The Confession of St. Pat
I'm back from Virginia, where my mother was finally laid to rest next to my father, in view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where they lived after Dad retired from the Navy.
Morning view of the Blue Ridge in the mist, from the burial site
I think of the life they had together there, in the mountains -- their dreams, their plans for the future, so many years ago -- and wonder, is there any meaning to all this? What's the point of living, breathing, hoping, to have it all reduced to ashes and dust?
The logical part of my mind argues life is a purposeless endeavor, a joke on humankind, who presumes to more, but nothingness comes in the end. There's no grand purpose or design to our being. We just live our little bit and die, to sleep, to dream no more.
Nothingness. Love and dreams vanquished, life often ended in suffering.
Yet, I am convinced there is more. I have experienced the love of Christ, who came searching for me, and who has protected me. I believe what he said. I know my mother is precious to him, and she is healed and whole, and made beautiful.
It is in Christ, in God, we live and move and have our being, and he is eternal. I do not know his plans, but I know he will never desert us.
He is my savior, whom I shall see with my own eyes.
As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives
and that at the last he will stand upon the earth.
After my awaking, he will raise me up;
and in my body I shall see God.
I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him
who is my friend and not a stranger.
(from the liturgy for burial in the Book of Common Prayer)