Morning has broken...

I love this time of year. Like the famous 'box of chocolates' you never know what you're gonna get.

I awoke one morning this week to frost - the crunchy confectioner's sugar kind of frost that blanketed my flat, grassy back yard like - well, confectioner's sugar icing!

When I first looked out at 6:00 AM, I only saw the fog that hung over the Spring green lawn and hedges. Only one-half hour later, I saw that the fog had risen, and I gasped with joy when I saw the frosty grass.

It's a source of pleasure that our back yard is fenced in - so the dogs can play safely - also hemmed in with nicely trimmed hedges that give us privacy, but not isolation. All the trees around us rise above the hedges, and the sound of bird chatter early in the morning makes me smile, for most of it comes from the very social sparrow, titmouse and finch clans that live in the hedges! Above and all around them, then, are the bigger birds, in a hierarchy that goes like this....

The cardinals love to be high in the soft boughs of the pine tree in my son's yard 100' away. They sing, "Birdie, birdie," in the early morning sun as it streams, weakly, through the heavy mist before daybreak, or, this day, the fog. Around them, but never in the same branches or even the same trees, the blue jays yap at one another and anyone else too sleepy to move far from their discordant calls.

Often high atop the stark tree my neighbor left behind when another tree - closely entwined with it from its sapling struggles - fell down, sit the bigger birds; doves, red-winged blackbirds, starlings and our red-headed woodpeckers. They take turns swooping down to the ground under the bird feeders to feed with gusto what the frisky smaller birds have strewn about carelessly. Because our feeder offers access to nine small birds at a time for feeding, there are lively lines at our automat, and they get rather messy, too. The big birds, then, act as vacuum cleaners of my husband's pride and joy - the soft, supple, and velvety grass he has nurtured since his retirement.

The birds are brave, and now stay at the feeder even when I am gardening, or reading. Friends sit and chat there, with us, the dogs roaming, sniffing, sleeping under the hedges in the heat. Once in a while, one of the dogs jumps up and takes off in a combination dash and bouncing leaps when she hears the dogs who live behind us barking through the fence and hedge. It took awhile, but the birds are used to this, too, and ignore our regular routine, and the "normal" noises that we make.

In the same size range, but a different class, the robins tend to huddle in the stark tree only if no other birds are waiting their turn at the breakfast buffet below. They occasionally watch the social gathering from their perch, but usually, they choose to watch from the leafy and full maple tree farther away. They don't eat here - we have another buffet of sorts, more to their taste. Because we live within 400' of the largest natural lake in New Jersey, we have a nice moat around our house....well, it's really a trench with not one - but two - sump pumps removing water from around our foundation, avoiding flood waters in and around our hot water heater, furnace and extra refrigerator! After winter's meltdown - for a month or so - these two hoses quietly but with reassuring dependability (knock wood - that we don't suffer a power failure on late winter/early spring's wild, wooly, windy days!) discharge gushing, warm water across our driveway into our unused side yard (where the grass grows with gusto, I might add)!

It is in this area that the robins find big, undulating, juicy worms, for the worms litter the driveway as Spring - and the discharge water - warm up. It is also a happy spa-like setting for all kinds of small to medium-sized birds. The starling, robins and even our little sparrow fraternities frolic in the low side of the macadam driveway. I love to see the water splashing around, imagining the joie de vivre and physical therapy they experience when they splash about, and then groom - with tiny beaks - feverishly combing their feathers out. I can empathize...my morning shower loosens up these misaligned bones, warms up my reluctant joints, and, yes, freshens me for the day's tasks and physical demands....sort of like the old "Zest" soap commercials!

This frosty morning, however, every bird in our squared-off, hedge-lined yard woke up a little slower than usual. The sounds across the grass seemed so subtle and sleepy when I stood outside, my winter robe grabbed from the hook when I realized the chill was not just my old bones, but a rare wintry chill upon the earth. I stepped onto the cobblestone pavers of our patio, and noted, right away, that the bird bath was iced over. Next, I noticed that there was that beautiful iced frosting on the grassy blades (my husband had just cut the grass a day before). When I turned to our adirondack settee, it looked so summery and inviting, that I went back inside for warm slippers and a cup of green tea, and, yes, my camera! With the sun yet weak, I thought it would be nice to have my tea and photo ops bundled up, but ready to receive and record the sun when it made an appearance.

