You don’t raise heroes, you raise sons.
And if you treat them like sons, they’ll turn out to be heroes,
even if it’s just in your own eyes. ~Walter M. Schirra, Sr.
Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life.
He who believes in me will live, even though he dies;
and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.
Do you believe this?”
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
~ Emily Dickinson
My grandfather had fifteen children: two sons and two daughters with his first wife and seven sons and four daughters with his second wife (my grandmother).
His third oldest son was only 31 years old when he died. Another 30-year-old son was killed while serving as a Marine in Korea.
His second oldest daughter died at the age of eighteen. Another daughter was only nineteen when she died.
An uncle who was three months older than me, died of whooping-cough a few days after his first birthday.
Even though I don’t remember my uncles and aunts who died early, I have heard the family stories and feel as though I knew them. The stories we tell about our families keeps their memories alive – and the stories are so important.
We all have stories. We all have memories.
“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.” — Clarence Budington Kelland