"All flesh is grass"

A voice says, "Cry out." And I said, "What shall I cry?" "All men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.

I pulled the last of the zinnias up and chopped them up into small pieces. Rather than putting them in the compost bin, I put them in a bare area where I think zinnias would look nice, and I'm hoping their seeds will sprout in the spring.

As I was cutting them up (I just use rose pruners for this task; it's time consuming but effective) I thought about how transitory human life is. I learned this week that a friend from our seminary days had died, a victim of pancreatic cancer, which had also killed her father before her. I thought of her beautiful voice, which was like an angel's, and I imagine her now singing with them.We lost another friend several years ago, and a former coworker who retired at the same time as I did  is currently battling this disease, These beautiful souls were/are about my age, healthy and active, and now two are gone and another is fighting a battle I cannot begin to imagine. Then I thought about all the other people who I once knew and loved who are also gone.

We really are like the flowers of the field...here today and gone tomorrow. May the time we have be as beautiful as the zinnias were this summer, and after our time has gone, may we what we leave behind produce something beautiful for future generations.