Just before I went outside, I also grabbed a pitcher and put some warm water in it for the bird bath; I broke that thin ice, shook it onto the grass, and added the fresh water so it'd be ready for the sparrow/finch/titmouse spa they enjoy about an hour after breakfast (did their moms tell them to wait after eating to go in the water, too?).

I didn't have to wait very long. I'd brought my book and cheater peepers with me, sat just a bit - again, wondering that no birds were visible, yet I heard the cardinal calling quietly, and, as always, the chatterboxes - the small birds, gossipping in the hedge.

When the sun came through, it was warm, right away. I felt each beam - I am sure - that lightly tapped me on the shoulders, coming from behind the settee. Soon, I realized, I was missing the real show, and when I stood up and turned 180 degrees to see if the sun was really visible, I was pleased at the show of brave light at the tops of the low trees, and amazed at how fast the sun was rising. Soon, it caused a dappled pattern on the frosty grass, and my dogs, not event tempted to test the crunchy grass with their little paws (our furbabies don't appreciate cold or wet weighing down their shaggy feet), stretched out as if to receive solar power from the sudden sunbeams. On their bellies on the warming stones, they waited for a sign from me that they, too, would eat soon. They are not disturbed by the birds and their activity, but watch them, cocking their heads, from side to side.

By the time the sun - a small but defined ball of brightness - reached the top of the medium height maple trees between properties, I had shed the robe, and was sitting, in my PJs, with my cuppa and camera, happy as a lark and now, as if sensing my singing heart, the chorus started! First the sparrows decided to chance the bird feeder, and soon, happily crowded at the feeder, and atop the clothesline, like the coffee room at the last job I worked, with this and that to talk about.

A few minutes later, I heard the male cardinal's call to the world, and, yes, he was way at the top of a tree, not quite hidden from view. So cautious, the cardinals know they are safe in our yard, and have nested for three years in our rear hedge - and during nesting time, they know they will not be disturbed, for that hedge is not cut during egg and fledgling nesting and nurturing. When I heard him calling out his joy for the day, for the sun, for a mate, and for life, I felt like singing, too. I guess I could have sung "Morning Has Broken," a favorite hymn, and Cat Stevens recording...but the cardinal surely would have flown from my joyful but wanting vocals.

Soon, a blue jay came a-calling, and another at the same time. I couldn't get my camera fast enough, for this was only the second time I'd heard the cacophony of brazen, brassy arguing between the two large males. This time, like the last, I didn't get a good photo, as they far preferred to continue their argument elsewhere, than let me photograph it like desperate paparazzi.


The largest birds - the rotund mourning doves - usually waddle around with the other large birds, not intimidated by their focused feeding. The doves eat with determination, not hiding, nor trying to muscle anyone aside. They just coexist, peacefully - with the tiny boarders of the boxwood - and the larger, flashier avian gnoshers. I hear their cooing in the pine trees in the evening and early morning, but this morning, they didn't want to walk on the spiky, stiff grass, either, for I didn't see them at our outdoor cafe.

I heard the woodpecker as he sounded a Morse Code-like ratamacue to try to break through the bark of the old tree on our other corner. He's too big for our feeder; he can climb aboard the obelisk shaped, squirrel-resistant column, but it sways far too much for comfort, and the sparrows look upon him as I would the Titanic on the North Sea...too scary for them, and for him, too, I guess. He has decided not to work that hard to get that little in the way of sustenance.

I finished my tea, and, knowing my granddaughter would be coming over this school day to catch the bus at our house, I turned to pick up my cup, my book and my pince nez glasses, and looked over my shoulder, one more time, reluctant to leave what would surely be a great awakening and festival of feeding, as the sun grew even stronger as it raised higher. I had to be a human and get my chores done, and the birds had to get their needs taken care of, too. At that moment, I grabbed my camera, and took this photograph - of peace in portrait format - to keep this memory and this joy in my heart for many days to come. I cherished the surprise of the frost, the reassurance of the birds still wanting to stay by us, and the absolutely joyous joining of voices - theirs and mine - as we greeted the day! As I turned to walk in, I heard a little tinkly, quick sound, and saw one sparrow drink, then splash, in the birdbath...Morning had broken....

As Sung by Cat Stevens
lyrics by Eleanor Farjeon

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day.

