Monday, December 5, 2011

This view.

I didn't realize I'd signed up for THIS when I married a pastor.

Mommy, what are all those people doing at the cemetery?
I was raised in the Catholic Church, and never heavily involved there either.  I didn't know what pastor's did... or pastor's wives...or pastor's children.  I really had no idea that we were entering into a new lifestyle, and not just a job.

This way of living.  
This family of sinner-saints.
This constant flood of joy and sorrow.
This grace-filled, cross-filled life.

My children are not shielded from these things.  They hear and see sadness beyond their years.  

Standing with my not-so-innocent children at the window, facing again a cold reality I'd rather deny, I speak the words of comfort that they have come to expect.  

Lord, fix our eyes upon You.

1 comment:

  1. I grew up across the street from a cemetery (it was all you could see from our living room picture window), and even now when I drive by one, I am strangely comforted. We always prayed for the mourning when there was a funeral, just like we prayed for the injured when we heard an ambulance siren. My very first graveside funeral (when I was seven for a friend who died when she was nine) was at "our" cemetery.


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