In Memory of ...

Seems like I've been singing at a lot of funerals lately.  Too many.  I always come away from the services with a certain sense of regret.  Regret that I didn't know the person as well as I would like to have known them.  That was especially true of my brother-in-law and I continue to have a sense that I should have had more conversations with him, should have spent more time hearing his stories, should have asked him more questions.  I knew him but I didn't know as much as I wish I would have.  Hearing stories at memorial services is really one of the best parts, in my opinion, and often it is cut short due to time restraints.  I think it's a great way to honor someone and to encourage the family by giving examples of how you were impacted by the person's life.  I often ponder what will be said about me and if I've done enough to make a difference in the lives of others.  It's a morbid thought, but it crosses my mind. . .

Today the service was for Roger Bissell.  He was born the same year as my dad: 1939.  I've known Roger as long as I've attended Boise Friends which is getting close to 19 years. My image of him is one of integrity, responsibility, intelligence and devotion to friends and family.  This was a theme in the service today.  People that he knew from all walks of life shared similar memories of a man who stood by what he believed in, loved the outdoors, was as generous as a person can be and loved his family.  It was a great testament to a great man. 

It was a privilege to be a part of his service and to have known him even just a little bit.  It was good to hear his stories from other people but I wish I would have heard them from him. . .

We cannot know how long someone will be with us.  This has been proven to me in a harsh, unimaginable way this year.  I've been changed by this experience in that trivial things don't seem to matter so much anymore.  And yet, I still haven't made the effort to really spend time with the people I care about, to really understand who they are and where they come from.  I think it's time to stop regretting and start asking. . .