Never Off Duty - Volunteers @ Work Photo by Jen

My husband, Neal, and Donna, both members of the Budd Lake First Aid & Rescue Squad (BLFARS), coming home from the New Jersey State First Aid Council convention last October, encountered an accident that had just occurred on Route 80, on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware Water Gap.

Traveling home in separate cars, Donna stopped her sedan to assist in a one-vehicle accident of a car into a median barrier on the rainy highway, and Neal pulled his truck, with emergency lights on, behind her car to assist and to block fast-moving traffic from the scene.

As Neal and Donna spoke to the occupants of the car, assessing their physical state and possible injuries, traffic came to a crawl around the scene, and backed up for miles. They would find out, later, that another accident occurred about one mile east of this collision at approximately the same time. Knowlton Township fire trucks, first aid rescue rigs and many members of both responded to both scenes, but the patients had already been assessed and calmed as much as possible by our volunteers who did have some of the equipment necessary, as Neal did have his first responder equipment bag in his truck, if needed.

Having spent the past few days at the convention, held in Split Rock Resort, PA, Donna and Neal applied techniques and experience learned in the past on calls like this, in drills at their squad headquarters, certification classes and specialty courses taken at conventions like the one they’d left only an hour before. This is real life, folks.

An annual event, the convention offers first aiders and EMTs the opportunity to take classes led by world-class instructors who speak all over the United States; some instructors have traveled as far as Germany to study EMS equipment, techniques and training, and then share it in venues such as this.

I was moved by the enormity of what I saw….and proud beyond description. Regardless of their desire to get home to their families and township duty, both of these Budd Lake members unselfishly utilized the valuable training, experience and expert care that are part of the dedication and pride volunteers display every day…because these members – as do their brothers and sisters in their service of our local squads - are never off duty.


I wrote this in October, 2009, to accompany photos I took at the scene and which I sent to the local newspaper. It was not published,, but I feel its relevance and interest – even moreso now that the squads of this community are threatened with disbanding and have already received word that there are no funds for them in the budget. More than ever, then, I want people to know that what this township’s volunteers are willing to do every single day has far outreaching benefits in other communities – where saving lives is appreciated. It would be a shame if this town did not recognize what the residents of Knowlton did that day…that the volunteers of Budd Lake First Aid & Rescue Squad, part of the Mt. Olive emergency service volunteers, respond where needed, when they are needed. The accident victims had these two ‘first responders’ to thank for their quick assessment and control of the situation on a busy day on Route 80. Did our members want thanks? No, they just wanted to do what they are trained to do – comfort those in need and save lives.

It’s what they still want to do, if their community and governing body would let them.

A Very Special Thank You - Photo by Jen

In Kessler Rehabilitation's newsletter to employees, the following paragraph introduces a thank you note I wrote for the Kessler storefront center I go to for physical therapy. I actually wrote this a few years ago, when I was having PT for my back problems - without realizing that stenosis would eventually be diagnosed. I wrote this, then, thinking I was done with PT for that year, and found out today that this was printed, then, in the newsletter, and that they are using it again (and again?), as they liked it. This is the introductory paragraph:

Every day, Kessler receives notes of appreciation from patients and grateful family members. They typically acknowledge the hard work and compassion of our staff, the support and expert care they received and, often, just the little things that helped to make all the difference in their lives. Certainly, it would take pages upon pages to print all of the letters we get. But, every so often, a letter so articulately expresses a patient's feelings about her rehabilitation experience that it warrants our attention. The letter below was sent to the Kessler Rehabilitation Center in Mount Olive. It is a heartfelt reminder about the role we play in our patients' recovery...

Thank you for restoring my strength, one visit at a time.

Thank you for renewing my faith, by your promises and your patience.

Thank you, for giving me hope, after many disappointments.

Thanks to you, my friends are happy to see me stand stronger than before - figuratively and literally.

Thanks to you, my children see me cheerful and optimistic again, after so much pain and disappointment.

Thanks to you, my grandchildren giggle when I play on the floor with them like I used to.

I give thanks for your professional ministrations.

I give thanks for your personal kindness, listening to me talk about how I used to be, and how I dream of being that person, having that life, again.

I give thanks that you heard my words, and answered me with facts, advice, encouragement and hope, that I could dream of physical wholeness, again.

I hope that you know how I woke up with a smile on my face on the days I had therapy.

I hope that others tell you the effect your efforts have on their recovery and pursuit of their dreams, too.

