I went to the funeral yesterday of a beautiful man who died much too young. During the service his son read an essay about the story of his life. The words were eloquent in their simplicity - what a loving husband, father, grandfather, brother and friend he was, how loyal he was to his Armenian roots, his success in this country and how much he gave back.
The story of his life heard in the church – the story written down and the words read aloud - was profoundly moving. And I thought in the end that’s what we leave – the story of our life in words, whether written or retold. The music at a funeral, the wonderful photographs of a life well lived, the prayers and chants – all of this fills the soul. But it’s our story that remains.