A friend of mine died this week, somewhat suddenly from a severe illness that took her in the total of about 2 months. I was at her wake last night, talking to a mutual friend and listening to Ayla who was trying to describe what Jessica (our friend who died) looked like and why it bothered her. She talked about how they had too much makeup on her, how she was dressed oddly because she normally wore jeans and t-shirts, and how she looked odd because of the swelling that had happened in her illness.
And as I talked to Ayla it came to me that the thing that bothered her was simply the absence of life.
Now while that may be obvious from a critical point of view, go with me on this for a minute.
We get so wrapped up in people's appearance. Just this week I was frusterated because my husband has put on weight since we got married (apparently this is a normal part of life) and he's not what he used to be in the abb department. We judge people by what they wear, what they say, the way they keep their children (who are screaming) in the funeral service, and the way they stop and talk about unrelated topics in the middle of a eulogy. I find myself passing judgement constantly.
The thing God brings to the forefront though, as I pass all these thoughts in my mind, is that the life is what a person is. Not what they wear, not their decisions, not their personality, but the very spirit (or life) of the person which is a direct reflection of Himself in some way or another. Even a drug addict or abusive father has some portion of God because they are made in His image.
Your decisions, your personality, the way you speak or act or dress is a version of what you are meant to be - a reflection of God. The question is, what kind of reflection are you being? Is it hidden behind make up (get spiritual with me here, I'm not talking about physical make up I mean a mask) or odd clothing or strange speech? Or are you being an honest and true reflection of that life?
Its truly a strange and uneasy feeling seeing the body of a loved one in a casket. I remember thinking and having a conversation with my dad about Mamie (his mother) and how she didn't look like herself. And while she wore a funny little pony tail on her head and a night dress during the six months she was in our home that was still more endearing than the over made up women with the perm and Sunday dress in the casket. Not because Mamie wasn't at some point like that but for the fact that she had changed to someone who needed us and who had no care of her appearance because she was dying. And even when she was dying she still had life, she still did things that made us remember and love her more. It is so hard, even when expected. And one thing I have really learned from the deaths in my life is that this life is a gift and each day deserves some optimism:)
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