Photo by Kendall Cox |
"You
are dust,
and to
dust
you shall
return."
(Genesis
3:19c)
Nearly thirty
years ago,
I watched a
teenage pyromaniac
stare in
awe
at a
marshmallow on a stick,
held over
the fire way too long,
a smile
spreading across his face.
"Whoa,
dude;
totally
carbonized!"
******
In loving
reverence,
cremains of
the dearly departed
are treated
as sacred ashes,
in a
beautiful urn
on the
family room mantle
or in a
personal prayer space
or scattered
across
holy woods
or water.
We are stardust,
we are golden,
and we've got to get ourselves
back to the garden.
(“Woodstock”
by Joni Mitchell)
Darkness
reminds us
we're
surrounded
by billions
of stars.
We rarely
think of them
during the
light of day.
But they're
there all along;
were there long
before
the first
strand of human DNA
sparkled on
earth;
will be there long after
the final helix
ceases to exist;
sending
their light via
speeds
stretching comprehension;
shooting,
fizzling in a constant
galactic
fireworks of magnificence.
With or
without combustion,
our
carbon-based bodies,
once breath
and heartbeat cease,
are composted
back into the earth,
embalming
fluid be-damned.
The Lenten
question –
or the
existential one –
is not if we'll flatline,
or even when,
but how much
humus
we'll
provide the world around us
while we're
still
on the green
side of the grass.
It's not a
question
of
greatness, fame, or fortune,
or of
pedigree, real estate, and portfolio.
It’s about
passion and purpose;
not whether
we appear
to be
shooting stars,
but how our
candle casts light
into the
shadows
of the
neighborhood.
"Keep
open house;
be generous
with your lives.
By opening
up to others,
you’ll
prompt people
to open up
with God,
this
generous Father in heaven."
(Matt 5:16 MSG)
© 2016 Todd
Jenkins
A family does not choose when the light of a dearly-loved one ceases on this Earth to glow in Heaven. To lose a very bright and shining 25-year-old son, grandson, brother, nephew, cousin, sweetheart, friend during Lent just one month shy of his birthday has been extremely grievous. James Christian Rico crammed more light and happiness into his life and the life of those around him than most of us will manage if we live to be 103! We praise God that Jay was shared with us because he truly embodied the Christ-like life for which we should all strive. Thank you, Todd, for your commentary on candleship.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Toni. My heart both hurts and hopes with all of you along this journey.
ReplyDeleteGrace, peace, and aloha. You and Jennie have become ohana to Sheila.
DeleteOnce again, Todd, you manage to speak to the unvoiced pains and hopes of a terrible passage. Thank you for this poem -- which speaks both to the death of this bright young man, and also to the broader losses that rim our mortal walk.
ReplyDelete