Remembrance – Sunday, May 29, 1983
The first flowers of spring have already wilted. Like fragile flags against the snow, they came, had their brief day and wilted into memory. It is a typical pattern; it is the pattern of all living things. Artificial flowers may stand in petrified splendor, but nothing live can stay.
Sweethearts who once passed love notes and walked up the hill with hands linked and hopeful are now buried. The child who giggled like a brook finds that in time even the brook is stopped. The love note remains yellowed in a chest, the child’s picture is glued in a scrapbook, but the sweethearts and the child are gone.
It is mortal life’s irony that things outlive their owners. One family was picking through some heirlooms when they found a plate with a message painted on the back. “I love you,” it said, “Grandma.” She was 20 years dead. The thing had lasted, while the earthly vibrancy of its owner was stilled.
So, what are we to make of a world where songs are stopped and dances cut short, where all mortal things live to finally die? Some become fearful, even bitter. But it is better to let death teach us something about life. Our moments together are made more precious because they are few. We need to cling to each other as if this were our last mortal day on earth, for that day will come. We need to be slower to anger and quicker to forgive, knowing that the season is short. We must live together in this hour.
And when the day comes that we drop the last red tulips on the grave of one we’ve loved, we must not let our salty tears erase the memories or overshadow the hope of the future. Instead, having lived joyfully together, we must remember without regret all the moments shared. Life brings us the poignancy of too few days together. But death brings us the promise of eternity.
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May 29, 1983
Broadcast Number 2,806