The people of long ago are not remembered…

By Lisa Lickle

Ecclesiastes 1:1-11

The people of long ago are not remembered… (vs. 11)

 

Walking through cemeteries is a favorite pastime of mine. As a historian, the gravestones call out to me, telling the story of who once breathed and walked and then died in this place. Sometimes the stories are poignant--drownings or illness taking whole families. I’m amused by the woman surrounded by her several husbands. Sometimes there’s an infant or elderly people who made their way across the sea to start a new life in a new place at an advanced age.

 

The care of these graves tell a story, too: who is left to remember? Are there flowers, bushes, flags, toys? Is the marker in good shape or faded and crumbling, maybe sunken or fallen? The people of long ago… I carry my thoughts on to who will remember me. What legacy will I leave? Even if there is truly nothing new under the sun, surely there is something precious to leave behind. Micah 6:8 teaches that God’s requirements are that we should act with justice, love mercy and walk humbly with our God. I want to be remembered for being that kind of person.

Things I can do:

Pick up that piece of garbage

Give a quarter at the checkout lane when the person in front of me is short

Let the other car in

Give the memories of my grandparents to my children

Take the single parent neighbor kids to church and shopping for Mother’s Day

Thank you, Father, for all those who walked before me, setting the example. Amen.

 

photo courtesy of WIGen.com, Larry and Linda Kopet

Humor is Grave Business

By Robin J. Steinweg

My mother and I visited the monument company to choose a headstone for my dad’s grave. We’ve cried enough tears the past five months to start a new river. We miss him. We know the verse from Psalm 116 that says “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.” This is a solemn undertaking. Both of us recognize that. So how is it that so many things strike us funny at the wrong time?

The proprietor took us to the back room to see samples. A prominent sign displayed this boast:

“We guarantee all of our headstones for life.”

(Whose? Think about it.)

Mom has a propensity for popping off poetry at a moment’s notice. She dreamed this gem one night, and it was true of my dad: “I am a steamfitter, it’s the life I have led; stopping and starting and bumping my head.”

Mom wondered if we should engrave that on the back of the stone (which otherwise will be as bald as Dad’s head was). I mentioned it’s only fair to include a verse for Mom, too, since if the Lord tarries she might share the same resting place. She didn’t miss a beat: “Roses are red, violets are blue—I’m happy now, ‘cause I’m with you.”

Do you know any amusing epitaphs? I found a few:

Here lies Johnny Yeast. Pardon me for not rising.

I told you I was sick

Here lies Lester Moore—four slugs from a forty-four. No Les No More.

Here lies the body of Jonathan Blake—stepped on the gas instead of the brake.

I knew this would happen

Beneath this grassy mound now rests one Edgar Oscar Earl, who to another hunter looked exactly like a squirrel.

Owen Moore: Gone away owin’ more than he would pay

She always said her feet were killing her, but nobody believed her.

Here lies Ann Mann, who lived an old maid but died an old Mann

Johnny was a chemist, but he ain’t no more; what he thought was H2O was H2SO4.

On an atheist’s stone: All dressed up and no place to go