Remember to Live...

My stomach hurts.

My head hurts.

I feel a little numb.

We just got home from David's memorial service.

My life will never be the same, of that you can be sure. I want to be like David. Period.

The church was so full that there were friends lined up and down the walls and out the sanctuary door.

Wow.

A man I've never even met face to face.

A man that has touched my heart...no, not touched....etched. He has etched my heart. He has left an undeniable etching right in the center of my heart.

I remember when my friend, Heather, died. I felt much the same as I do today.

Numb.

Shock.

Sadness.

In fact, I just realized that after Heather's funeral...that hot July day...I immediately came home and took a bath.

As soon as I got home today from David's memorial service today, I crawled right into a hot, steamy bath.

Maybe, in some way, the burning of the water takes the pain of my heart away for a few minutes.

Or maybe, it's the sadness and the grief that I am trying to wash off of me.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's the solitude of being alone with my thoughts and my God...so that my heart can cry the most.

When Heather died, I sat in the hot tub, and knew that my life would be different from that day forward. I realized the smallness of my time here on Earth.

I realized that I wanted to live life to the fullest.

I wanted to take chances.

I wanted to unlock the chains from my heart of bitterness, hurt, fear of rejection, unforgiveness.

That very day, I set my heart free.

Free to take risks, free to fly, free to dream.

But most of all free to love.

As I sat in the hot bath today, after David's memorial...I realized the gift that David's life was to me.

His battle and his journey brought me to my knees in prayer every single day.

Out of his pain, illness, and sickness...my prayer life was restored.

Through that restoration, my life will never be the same. Ever.

How can I ever thank him for that?

I think I know.

I will live like he lived.

Love like he loved.

Memento Vivere.



changed,

jill