As creatures of narrative, we infuse our lives with meaning through our stories. We always have and we always will. Perhaps the modern problem lies in the nature of the capitalist story: produce, consume, accumulate material things, work ever harder to accumulate more material things. You can never have enough. Owning is being so you can never BE enough, and for what?
What will that pile of crap do for you when the world ceases to exist? Because, assuming death is oblivion (which I, though Christian, believe [but this is not the place to get into that]) OK, sorry, oblivion. Personal oblivion means that for each of us the world CEASES TO EXIST at the point of death, so to what end did we accumulate all that crap? For our children? Fair enough, but it only ever ends one way, even for them. Unless you believe in the Trans-human paradise, and that some of your descendents might get there. Where our robot bodies live forever, carrying our human consciousness for. Fucking. EVER. Wait, this differs from the Christian paradise just how? In both we are left facing the most appalling catastrophe that could befall a human consciousness: eternal life.
The story of Trans-human paradise (setting aside for a moment how utterly futile it is) is just that. A story. And that's OK because our stories make us human. We project ourselves into them and thus imbue or lives with meaning. Our ancestors did not have the science story to tell them that their animistic world story was a crock of shit. A medieval peasant knew they were going to heaven or feared hell but either way never worried about the implications of eternal life. The meaning of life was, be born, survive long enough to fuck, create more like yourself, grow old, drink yourself into a stupor, and along the way don't forget to believe and take the sacrament so that you will end up in heaven. Easy peezy.
Now that we know the world doesn't give a shit we are on our own. The meaning of our lives is up to each of us. Choose a good story.