By Yesterday I attended/sang at a funeral/celebration of life for Paul Beecham. Paul was a truly good person. Years ago, he and Sara, his wife, welcomed me into the RUMC choir and were always very kind and friendly. The RUMC chapel was FULL of family and friends who were touched by them. Four of his grandchildren spoke eloquently about their grandfather (aka Paul or PB). In addition to the grandchildren, several family and friends spoke. One of his sons referenced two poems (copied below) that really touched my heart.
Funerals remind all of us how short our time is on this earth. Never forget, it is our choice as to how we fill that time. Do you want to look back and know that you’ve spent your precious hours, days, years mindlessly scrolling through social media and binge watching Netflix? Or do you want to make a difference in your community?
I’ve pasted below (in bold) your takeaway from one of the poems. Ruminate this weekend on what you plan to do!
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.