A Storybook Ending Gone Wrong: Robert Munsch And The Loss Of Hope

Robert Munsch is a name that evokes childhood warmth, laughter, bedtime reading, and the comforting rhythm of love repeated across generations. Over a career spanning decades, he wrote more than sixty children's books--works that have sold in the millions, embedded in family libraries, read aloud in classrooms, and passed from parent to child.

Among his many titles, Love You Forever stands at the summit. Since its 1986 publication, it has reportedly sold tens of millions of copies worldwide. Some estimates put the number well over 30 million. In the United States and beyond, it remains one of the most beloved picture books of all time.

The core of Love You Forever is a simple, powerful refrain: a mother sings to her child, "I'll love you forever / I'll like you for always / As long as I'm living / My baby you'll be." Over the course of the story, that child grows, and the mother ages, yet the circle of care and tenderness continues: eventually the child, now fully grown, turns to care for the mother as she drifts into vulnerability. 

The message is this: love is constant, fearless, and transcends the passage of time. It is a promise of endurance, even when roles reverse. It whispers that love persists "forever"--a bond that reaches into frailty, even death.

That message is now painfully juxtaposed against the news that Robert Munsch has chosen medical assistance in dying as his path forward. He has faced dementia and Parkinson's disease, conditions that have gradually stolen his speech, memory, and capacity to do the work he once loved. He has said he plans to end his life at the point when communication becomes too difficult, choosing the moment rather than allowing the natural progression of decline to unfold.

It is deeply tragic, even haunting, that a man whose most beloved work pledges unending love would conclude his life on his own terms. The very notion of "forever" seems inverted here: his body, mind, and spirit shrinking under disease, and his resolve giving way to a decision to depart earlier than the natural progression might dictate.

From a biblical standpoint, this choice troubles deeply. The sanctity of life is a central affirmation: Psalm 139 declares that we are "fearfully and wonderfully made," and that God has ordained our days. Life is a gift from the Maker, not a commodity we may discard at our discretion. The commandment, "You shall not murder," carries weight beyond its immediate application to another; it affirms a sacred boundary around the power we claim over life and death. Suicide--or assisted death--entangles us in grief, theological confusion, and spiritual rupture. Even in suffering, Christians are called not to despair, but to trust God's sustaining presence.

Yes, the burdens of dementia, loss of faculties, fatigue, fear--these wounds are real and bitter. They provoke sorrow, frustration, a sense of invisibility. To live under degeneration is to confront one's fragility. And yet, even in such seasons, Christ's promise of hope remains. Jesus wept at Lazarus's death; he entered weakness as well as glory. He is the compassionate companion of those suffering, and in him we find ultimate meaning beyond our physical decline.

In the face of death's pull, we must resist the temptation to capitulate. We must believe--even in a trembling heart--that life retains meaning until the very end. There are opportunities for love, for reflection, for reconciliation, even when memories fade and speech fails. The poet doesn't have to speak volumes to whisper grace; a tender touch, presence, prayer, silence--all carry weight. The community of faith must rally, not abandon, those who suffer. Pastoral care, palliative medicine, spiritual accompaniment--these are not mere stopgaps but vital expressions of Christian love.

So while we mourn this decision by Robert Munsch, all of us need to hold fast to hope. Let us not reduce life to utility or autonomy, but revere it as a corridor for divine purpose. Let caregivers and loved ones lean into compassion, resisting the dark lull of resignation. And let those who despair be reminded that in Christ there is redemption even in weakness.

It is possible to acknowledge Munsch's pain, to feel grief and even anger, and yet to stand firm that a life--even in decline--is still precious, still capacious of meaning, still worthy of love and care. His departure will leave many sorrowing: children who once heard Love You Forever at bedtime; adults who carried those words into their own parenting; readers for whom his stories were solace. May we not let his final act overshadow the enduring treasure of his work. May the refrain of Love You Forever echo not just in memory, but in conviction: that every life is loved, always, until the very end.