Well, I didn't get what I wanted for my birthday*, but it was still a day full of blessings. DJ brought me breakfast in bed (after admonishing me to go back to sleep), Darrel baked up a storm in the kitchen, making French breakfast muffins, whole-wheat bread, AND pineapple upside down cake, Marina invented a new hand sign for "I love you," and Havah, though not her usual cheerful self, still laughed uproariously at the antics of her young friends. My life is full of life.

And yet, every year on my birthday, I think about planning a funeral service. I'm not fixated on my death, though I try to live moderately aware of the inevitability of it. A funeral is much like a wedding, except that you generally have 3-5 days to pull all the details together, instead of the more standard 6+ months of matrimonial planning. It seems to me that, in the event of my sudden demise, the knowledge that I have made some preparations would be comforting to those I have left behind, as well as helpful in a practical sort of way. On the other hand, I don't want to plan things out in too much detail, as there may be something theraputic for my family in the process of collaborating on the order of worship.

If I really wanted to be prepared, I would write something for my children to read. You can disagree, but I think the saddest death is one that leaves dependents. There is something terribly tragic about the death of a child, to be sure--a hole that can never be filled, the forever unanswered question of what fruit this life could have yielded, what shape it could have taken. I hold as my ideal those anabaptist martyrs who went to their deaths singing, and wonder what my children would hold on to if I were gone--what memories, what promises, what confidence, what lessons, what clarity of purpose?

Alas, like so many other things, thinking about something will have to suffice for actually doing it, as I have neither the time nor the strength to engage in that level of planning and reflection. I will, however, leave you with a song, which many days is the closest I come to a statement of faith. Like most songs, reading just the words is like trying to fly with one wing, but it will do for now.

Nothing is lost on the breath of God, nothing is lost forever;
God's breath is love, and that love will remain, holding the world forever.
No feather too light, no hair too fine, no flower too brief in its glory,
No drop in the ocean, no dust in the air, but is counted and told in God's story.

Nothing is lost to the eyes of God, nothing is lost forever.
God sees with love, and that love will remain, holding the world forever.
No journey too far, no distance too great, no valley of darkness too blinding;
No creature too humble, no child too small for God to be seeking and finding.

Nothing is lost to the heart of God, nothing is lost forever.
God's heart is love, and that love will remain, holding the world forever.
No impulse of love, no office of care, no moment of life in its fullness;
No beginning too late, no ending too soon, but is gathered and known in its goodness.

Text and music by Colin Gibson, 1996

*What I really wanted was to sleep! Until noon, preferably, but a good 12 hours (or even 8!) would have been great. Hopefully Pastor Woody didn't notice me dozing off during the sermon--no reflection on him, just severe sleep deprivation. Maybe next year I'll get my wish. :)