Treasure

The quality and beauty of a life is not measured in days or years. It is measured by the number of other lives it touches.

We left him halfway up the hill.

It seemed the perfect place. He was protected from the worst of the wind, and faced the setting sun. The view looked out over a small valley of hay fields, trees and farm houses.

The echo of church bells would ring, beckoning believers to gather.

Half way up the hill.

In some ways, it felt fitting, and yet, it seemed too soon to leave him behind. We learned the road down the hill was more difficult than the road up—memories have their own weight, measured in tears and profound sorrow, not pounds.

He’d spent most of his life struggling to the summit of every hill he faced, but in the end, the hills had become mountains, and his road impassable.

His life had been a blessing to those who knew him, which now make their memories of him a deep and bountiful treasure.

Today, as we pause to remember, we know that he is missed as much as he was loved.

Semper Fi, Tom.