When Life Is Only a Series of Snapshots

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I HAVE REACHED THE POINT IN LIFE where I spend a lot more time on strange days and at odd hours in churches I have never entered before.

A few friends are in the pews.

Mostly they are strangers.

But that’s life.

I can wear almost any jacket I have these days, reach inside the pocket, and pull out the folded program for a funeral.

There’s living.

And there’s dying.

And it seems that time is running out for so many I know.

Family of friends.

Friends of family.

We sit there in dim light and in silence.

Music surrounds us, music engineered to make the hardest of hearts cry, and there are no hard hearts around me.

Some of the songs are pre-recorded.

I hate that.

Some are sung out loud and in person.

I love that.

Even if the singing is bad, and it almost always is.

Funerals are all the same.

An obituary.

A eulogy.

A sermon.

In Baptist churches, we hear a warning that we, too, will die and we’d better be ready to meet our maker like Sister Jones or Brother Smith was.

But that’s what preachers do.

They are always selling.

There is a laugh or two.

A tear or two.

A memory or two.

The words differ from funeral to funeral.

But in the end, they are all the same.

What fascinates me about funerals, however, are the photographs of a person’s life, set to music and fading in and out on a huge silver screen in front of the church.

Ten minutes.

They never last more than ten minutes.

And in those ten minutes they tell the story of a person’s life.

One picture at a time.

One frame at a time.

Old snapshots.

And white.

And yellowed with age.

We see a child.

A young girl.

A young wife.

A young mother.

A hunter.

A fisherman.

Little League.

A father.

The good times.

The happy times.

And the times that pass them by.

And then comes the wrinkles.

And grandbabies.

Families together.

Families at Christmas.

Families at the last Christmas.

And then it goes black.

And then it’s over.

A life can be seen in a handful of snapshots.

And each snapshot tells a story.

It’s a story forgotten.

It’s a story untold.

A life worth living is a story worth telling.

I grieve for the departed.

I grieve for the family.

Most of all, I grieve because the stories came and went, and I have no idea what they were.

Please click the book cover image to read more about Caleb Pirtle III and his books.

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  • Caleb, a very moving piece. I, like you, am attending way too many funerals these days. The sadness is compounded by the realization when it is too late to do anything about it that the deceased was a person of wonderful stories which are gone without the telling.

    • Caleb Pirtle

      Stephen, the stories I don’t know intrigue me more than the stories I do know. It is a tragedy when a person’s life is stacked in a box and hidden away in someone’s closet.

      • Maybe someone doesn’t want you to know her story – stories affect the living, too, you know.

  • Darlene Jones

    Another tragedy is not listening to our parents stories and then, when it’s too late, wishing desperately that we knew more to pass on to our children and grandchildren.

    • Caleb Pirtle

      Darlene, time always steals the good stories.

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