In Memory Of

They say we die only once, but we live, truly live, every single day.
Still, when the end comes, it almost always sounds the same:

Passed away peacefully at home, surrounded by her loving family…
Died peacefully, his daughter’s hand in his, and a hymn on the radio…
Passed quietly in the early morning hours, her favorite book resting on her chest…
Surrounded by family and the scent of lilacs from the garden she planted herself…
After a long illness, he passed peacefully, his dog curled beside him…
In the comfort of home, she was wrapped in her grandson’s shawl, and love…
He departed in the arms of those who never left his side…

These are not just sentences. They are sacred punctuation marks at the end of life-long prayers. And yet, these soft farewells carry a deeper message for those still breathing: that we must not wait until the end to be surrounded by love, to hear music, to feel the weight of a hand in ours.

Somewhere today, a man sips black coffee at the kitchen table, steam rising like incense in the golden light. His wife hums to the radio. He thinks it’s just another Tuesday, but this is life, vivid, holy, fleeting.

Elsewhere, a woman kneels to tie her child’s shoe. The lace breaks. The child laughs. The dog barks. And outside, a bird sings a hymn no one taught it. The sacred, unrepeatable now.

We don’t often recognize these moments for what they are tiny eternities, until they’re gone. But God does. Heaven sees every spoon stirred, every page turned, every sigh released in the silence of a sleepless night.

Another page turns.
Passed away peacefully after a brave battle, surrounded by friends and family…
Departed this world as the sun rose, bathed in amber light…
Left this life gently, with prayers whispered over her bedside…
Passed in stillness, a cross held to his chest, and a smile on his lips…
Fell asleep in the Lord, as the rain tapped softly on the windowpane…

Each line is a final thread in a tapestry. But the true pattern , the soul’s story , is found in the days that came before: The ones when we loved imperfectly. The ones when we forgave too slowly. The ones when we danced barefoot in the kitchen and didn’t care who watched. The miracle isn’t in how we die. The miracle is that we get to wake up, again and again, to life.

Moral:
We die only once. But each day we are given is a spark, a page, a sacred breath. Live today as if it’s your first… and your last. Because somewhere, someone is already writing your final line. Make sure everything that comes before it is worthy of remembrance.