I am a feather on the breath of God
This Lent has been one of death. Its beginning, Ash Wednesday, brought the news that a good friend and mentor was found dead. Later in the day, a friend's husband took his life. A week ago, a friend of a friend's heart suddenly failed; his funeral was yesterday. Last night, a member of our parish faded away in his hospital bed, and tonight, our pastor's mother clings to life.
What does all this mean?
Death can inspire if it follows a life lived well. It can bring despair if it does not. Either way, death reminds us of our fragility and the brevity of our occupancy on this terrestrial plane.
One thing I have learned in this whirlwind of death: God takes care of us in ways we often do not realize. A friend prays, feeling a strange leading, and later finds out why. A chance meeting in a bank brings comfort. A vision inspires not only the seer, but those on the edges who hear of it. The gentle hand of God is waved to shift the air ever so slightly, causing the might-have-been to become real. Just enough is His way: if subtle ripples will get the job done, that's what He'll send. He saves the waves for later.
May we all be ready to feel the sweetness of His gentle touch, whether in life or in death.