I was asked to officiate at a funeral a few weeks ago, and when I arrived to meet with the family and to perform the service, I was shocked. No one came. No children, no family, no caregivers, no friends. It was just me and the mortician.

In my 20-plus years as a pastor, I thought I had prepared myself for such an occasion. In fact, I thought I had seen it all — especially when it comes to funerals. I’ve dealt with squabbling siblings, infant deaths, gang funerals, funerals of children shunned by their families and the church. But never have I done a funeral where it was just me and the deceased.

As I prayed over the deceased, I could not help but notice the contentment that seemed to be on his face. It was as if he was perfectly OK with such solitude. Was this the lesson I was to take away from this experience In the end, aren’t we all alone, just us and the creator

Many times I’ve comforted adult sons or daughters to assure them that the only reason so few of their parent’s friends attended the funeral was because so many of them have already died. They had visions of hundreds of folks paying their respects, but only a few are still around.

And the opposite is also true. We’ve all heard stories of ungrateful children — heartless, avaricious, neglectful, even cruel — more concerned about their inheritance than the well-being of their parents.

Having kids is not a reliable hedge against isolation, Shakespeare wrote, mostly because the kind of person who has kids to protect from loneliness tends to eventually drive those children away.

So what is the lesson we are to learn from this Is such isolation always the reality If so, how do we prepare ourselves to die alone

I’m 53. I’m not sure how I’ll feel at 73 or 83, but I do know this — I think I will want to be as independent and non-dependent as possible. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned lot about me and the life I’ve lived, and I’m fairly pleased with it all. I’ve learned a lot. Some of it has been just stuff, movie trivia, stories to laugh about and to write about — not to mention that I’ve picked up a pretty good sense of why most people act the way they do.

I’ve also acquired a sense of how all that stuff fits together and how to figure out which parts of it matter and, even more importantly, which don’t. As I’ve mentioned before, one of my mentors and friends wrote a book titled, “What You Think About Me Is None of My Business.” And I’ve been grateful to her ever since, because those words ring out in my mind every time someone judges me, wrongfully accuses me of something or doesn’t forgive me for making an honest, human mistake.

It’s a moniker that has allowed me to be more open-minded, more tolerant of ordinary human folly and more willing to understand that some people can be blissfully content in circumstances that absolutely contradict my personal ethics and values.

This, I think, makes me a better pastor, counselor, business associate, friend and companion to others, and I know it’s made me a better companion to myself.

Yes, I’ll admit it; sometimes I’ve fantasized about what my friends, partners and colleagues might say at my memorial. But then again, there was never a gift given, a promise made, a commitment honored or a friendship offered with that in mind.

I know one thing. I want to die completely worn out. I want to savor every experience the creator has planned for me, and I want to exhaust every conversation possible and every experience afforded me in this life. And I’m willing to do it alone. I’m not willing to wait for anyone to live my life. Join me along the path if you like — that would be a blast — but if you’re not there, I’m going on.

You know, I bet that’s why my deceased friend had such a look of contentment. He’d done it! He’d lived life fully, and when his time came, he waited for no one — he just went on.

• Thinking Out Loud runs every other week in Our Town. To reach Jack, write him at jackrelliott@yahoo.com or call 835-2244.