I would like to be remembered as a person of kindness, a good listener, mother, grandmother, and friend, with a good sense of humor, and perhaps someone who seems to know a song lyric for almost anything. The last part seems to run in the family.
I hope I’m remembered as helpful, kind,
funny, a good friend, and supportive,
but also someone who was honest and
open about my struggles. And maybe
even someone that sought to help
alleviate some suffering. My own and
others. But really, being remembered isn’t
important to me. I’m okay with the nature
of things. I will leave behind no monuments
or great works or even a grave stone. Dust
to dust, ashes to ashes. I’m okay with that.
As someone who practiced kindness, spoke up and worked for a better world, believed in social justice, loved her family, was a good friend who listened and laughed, made a difference, and cooked delicious food.
-Since I have no children of my own, I have set up several funds in our names at the local community foundation.
-As someone who persevered through trouble and tried to make someone’s day better.
-People like to tell me I am a problem solver, that seems a way of helping.
I always tell people, if they outlive me, the message I want to leave with others is “Thank You!”
Good Morning All, I have a friend who is a retired priest who believes that if I do not come back to church, my soul is in jeopardy. We started corresponding via email when I left AZ and sometimes we get into discussions. This one was about Epitaphs. Blessings, Carol
During the Civil War, my husband’s ancestors started a small cemetery on the side of a mountain in southern Missouri. I was introduced to it on a cold rainy day in 1979 when we buried my father-in-law there. As I stood in the rain looking at the array of tombstones, I was drawn to a hand-hewn stone. It was quite large, a really big black and grey rock with all kinds of bold angles; it looked like a mountain in miniature. It was definitely a powerful image of strength.
I walked over to it. The epitaph read, “She done what she could.” I was deeply moved. What would have prompted her family to choose this epitaph? I couldn’t help but wonder what this woman’s life had been like. I was getting down right emotional but why was I experiencing such a surge of feelings? Was I identifying with her?
I said to my husband, “Jim, who is she?” He said, “I think she’s my great-grandmother.”
I knew Jim’s great-grandfather had been a scout for the government, roaming the mountains of southern Missouri and the Arkansas Ozarks. When he retired, he had received a large land grant from the government and that is how Jim’s paternal family ended up in the Eldon, Missouri area. I knew his great-grandfather’s wife had birthed several sons and that the land he was given had been divided equally among them upon his death but I had never heard any stories about her so why was I feeling like I had walked in her shoes?
I was sure her life had been a struggle. She had faced the rough and tough challenges of being a frontier wife and raising a large number of children alone while her husband was gone looking for salt mines and mapping the country-side for the U.S. government.
I certainly couldn’t relate to living on the frontier. My life had been more like being lost in the desert. When the disease of alcoholism took-up residence in our home, my children were very young and I watched a good man live in a bottle. Even after 18 years, when he put the bottle down, his feelings resided in his toes and never got past his knees.
His behavior became the perfect scapegoat for a wounded young woman who needed someone on whom she could project her childhood anger. It took many years for me to realize that fact and own my own anger. I didn’t just suffer. I was miserable. I finally realized that suffering is inevitable but misery is optional. Unfortunately, it took a divorce for me to see that reality.
When my priest friend and I were discussing this, he said the epitaph on his tombstone would be “All is Grace.” And, I thought “Yes, all is grace but it takes some of us (I know this from experience!) a lot of time to learn how “to see” that Grace involves accepting “what is;” I still have to remind myself that I am prone to blindness and it’s okay. All I can do is my best in any given moment. And it will always be enough. Why? Because I know my INTENT is always the willingness to see that Grace has my back.
I explained to the Padre, who was trying to save my soul by putting my body in a church pew, that church or no church, I hoped when the Reaper rode into my life, some one would be able to say, “Carol done what she could.”
Id like to remembered as one who was an advocate, a listener for those who felt they didn’t have a voice. A friend who remembered your anniversaries of Grace. As an auntie who sent goofy texts and valued the next generation. And as the only “sis” for four brothers.
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Faithful Christian, Honest & trustworthy, Loyal friend and family member, compassionate and Kind. Nature lover.
As a sweet fragrance.
I would like to be remembered as a person of kindness, a good listener, mother, grandmother, and friend, with a good sense of humor, and perhaps someone who seems to know a song lyric for almost anything. The last part seems to run in the family.
