There was a burial this morning, out in the country and the hot Texan sun. While we were waiting for everyone to arrive I talked with one of the gravediggers. He had a shamrock tattooed on his wrist and I asked him if he was Irish.
“Yes sir, I am,” he replied, sounding entirely Texan, “I used to have red in my beard, but now it’s grey.” We had something in common. “My hair used to be brown, “I told him, “Now look at it.” The gravediggers thought that was funny and stomped about laughing.
What can I say, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but let’s not forget the sure and certain hope in the resurrection. After the burial was over and everyone was leaving, an elderly gentleman told me he’d shot five Cottonmouths in the last few weeks, but he hadn’t seen a rattler.
RS, rest in peace and rise in glory.