Prowess left behind

Here's my morning shocker: Everyone dies. There. I said it. But have you ever thought about what you will leave behind? I don't mean what trinkets, money or things. I mean will the world notice that you are missing from it? If you haven't, well, there's a good thing I write these things so I can ponder it for you.

The Bible says, 'Anyone can see that the brightest and best die, wiped out right along with fools and dunces. They leave all their prowess behind, move into their new home, The Coffin, The cemetery their permanent address. And to think they named counties after themselves!"

Do we leave our prowess behind? Do we make a difference? I've always been excited about the books I've written not because they were any good, because I'm afraid they weren't. But they are in the Library of Congress as having been written. That's good enough for me. There's a record I came, I tried, I existed, I confessed my shortcomings. Did I leave my prowess behind? Probably not, but I was here.

I haven't seen many of my kinsmen for years. I haven't been to the West Virginia area my father grew up since 1969, and I wouldn't know them if they came to me face-to-face. I don't see the aunt and uncle who remain from my mother's side. I talk to a dear cousin often, but that's about it. I wished I lived close to the folks I grew up with, but frankly, they probably wouldn't know me much now.

I was sitting in my office recently with time on my hands and as I discovered just how much the chair will swing around without stopping (a real scientific endeavor, I might add), I picked up a book on the history of one of my churches. Turns out it is fascinating. They recorded, well, the families that have made this church what it is. They left behind, well, this church. Seems that's a good thing to do.

Did the world notice they were gone? Well, probably not. But their families and friends did, and ultimately people down the years and years and years did because they have a church to attend.

Ultimately, I have given little to these churches. There won't be a building named after me. The newspapers I wrote for have long since forgotten I was there. Friends? They don't call, because I ceased to exist to them when I walked out of the door for the final time while they continued on. That's okay. I understand that.

But Jesus knows I came, I existed, I tried and I confessed. For him, I didn't even need to do all that. I was loved before I was born.