I hope that you continue your work with others for a long time, for you truly have a gift to give.

I hope that someone else is as kind to you, as you have been to me, every day of your life.

I hope that, every day, somewhere, others realize the joy, satisfaction and blessing of healing others, and pursue a dream to make a difference in people's lives, as you do.

Again, I thank you. Always, I will thank you.

The "Cousin Thing" - Photos by Jen

I wasn't close to any of my cousins when I was a kid. My cousins lived only 30 miles away, but our parents and theirs weren't emotionally close, so I only saw them occasionally.

I was so connected to my siblings that I didn't realize what I might have been missing.

My husband had a different childhood - full of noisy, silly and fun cousins at all the family gatherings. From the time we met until we had our own children, I knew that's what I wanted for our kids - siblings and cousins at family get-togethers.

From the time that our boys were babies, I loved to watch the slightly older cousins "play house," holding the babies, giving them a bottle, etc., but I especially enjoyed how much our sons responded to their cousins. When little, our boys loved going to their cousins' houses for holidays. My sisters both lived in NJ, so their six children were our sons' role models, and our boys couldn't wait to see them when we visited.

From the time they were toddlers, trying to keep up with their school aged cousins, through the "tween" years and the teen years, our sons looked to their older cousins for behavior patterns (some approved and some disdained by the parents ; ) and copied their mannerisms, language and postures. While parents hope to teach their children all they need to know, their social behavior is more often imitated and practiced by watching kids older than they are...after all, they are all about copying "cool," and cousins are always cooler than grownups.

Well, as life goes, I am now watching our grandchildren closely, enjoying the relationships they have with their cousins so much. It's that "cousin thing," again - the way they interact, and help each other. It's the way the little ones of our older son look up to our other son's girls. Their faces light up when they see the older girls, Courtney, 8, and Taylor, 12. These bigger kids have paved the path for the parents and we grandparents - we cut our teeth on these girls, so we are certain that we know what to expect with our 5 year old granddaughter, Mia, and 18 month old grandson, Jack...or do we?

Mia has very mild autism. Her diagnosis - the official one - came long after her observant and dedicated parents had identified her challenges and helped her through early intervention. She now speaks more clearly, laughs, plays and 'connects' relationships - animal sounds to the animal in the picture; actions and reactions to her behavior and that of others; the word "cousins" to our other son's two daughters.

The way Mia speaks the word is clear, but breathy - "cousins!" comes out with a smile and anticipatory glee. From the time she runs through the gate of our yard to join in the Easter egg hunt the Saturday before Easter - and makes a beeline to her cousins already there - she's a blur of activity, mimicry and happiness. All the energy and knowledge of her parents, teachers and medicine can't compete with the fascination of cousins at this moment. At the sound of her exclamation, I had a catch in my breath, and my heart, in this moment of pure joy!

After we all visited a bit, we adults hid the eggs, while the two older girls kept the little ones corralled until they were set loose to search for the colorful eggs (which were decorated and filled with love the day before - again by the older kids).

Mia's little brother, Jack, toddled along, a peaceful, sweet little boy. He was happy to take his time looking for eggs, but Taylor took him in hand so he could really participate in the egg hunt, coming up with at least a few eggs before his energetic sister scooped them all up with Courtney's help. We adults had kept track - sort of - of the number of eggs we hid...somewhere between 30 and 40, and our hedges looked polka-dotted with many eggs tucked in there, at toddler/kindergarten level, for Mia and Jack. There were only a few higher than their towheads could even see - those were for Taylor and Courtney.

Soon, it became obvious that Taylor and Courtney, chocolate lovers though they might be, were giving up their eggs for the little kids. Taylor sat on the grass with Jack, letting him play with her basket of eggs. Jack was content to take the eggs apart, dump the wrapped candies, and stand the egg halves up, like a stacking toy. Taylor's patience with this whole scenario was to be applauded, for Jack moves at Jack's pace...patient and deliberate as toddlers can be.

Courtney, on the other side of the yard, got into the hunt a little more, and did find a few eggs hidden at her height; the rest, she helped Mia find...unselfish and sweet as 8 year olds can be, her newfound - more 'grown up' - behavior was endearing. Mia, too, sorted through the eggs and giggled at the stickers the girls had put on them, and smoothed her tiny fingers over the beautiful foil on the candies inside. How beautiful they were to her, and how lovely she is to us.

