It’s been a sobering week or so.
Last week, I presided over the funeral of a man who died at age 98.5. He had outlived all of his friends. His funeral was attended by a handful of family, who heard the 1662 Anglican Prayer funeral service’s take on life:
Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins are justly displeased?
This week, I presided over the funeral of a baby who died at 28 weeks in the womb. We read from 1 Cor 15 which seemed so apt in that situation:
The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.
And yesterday, I celebrated a birthday. In the midst of everything else that is happening, I was reminded of Psalm 90:
Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
Praise be to the Lamb who was slain, who has conquered death in his glorious resurrection, and filled our hearts with hope and longing for the New Jerusalem and unending fellowship with each other and with God himself.