Many people will visit graveyards today. If my mother were still able she would go to my dad's grave and put some plastic flowers and a little American flag there. My thoughts go to a number of gravesides: Dad's, just down the road, my father-in-law (my pastor during the formative years of my life), mother-in-law (who died on this day), and brother-in-law (who died just as he was entering adulthood). They are all buried in a little country cemetery in Michigan. A lot of my extended family are buried in the red dirt of Tennessee. One of them is the last preacher in my direct line. Another is an Uncle who profoundly influenced me, a vet, who lost his sight and one lung in the war, but went on to live a life fuller than most. I was privileged to take part in the funerals of several of them. One of the graves there is still fresh. Another Uncle, named after that preacher-great-grandfather, is buried beneath one of those crosses that lie in what appear to be endless rows near the beach on Normandy where he, and so many others, gave their lives. A wonderful friend lies beneath the prairie flowers of Northern Indiana. She fought cancer with a passion, and won the victory as she ascended into the presence of her Savior.
My thoughts are not really on those graves. My mind is occupied with the lessons of, and gift of, the lives of these people. I am who I am, because of the lives they lived. That someone died isn't really all that significant. Dying is like falling; it is a natural occurrence; everything in this world is headed that way. What is memorable about each of these folk is the life they lived. Lives which in some cases are integrally linked to the deaths they died, and which have given me an opportunity to make a difference of my own.
Lord, help me to use that privilege well.
No comments:
Post a Comment