The first flowers I picked were like pink forget-me-nots - how apt as I lean into the loss of two dear men - one a spiritual father and wise mentor, the other a brother in Christ, friend and colleague over many many years.
Tomorrow and the next day we'll gather to farewell them ... and we'll try to paint as full a picture as possible of their lives and influence; we'll try to honour them with our stories, our tears, our thanksgiving and our love.
And as people of faith, we'll be reinforcing what is already a reality for these two, dear contemplative souls ... death is not the end, but a stepping over a threshold into Light, and a new way of being, beyond our knowing.
This little bunch of flowers, holds bright buttercups with their buttery-chin memories, smelly onion weeds that rarely find their way into our good books, and dainty daisies full of questions - Love me, love me not?
For a brief time they bloom and bring the fullness of their uniqueness to add beauty to the earth.
And so do we.
And that's okay.
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