I hope I’m remembered as helpful, kind,
funny, a good friend, and supportive,
but also someone who was honest and
open about my struggles. And maybe
even someone that sought to help
alleviate some suffering. My own and
others. But really, being remembered isn’t
important to me. I’m okay with the nature
of things. I will leave behind no monuments
or great works or even a grave stone. Dust
to dust, ashes to ashes. I’m okay with that.
Same with me I hope to attain a state of mind where I don’t hanker for anything, nor lament for the living or the Dead.
As someone who practiced kindness, spoke up and worked for a better world, believed in social justice, loved her family, was a good friend who listened and laughed, made a difference, and cooked delicious food.
-Since I have no children of my own, I have set up several funds in our names at the local community foundation.
-As someone who persevered through trouble and tried to make someone’s day better.
-People like to tell me I am a problem solver, that seems a way of helping.
I always tell people, if they outlive me, the message I want to leave with others is “Thank You!”
Coming in an unconquerable lineage originated from God, who is the seed giving Father of all.
Just being remembered is good enough.
I share a Morning Med to answer today’s question.
Morning Meds, March 16, 2015 The Epitaph
Good Morning All, I have a friend who is a retired priest who believes that if I do not come back to church, my soul is in jeopardy. We started corresponding via email when I left AZ and sometimes we get into discussions. This one was about Epitaphs. Blessings, Carol
During the Civil War, my husband’s ancestors started a small cemetery on the side of a mountain in southern Missouri. I was introduced to it on a cold rainy day in 1979 when we buried my father-in-law there. As I stood in the rain looking at the array of tombstones, I was drawn to a hand-hewn stone. It was quite large, a really big black and grey rock with all kinds of bold angles; it looked like a mountain in miniature. It was definitely a powerful image of strength.
I walked over to it. The epitaph read, “She done what she could.” I was deeply moved. What would have prompted her family to choose this epitaph? I couldn’t help but wonder what this woman’s life had been like. I was getting down right emotional but why was I experiencing such a surge of feelings? Was I identifying with her?
I said to my husband, “Jim, who is she?” He said, “I think she’s my great-grandmother.”
I knew Jim’s great-grandfather had been a scout for the government, roaming the mountains of southern Missouri and the Arkansas Ozarks. When he retired, he had received a large land grant from the government and that is how Jim’s paternal family ended up in the Eldon, Missouri area. I knew his great-grandfather’s wife had birthed several sons and that the land he was given had been divided equally among them upon his death but I had never heard any stories about her so why was I feeling like I had walked in her shoes?
I was sure her life had been a struggle. She had faced the rough and tough challenges of being a frontier wife and raising a large number of children alone while her husband was gone looking for salt mines and mapping the country-side for the U.S. government.
I certainly couldn’t relate to living on the frontier. My life had been more like being lost in the desert. When the disease of alcoholism took-up residence in our home, my children were very young and I watched a good man live in a bottle. Even after 18 years, when he put the bottle down, his feelings resided in his toes and never got past his knees.
His behavior became the perfect scapegoat for a wounded young woman who needed someone on whom she could project her childhood anger. It took many years for me to realize that fact and own my own anger. I didn’t just suffer. I was miserable. I finally realized that suffering is inevitable but misery is optional. Unfortunately, it took a divorce for me to see that reality.
When my priest friend and I were discussing this, he said the epitaph on his tombstone would be “All is Grace.” And, I thought “Yes, all is grace but it takes some of us (I know this from experience!) a lot of time to learn how “to see” that Grace involves accepting “what is;” I still have to remind myself that I am prone to blindness and it’s okay. All I can do is my best in any given moment. And it will always be enough. Why? Because I know my INTENT is always the willingness to see that Grace has my back.
I explained to the Padre, who was trying to save my soul by putting my body in a church pew, that church or no church, I hoped when the Reaper rode into my life, some one would be able to say, “Carol done what she could.”
Thank you for such profound insight, Carol.
Thank you, Carol.
I love this line. “Suffering is inevitable,
but misery is optional”.
Profoundly real. Thanks for touching my heart this morning, Carol.
Josie, Thank you for touching mine!
As someone who loved her life , who cared for others, who loved animals beyond measure- and who did the best she could do.
Sounds perfect.
Joseph finally discovered his capabilities and was grateful to have uncovered them.
As someone who always did her best in everything she did, as well as someone who made others feel good about themselves.
Id like to remembered as one who was an advocate, a listener for those who felt they didn’t have a voice. A friend who remembered your anniversaries of Grace. As an auntie who sent goofy texts and valued the next generation. And as the only “sis” for four brothers.
Fondly. That I was worth knowing, and that I cared about the wellbeing of people, and children in particular.
Exactly