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Tag: death

Memories on a Rainy Day

It’s Throw Back Thursday, so today, I’m asking you to hop on over to Once A Little Girl again and take a sad trip down memory lane. Do you ever have sad memories well up for way back when you were little?  Sometimes things that seemed long-buried come crashing to shore.  I’m so glad I have five sister, and two sisters by marriage to share my memories.  Please join me by clicking here.

The Remains of Me

I decided in my twenties that when I die, I’ll be cremated. I hate funerals.  Especially open caskets.  I hate the stress for the family if there are lots of visitors and I feel sad when there are few.  I wonder how loved-ones can tell the story of sickness, death, or injury over and over again to all the visitors. It seems like way too much for the loved-ones to hear, “Doesn’t she look good?”  I think  to myself, no, she looks dead; no, she doesn’t look like she’s sleeping.  Who sleeps clutching a rosary and with their glasses on? …

Grown

Many of us face Father’s Day without our Dads.  Even for an adult, the process of losing of a father can leave us adrift and bereft.  On an intellectual level, we know it’s inevitable, yet the reality can hit us with a tornado of emotions,  and sometimes when we least expect it.  This piece was written as my Dad was dying, twelve years ago this year.  I mark the years by the age of my first grand-daughter.  My son placed his newborn daughter in the crook of her great-grandpa’s arms, the day before he dyed.  I’ll never forget the look of pure joy on Dad’s face and the way he squeezed little Emma close to his heart.

Grown

 

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, and I thought as a child.  But when I became an adult, I grew far beyond my childhood, and now I have put away the childish ways.

                                                            – 1 Corinthians 13, 11

This verse keeps running through my mind.  The one persistent thought among a kaleidoscope of memories that wash over me like waves against a lone rock on the beach.  Each time the passage enters my consciousness; I end it with this thought: I was about eight when I put away my childish ways.

When I was brand new at the job I’ve had for nearly a decade, I called one of my best friends.  She’s been my friend since grade school.

“I’m the Most Responsible Person.”  I explain, over the phone, about my new position as head of Regulatory Affairs for a small pharmaceutical company.  “Whenever I submit papers to the Agency, there’s a line that asks for ‘the most responsible person’.  That’s me!”

This woman, who’s known me for so long, laughs a deep, from the belly laugh.  “You’ve been

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