After a long battle, over three months in the hospital, several strokes and a heart attack, cancer, and more, Aimee's grandmother died last Friday. She was in her late 80's, had lost her own husband years before and had her wit till the end. It was a long but good weekend. The funeral took place in Greenwood, Ms. in the heart of the Mississippi Delta where she and her husband of almost 50 years farmed just miles from the graveyard. Death has a sting. There is no way around it. Someone you love is gone. Their life on this earth is over.

I think often about death. I think about how as a child life seemed so very long. The days went on for ever. As an adult we are characterized by busyness. The days are full. We don't have time to think if life is short or long. We tend to children, get to different activities, do our responsibility. Then, someone dies. Death intterupts us. We put everything on hold and bury the dead. For a short couple hours we pause to remember what the Bible says, "Life is a vapor, a breath. Our days are short. We are like the flowers of the field, full of glory one day, fading and dying the next. Eighty years is considered a long life. From dust we came and to dust we will return."

If we are not careful, we will move on too quickly, not sobered but over death. Moving on to the next activity, only to find ourselves in the hospital bed staring death in the face. No more children to put to bed, no more diapers, no more dishes to do, no more grass to mow, no more houses to buy, no more work to do, only a constant depreciation, a constant slipping into the hands of death.

I've often noticed at funerals we are so intent on "figuring out where someone was with God." We want assurance. Did they have faith? Did they believe? Make a profession? We care. We want to know. What I would rather know is did God have me? Am I in His strong hands? Did He profess me to be his child? Was their fruit of his work in my life? I am comforted to know that "salvation is of the Lord" and that I am in his care.

The ceremony was moving. Mostly because the words of man were few and the words of God were many. Both ministers (we may not need ministers now but we want them at death) bled scripture. It leaked out. One older minister had his bible opened but scripture so had hold of him he never looked down. It had crept itself into his heart and mind and poured over to us.

We drove to where Aimee's grandmother spent most of her adult life. It was an oasis of green in the middle of cotton fields just outside Tchula, Ms. Three houses still remained. Some of Papa's garden still survived. Much was more run-down according to Aimee's mother. It had seen it's better day but it still echoed of yet a better day. It was past it's prime but called out that there was a day coming that will be our prime. God has such a sweet plan in mind. Tchula, Ms. will be redeemed. Cotton will be whiter than white. Graveyards will erupt with the same joy Lazarus' sisters had. Tombs will open. Celebration will triumph. This earth will be our eternal home with no more kudzu (at least in such corrupt abundance), no more mosquitos (at least no more blood-sucking), no more anger at my children for silly stuff, no more addictions, no more fears and no more tears.

I am happy for every funeral I attend. Remind us, O Lord, to number our days.