Death is nothing at all. 

By Henry Scott Holland

I have only slipped away to the next room. 
I am I and you are you. 
Whatever we were to each other, 
That, we still are. 

Call me by my old familiar name. 
Speak to me in the easy way 
which you always used. 
Put no difference into your tone. 
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. 

Laugh as we always laughed 
at the little jokes we enjoyed together. 
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me. 
Let my name be ever the household word 
that it always was. 
Let it be spoken without effect. 
Without the trace of a shadow on it. 

Life means all that it ever meant. 
It is the same that it ever was. 
There is absolute unbroken continuity. 
Why should I be out of mind 
because I am out of sight? 

I am but waiting for you. 
For an interval. 
Somewhere. Very near. 
Just around the corner. 

All is well. 

Holiday Memorial Candle Lighting Reading

As we light these five candles in honor of our loved one, we light one for our sadness, one for our courage, one for our memories, one for our love and one for our hope.

This candle represents my sadness.  I miss you so much.   I love you so much.

This candle represents my courage.  To do things without you, to keep being what you want me to be.

This candle is in your memory.  The times we laughed, the times we cried, the times we were mad at each other, the silly stuff you did, and the way you cared for and loved me.

This candle is the light of love.  As the holidays come, day by day, I hold this special place in my heart for you.  Thank you for the gift of yourself that you gave me every day.

And this candle is the light of hope.  It reminds me of the love and memories of you that are mine forever. 

 I love you…

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your greatest delight.

Kahil Gibran, The Prophet

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Blessings For The Brokenhearted
By Jan Richardson

Let us agree, for now
that we will not say the breaking makes us stronger
or that it is better to have this pain
than to have done without this love. 

Let us promise 
we will not tell ourselves time will heal the wound,
when every day our waking opens it anew. 

Perhaps for now, it can be enough
to simply marvel at the mystery 
of how a heart so broken, 
can go on beating, 
as if it were made for precisely this –

as if it knows
the only cure for love, is more of it, 

as if it sees
the heart’s sole remedy for breaking
is to love still, 

as if it trusts 
that its own persistent pulse
is the rhythm of a blessing
we cannot begin to fathom
but will save us
nonetheless.