A Saturday Morning Post

Well, as y’all can tell, I didn’t get my usual entry posted on here yesterday. I sure hope this is not going to become a habit, but I had another memorial service to go to on Friday. I sang at this one. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I hadn’t sang that particular song since my grandmother’s funeral, but I was asked to sing it yesterday. I practiced before I left the house, thinking that it would probably get to me, singing that song and hearing everybody cry. But, it didn’t. Does time heal all wounds? Maybe, if it doesn’t heal, it at least puts a scab over the booboo. :)

We were gone from around 11:30 a.m. until around 6 p.m. There was the memorial service itself, then the dinner at the church, and then we stopped at my aunt’s house, so my husband could look at something on her computer for her. My aunt and I chatted, while my girls took turns playing with my aunt’s foot massaging pillow. lol My 6-year-old would put it on her feet and say, “Ahh! That feels so good on my aching feet!” lol

Dinner last night consisted of sandwiches for my husband and I and Raman Noodles for the girls. I ended the long day with a cup of decaf coffee and a powdered sugar doughnut. :) All four of us were in bed by 9, and I got a whopping 6 hours of sleep before waking up at 3 a.m. I got up around 4ish, fixed a cup of caffeinated coffee, ate the last doughnut and spent some time in the 1860’s, writing on my story, “A Place called Home”.

There is nothing so wonderful as the mundane. Friday evenings at home with the family, eating poor man food and wearing fuzzy socks to keep your feet warm. And, strange as it may sound, there is something comforting in the sameness of things.

I got to thinking...and please stick with me here...that for me, there is a level of comfort in the fact that most of the funerals and memorial services I’ve been to were at the same funeral home. I’m weird, I guess, but I like to think of my loved ones who have died, resting in the hills around me. When I moved away, even though I liked it up there in Romney and would move back in a heartbeat, I never felt quite as home as I did, here in the Kanawha valley. I’ve always lived close to the railroad tracks, so the sounds of trains in the middle of the night are familiar to me. I’ve always lived near the river, so to live away from it, kind of feels strange. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, here, but these are just some thoughts that have been running around in my head.

I remember hearing a minister say once, that he liked the thought of being buried next to his wife, while they wait for the resurrection of the dead. His words startled me, at first, but then I considered them. The man’s wife had died recently, and I’m sure he missed her a lot. The thought of lying next to her and being close when the Lord comes back, filled him with peace. And, maybe, it’s the same with me.

Many family members have died. A lot of the men and women who were pillars in the church when I was a child are dead and gone. They are buried in the hills around this valley wherein I live. Someday, if the Lord hasn’t returned, yet, I’ll die. If I am put in a casket and buried, I want it to be near those loved ones. If I’m cremated, scatter my ashes over those graves, cause when the trumpet sounds and the dead in Christ rise first, I’m going to rise with those who taught me how to live for Him. Ain’t no grave gonna hold these bodies down, and when we rise to meet Him in the air, I want to rise with those who used to shout the glory down. There ain’t nobody I’d rather meet Jesus with than my grandfather’s brother, Charles who used to preach for all he was worth. There’s nobody I’d rather sing redemption with, than my grandmother who used to stand beside me in church and belt it out.

“Dust shall sing on resurrection morning. The saints will rise and let their voices ring. Those that remain will be changed in a moment. We’ll hear the shout, the trumpet sound, and dust shall sing!” Amen!