Today, I was reminded how short our lives are on earth. Maybe it was my father's ashes on the back seat, or my mother hiding behind big dark sunglasses who drove us to Yosemite to find the vista point where we'd scatter his ashes. I've always admired her strength.
I wrote down a verse I heard in church today which seemed appropriate to read at our destination:
There is no death,
Just sweet remembrance
of greater glory
that's on the way!
At the vista point, I forced the words through my lips--neither of us could understand I was trying to say. I don't know if it was the tourists on each side of us, the pressure to get the ashes to take flight with little wind, or the ash that was collecting on my mother's hands, arms, coat. Half dome loomed in the background. It's majestic power was patient; we are the awkward ones--the ones feeling as if we need to speak. A mountain of sheer perfection, something outside an earthly realm, had begun its role for us to take note.
1 comment:
Having been through a similar experience, so much to relate to in this piece.
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