Thursday, November 12, 2009

I Hate Funerals

I hate funerals and I am so glad this one is over. It rained, of course.

It rained when we buried my dad; it rained when we buried my step-father; it rained when we buried each of my grandparents. The 7 young men who carried the casket had a tough time on the slippery slope, struggling to maintain control. Brent was a big fellow, 6'4", and not a light weight.

The little old country church where the graveside service was held is only about a mile from my house, and is really a lovely chapel. It's close to 200 years old, and maybe someday I can go back for photos of the wonderful woodwork on the interior.

The adjacent cemetery is full of very old, tilted, fallen and weathered markers; many have not been readable for maybe a hundred years. There are a few shiny new markers scattered about, and an occasional bronze military marker partially hidden in the overgrowth here and there. It is a rich history of people who lived, and loved, and died.

From the Anglican Book of Common Prayer (and based on Genesis 3:19):

"... we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes. dust to dust..."

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