Several weeks ago, my father passed away. His passing prompted me to write this article, both as a simple tribute to him, and as a wake-up call about how we view our lives and celebrate one another.

By all accounts, my father was a good man. He was well-respected, hardworking, and a friend to anyone and everyone. A God-fearing, spiritual man, he would help anyone in need and truly never had an enemy.

While my father and I didn't always agree on everything, I deeply respected his experience and knowledge. I did my best to never dishonor him. As my family prepares for his "celebration of life" services in a few weeks, I found myself reflecting on the modern concept of rebranding funerals as a "Celebration of Life."

Yes, it is a wonderful thing for family and friends to gather, remember a loved one, and recount the good times. It is a comforting way to say goodbye, anchored in the hope of one day reuniting in heaven. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, attending these services often brings a quiet, secondary wave of gratitude: Thank goodness it isn't my celebration of life yet. I will admit I have had that exact thought while attending services of friends and family over the years.

Reflecting on the traditions of these events, the photo collages, the shared stories, the profound expressions of gratitude, I realized they all share one glaring commonality; the guest of honor is always deceased. While these tributes bring vital comfort to the living, they sparked a nagging question in my mind: Why do we wait until someone dies to celebrate their life? Why do we wait until someone passes away to acknowledge the impact they made or the struggles they overcame?

Surely, we are capable of celebrating people while they are still here to feel our love and support. Is it that the demands of modern life and our own self-centered routines prevent us from pausing to champion someone who is succeeding, or to lift someone who is drowning? Let's be honest, we aren't likely to organize a formal "celebration of life" for the living. We have birthdays and retirement parties, yes, but the chances of us gathering a crowd just to tell someone they are doing a good job or to support them through a quiet crisis are slim. We claim we don't have the time, unless, of course, the event features a five-star buffet we can't afford to miss.

My father's favorite way to say goodbye was, "Keep looking up!"

When he first started using this phrase, my initial reaction was to chuckle. I jokingly thought to myself that the physical results of that advice could be dangerous: I could be blinded by the sun, stumble into a door frame, or get hit in the eye by bird droppings.

But as he continued to exit every scene with those exact words, I realized the deeper intent of the deeply spiritual man he was. He was reminding us that regardless of what is happening in our lives, we need to keep our eyes fixed on heaven and the promises of a perfect life beyond this world.

This brings me back to our own self-awareness. How can we help others to "keep looking up" when their current circumstances have them looking down? Supporting loved ones without a grand public event requires shifting our focus from a one-time spotlight to consistent, private, and intentional actions.

Here is how we can weave that support into everyday life:

It is a grand challenge to tell someone how much they mean to you out of the blue. It feels vulnerable. But imagine the profound ripple effect if we all spoke our gratitude a little sooner.

This week, challenge yourself to do two things. First, tell someone you love exactly what you would say about them if they were gone. Second, find someone who is drowning in the day-to-day and perform a quiet act of service to lift their spirits.

Finally, take a moment to look inward. If you were to write your own eulogy today, would the story satisfy you? The beautiful thing about being alive is that our pages are still being written. We still have time to build a life worth celebrating. Let's start today. Celebrate your life, celebrate and elevate others, and, just as my father always reminded me, as well as all of us, keep looking up!