I must die thin. That’s how the poem by Candace Melville starts in our most recent issue.
And really. Could it be true? If not a hair on my head will be lost, must I be prepared for being resurrected with my big thighs perfectly in tact?
I was at the funeral of my dear, dear, neighbor Saturday. She was 88. She was beautiful; her body worn out by decades of gracious love and sacrifice for her family. My children loved her deeply. Her’s was a wellspring of love borne through the candy dish on her counter that hundreds of neighbor children frequented. I will miss her greatly.
My daughter asks me this as we’re leaving.
“When she’s resurrected, will she still be old? I mean, I know she’ll have a perfect body and all, but will it be an old body? Or will she be, like, 10 again?”
Hmmmm. Good question. Now I don’t expect that anyone will have the answer to that, but the idea of coming back to this earth in a perfectly functioning and well tuned 97 year old body isn’t exactly candy for my brain.
I think I’d like to be 22. That was a good year.
How ’bout you?