one another.

Either live for today because this is all there is. Or live for eternity and hold this world loosely.

But lately, I’m wondering if the answer isn't either/or, but both/and.

Perhaps buying the dress is not a rejection of eternity.

Perhaps it’s an acknowledgment that today is also a gift.

Perhaps faith doesn’t require us to dismiss the beauty of this life in order to long for the next.

Perhaps we are meant to receive both with gratitude.

The lunch with a friend.

The outfit laced with bows.

The laughter.

The memories.

The ordinary moments that seem insignificant until enough time has passed and we realize they were never ordinary at all.

Maybe the brevity of life isn’t a reason to hurry frantically through it.

Maybe it’s an invitation to pay attention.

To notice.

To savor.

To receive.

To hold today’s joys with open hands while trusting there is more beyond them.

I don’t know exactly what awaits us after death.

Like everyone else, I walk by faith.

But I find comfort in believing that I don’t have to choose between appreciating the life in front of me and hoping for the life to come.

I can do both.

I can buy the dress and still believe in eternity.

I can savor today’s gifts while trusting they are not the final gift.

And perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps that is faith.

Not clinging desperately to this life.

Not dismissing it in pursuit of the next.

But appreciating and receiving both.