Another Easter, another egg hunt, but this one was special. We see growth in the hedges as they assume that fuzzy green appearance that precedes the thicket coverage many species of birds call home. We celebrate our daffodils as they turn their quirky faces to a stronger sun and stretch to receive its blessing. We enjoy the warmth of the sun on our bare arms and kick off our shoes to wiggle our toes in the new, soft, long Spring grass of the yard. It's so beautiful and welcome after a long Winter's contrary nature and sudden mood swings.

What makes this one special? For one, it's Mia's growth - the realization that she is connecting traditions and fun with spending time with her sweet, maturing cousins; how she knows, now, that this is her heritage and joy to trust in and count on. She now anticipates, and what a joy that is. Her world is bigger, more open and friendly; she can grow and open like the daffodil to receive the warmth of love in this family, and all the knowledge and discoveries that lie at her mind's door.

This one is special because it's Jack's babyhood coddling turning to toddler triumphs, as he pops open the egg at the middle, and takes out the foiled chocolate - and tosses it away, only to play with the plastic egg, instead. It's Taylor, age 12, in her inherent sweetness and patience, waiting for Jack to make up his mind whether to stack the blue or pink eggs. It's Courtney, somewhere in her mind choosing whether to find the chocolate treasures for herself, or to help Mia; and, unselfishly making the conscious choice to allow the little ones to win, this year and for years to come.

These children, our grandchildren - cherished offspring of our sons - are carrying out traditions as many children, in many families, do. When I turned my face to my pillow that night, in last minute whispers of gratitude for all my gifts, I remembered Jack turning his face to Taylor, staring at her, and then smiling his sweet little smile as she talked to him in a lilting voice. I remember Mia and Courtney, running across the lawn, their bare legs brushing the long, soft grass, searching for eggs, on their way to growing up.

I remember, too, that afternoon, when I turned to look at our sons - men, now - and remember those boys in my sister's yard when they were small boys, and I whispered my thanks for traditions - for growth, hope, joy and Easter eggs, and, always - especially - for cousins.

Life is Eternal - Photos by Jen

Cemeteries do not make me feel uneasy or sad. Oh, I get sad when I miss Andy, or think that we won't hear any more of Joe's stories, but this weekend gave me time and opportunity to think of these loved ones in a different way.

Easter weekend is a traditional time to go visiting the cemetery where our son, Andy, is buried. An old cemetery on a craggy hill, adjacent to an old dairy farm, the stones closest to the brick wall with its iron gate are carved with the oldest names in our town and county.

Names like Stephens and Budd adorn the largest stones and obelisks near the front gate. Further back - going up the small hill and circular road - are the rest of the residents of this area who followed the pioneering families of this rural area. Our past police chief is buried here, and a past mayor. A young man who was engaged to a young lady from our church rests here. A baby - only days old - is interred here too; I remember when her only marker was a brick with her birth and death dates on it, and the words, "Littlest angel." I have passed it for years - 34 to be exact - every time I walked to our son, Andy's, grave.

Andy's stone is a sweet, wedge-shaped stone with the words, "Child of God" and Duryea's praying hands. His given name, Alexander Neal Nelson, is inscribed, but we knew him and loved him as "Andy" which is carved below that formal moniker. A tiny angel carved into the stone serves as a guardian angel we hoped would watch over him, always.

I thought of the baby girl buried near Andy when I visited, as I bent to clear away leaves, or change up the holiday decoration (at Christmas, a wreath we made from branches from our friend, Kathy's, pine tree; at Easter, some sweet nosegay or potted pansies or daffodils)...on his birthday, some Lilies of the Valley, watered with my tears. Always, I included the little angel - and her parents, grandparents, possible siblings - in my thoughts, my prayers. Her brick deteriorated, and one day, disappeared. I wondered about that, and looked, every time I visited, for a replacement marking her spot on the hill.

More than a year ago, we noticed a traditional, wedge-shaped stone was placed where the brick had once been. A lovely stone, it has her real name and other information on it, which comforted me. Finally, this little one was more permanently memorialized, and, in my mother's heart, Andy had a neighbor nearby. I cherished the thought that he was not alone or lonely on that country hillside.

