What matters in the end

Today, Cindy and I drove to a little town called Blue, north of Austin, to attend the funeral of our friend Mary's sister, Linda.  We left at seven and GPS directed us to the wrong church right on time.

Fortunately, by the time we arrived at the right church, ten minutes away, we'd only missed the opening music, and we got to hear Mary's tribute to her older sister.  She set the tone, telling funny stories. Then people began to stand up and talk about how Linda loved animals with a passion and how she worked to bag food for children in poverty and to rescue cats, naming every stray she found.  A little girl stood up and told about how Linda had taught her and her mother how to crochet.

I remember David Whyte observing that at funerals, the eyes of the people glaze over during the sermons and listing of awards, degrees and accomplishments.  When people who knew the deceased person begin to talk about her passions and idiosyncrasies , the attention quickens and everyone sits up a little taller, nodding, laughing and crying.  We want a memorial service to celebrate the person's passions, Whyte said.

It was like that today in the little Methodist Church in Blue, Texas.  As Linda's friends and family remembered her, there was so much laughter that it made me wish I'd  known her better. Pictures flashed on a screen throughout the service--Linda riding horses, cuddling animals, and doing all the things she loved in life.

Carelessly, I had let the gas gauge go too low and we managed to make it to a station five miles after the meter told us we had zero fuel.  We stopped in a local market cafe in Elgin for Cuban sandwiches, and arrived home to see the beautiful results of Mike's and Jaro's work.

Every project grows bigger as it goes, I guess, and this one certainly has.  It's a thrill to see a place transformed from drab to colorful.  While we have life, it's so important to fill every day with the passions and people, the wheels, trips, chickens and goats, whatever, that make our days alive.   Death reminds me of this every time.