Resurrection Clothes

My children wore their Easter clothes to a funeral today. Resurrection clothes, I guess. Plaid and flowers hand in hands we munched over stodgy spring grass up a neat sidewalk to the funeral home. Inside my children's wide eyes absorbed black ornate rugs, soft and deep as quicksand, solemn faces, and I suppose, the knees of a lot of suits. Janie carried our handwritten card as a matter of rank. Jack held my hand.

With friends and relations we marked the passing of a friend of a dear friend. While people shared, I realized the shadow of this man was far greater than the man himself. I was struck by the indelible mark he's left on lives close to him. Funny, if the lighting is right, we are so much more than the sum of our parts. Isn't influence like this, a shadow cast far out beyond our feeble attempts at greatness. It's almost as if it sneaks up on us, piled up in small gestures, simple moments around a table passing the potatoes and carrying on about deadlines and raises and dessert. Suddenly before we know it, there behind us is a shadow quotient of all those days ironed out in a perfect silhouette of character. I was honored to come today with my kids.

I savored up mismatched moments of Jack and Jane racing over the front lawn, a flurry of watercolor blue and chestnut brown tangled in a game of tag. Race to sidewalk, race to Momma, lob a Cheerio in Lulie's mouth, refrain from tagging to the ground. Base! One of them grabs my leg.

In the end I left, shadows trailing behind. Each day I pray my face will be warmed by the light of my Savior that my shadow may rise up and honor all it touches.