I wondered, Easter Sunday, again, about her - the timing of her death, the inexpensive, simple brick - finally replaced, after 30+ years with a formal headstone. At the time she died, were her parents very young, perhaps without the means to buy a permanent, expensive stone? What were the circumstances surrounding her death? Where did she live? I felt sadness for her, and for them, because I know that, no matter what answers are given to so many questions, there are twice as many questions which go unanswered.

On Easter, then, we tidied up Andy's area. We checked on the Saint Florian coin his identical twin brother, now almost 39, had put into the hand of the Saint Francis of Assisi statue positioned closely to the stone. (Both of our sons and my husband served as volunteer firemen, and the placement of the coin was a sweet surprise one day when I went to visit by myself. I knew, right away, that our son had placed it there, on his way past the cemetery as he went to work). Both our sons recognize his place, in our home and memories, as precious.

Next, we placed the pot of tiny daffodils give to us by our daughter in law in front of the stone and the small, brass ground pick of a small boy and a dog, inscribed with, "Snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails...that's what little boys are made of." A small angel statue on the other side sits, a butterfly resting on her outstretched hand. It was all so lovely, so protective and so tender, and, yet, we know it will never be enough to erase the memory of our initial, agonizing shock, nor the more gentle, forgiving peace we have embraced after all these years. It's not that it is okay, now. It just "is." Faith, family and friends have helped us grow, while allowing us to feel our initial pain, and to cope as time went by, so that, now, we are left with loving memories of him.

Before we walked away, we placed small stones on top of his headstone. I first heard of this practice when I was young. Someone explained that, in a Jewish cemetery, it demonstrates that visitors have come - loved ones and friends -who pay their true respect and love, and leave a token of true, devoted remembrance...as if to say, "I was here, thinking of you, missing you, loving you."

This Easter, we also went to another cemetery, farther down that country road from Andy's resting place. We went to pay our respects to our friend, Joe, this weekend. It is Joe's first anniversary in heaven, we think and say. We see his beautiful, majestic, and stalwart stone - so different than Andy's, for this was a grown man, with a colorful history and experiences, memberships, church and family relationships, and obligations. It seems that a man of this age and a life this full should have a big stone, one we can imagine for his bigger-than-life personality. It's upright - wide and tall - with simple etchings on the top and bottom, and a beautiful, Celtic cross in the middle of the stone, for this reference to his wife's heritage and their combined faith was important for her to embrace as she designed this stone.

It is the back of the stone, however, that really articulates what we celebrated at Joe's funeral last year. Sick for an undeniably short period of time, Joe's death was a shock to his wife and son, and hard to embrace by other family, friends and community. His wife reached inward and looked for something that spoke of the love, faith, and hope that would help heal the hurt of this life ending too soon. She drew upon her faith and a favorite musical artist to help her.

On the back of the stone is inscribed, "Life is eternal, love is immortal, and death is only a horizon" from a beautiful song by Carly Simon. The words continue "...as we move into the light, the horizon is nothing, save the limit of our sight. " The song was played at his funeral, and the words remind us that Joe will live forever, as will our love, and death - rather than being a final end to our relationship with that loved one - is only a horizon which is no barrier to how we see and feel that relationship...if we do not limit our sight. We must allow the horizon of life to include us here and now, and in our immortal lives, one day. It is then that we can remain together in spirit.

So, we placed new stones on top of Joe's stone - keeping the horizon - and Joe - close to us. We talked about him, chuckled as we remembered his old jokes and stories. We will continue to live this life - with its horizons and sights set for beautiful memories in the making and comforting memories made when he was here with us.

We have brought "memory" stones before, and several of us added to those this Easter, until the top of his stone looked like a gentle path - with some smooth stones that have words painted on them - words such as "love," "always" and "We cherish our memories." There are also rough-hewn stones, found there at the beautiful cemetery - this weekend bright and glorious with new buds, flowers, lush green grass lawns. These stones are part of this place where we honor his life and live in his honor, so they say volumes, as well. They are the path we laid there - to pave his resting place with our loving memories, spoken and unspoken.

As our talk and tears quietly subsided, we hugged and slowly turned away. I spontaneously circled back to kiss the top of the stone, and say goodbye - for now. We will all be together some day - when time and our bodies have spoken, and God is prepared to welcome us into His kingdom. For now, however, we are here, so we can keep Joe and Andy, and the saints before them, within our sight - a limitless expression of the love that brought us together, never to separate us, for life is eternal. and love is immortal.