Burial Wishes Quotes

Optimism hopes for the best without any guarantee of its arriving and is often no more than whistling in the dark. Christian hope, by contrast, is faith looking ahead to the fulfillment of the promises of God, as when the Anglican burial service inters the corpse 'in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.' Optimism is a wish without warrant; Christian hope is a certainty, guaranteed by God himself. Optimism reflects ignorance as to whether good things will ever actually come. Christian hope expresses knowledge that every day of his life, and every moment beyond it, the believer can say with truth, on the basis of God's own commitment, that the best is yet to come.

No son wishes to see his son less powerful than himself.

Who chose burial monuments? Were the wishes of the deceased taken into consideration? It was a subject I'd never considered before.

This is my only wish to you, bound in anger and grief: Do not scratch my bleeding wounds, I’m full of disbelief. My soul is filled with sorrow! I seek grace from the Lord. Remember, Jesus bought us both and for the same accord.

The earth was a grave: our life was lent to it by its elements and had to be returned: a time came when the simple elements seemed to long for release from the complicated forms of life, when every element of every cell said, "Enough!" The planet was our mother and our burial ground. No wonder the human spirit wished to leave. Leave this prolific belly. Leave also this great tomb. Passion for the infinite caused by the terror, by timor mortis, needed material appeasement.

Would people be excited about your departure from the earth or they would wish you should come back again and again if possible?

VISION OF A WISARD How many of you wish to be Wizards when you grow old? How many of you want to fly? I wished to become a dragon – he said And he looked at us with eyes filled with fire The Wizard of Earth’s Sea Descended to tell us a secret of ABRACADABRA Get to know – he said - God’s true name The word will initiate Power Gate keepers of Ancient Knowledge Will open their doors Mythological Archetypes will start their dance Leading you to your tribal clout Skeletons scattered over the burial grounds Ancestors with their weapons and spears Saints and Demons Doctors and Gypsies Healers and Witches Will join you to celebrate The Birth of Self Power of Mind over Body The Vision of the Dominion of Light

The Eiffel Tower wasn’t just the largest thing that anyone had ever proposed to build, it was the largest completely useless thing. It wasn’t a palace or burial chamber or place of worship. It didn’t even commemorate a fallen hero. Eiffel gamely insisted that his tower would have many practical applications—that it would make a terrific military lookout and that one could do useful aeronautical and meteorological experiments from its upper reaches—but eventually even he admitted that mostly he wished to build it simply for the slightly strange pleasure of making something really quite enormous. Many

The spring equinox celebration included a dawn trip to the nearby Rillaton Barrow, a Bronze Age burial mound high up on the Cheesewring Moor, with its entrance facing directly east. ‘A great archaeological find, dear,’ Mrs Darley informed me, rather breathlessly, as we climbed up to the entrance. ‘A skeleton, dagger and gold cup were all found here. However, the gold cup ended up in the royal bathroom for some considerable time until the death of George V and now stands in the British Museum, although you can see a copy of it in Truro if you wish. Come,’ she said, patting the top of the lintel, ‘we’ll sit here a while and wait for the sun.’ The sun duly arrived in all its spring glory over the eastern horizon, bringing a golden glow to the swathes of mist, which hung in the fields between Dartmoor and Bodmin.

house with a great view. You’ll see that at the party tonight. Wish Char would be here for that, too, but we’ll all be together soon.” At least, Kate thought, Jack Lockwood, alias former father, would not be here tonight, so she could enjoy herself. Not only was she curious to see Grant Mason, but she also couldn’t wait to examine the Adena burial site she’d found on an old map in the university archives when she was back in the States at Christmas. The so-called Mason Mound was about twenty yards behind Grant’s house, and she was much more eager to see it than him. * * * The caterers Grant had hired from the upscale Lake Azure area had taken over the kitchen, and he didn’t want to disturb the setup for the buffet or the bar at the far end of the living room. So he sat in his favorite chair looking out over the back forest view through his massive picture window. The guests for the party he was throwing for his best friend, Gabe, and his fiancée, Tess, would be here soon—eighteen people, a nice number for mixing and chatting. He’d laid in champagne for toasts to the happy couple. Gabe and Grant had been best friends since elementary school, when a teacher had seated them in alphabetical order by first names. Grant had been the first to marry. Lacey had been his high-school sweetheart, head of the cheerleaders, prom queen to his king. How unoriginal—and what a disaster.

Mr. Fish told my mother that he would make a “gift” of Sagamore’s body—to my grandmother’s roses. He implied that a dead dog was highly prized, among serious gardeners; my grandmother wished to be brought into the discussion, and it was quickly agreed which rosebushes would be temporarily uprooted, and replanted, and Mr. Fish began with the spade. The digging was much softer in the rose bed than it would have been in Mr. Fish’s yard, and the young couple and their baby from down the street were sufficiently moved to attend the burial, along with a scattering of Front Street’s other children; even my grandmother asked to be called when the hole was ready, and my mother—although the day had turned much colder—wouldn’t even go inside for a coat. She wore dark-gray flannel slacks and a black, V-necked sweater, and stood hugging herself, standing first on one foot, then on the other, while Owen gathered strange items to accompany Sagamore to the underworld. Owen was restrained from putting the football in the burlap sack, because Mr. Fish—while digging the grave—maintained that football was still a game that would give us some pleasure, when we were “a little older.” Owen found a few well-chewed tennis balls, and Sagamore’s food dish, and his dog blanket for trips in the car; these he included in the burlap sack, together with a scattering of the brightest maple leaves—and a leftover lamb chop that Lydia had been saving for Sagamore (from last night’s supper).

Eleven people have been killed as a result of violence targeted at abortion providers: four doctors, two clinic employees, a security guard, a police officer, a clinic escort, and two others. Anti-abortion extremists are considered a domestic terrorist threat by the U.S. Department of Justice. Yet violence is not the only threat to abortion clinics. In the past five years, politicians have passed more than 280 laws restricting access to abortion. In 2016, the Supreme Court struck down a Texas law that would have required every abortion clinic to have a surgical suite, and doctors to have admitting privileges at a local hospital in case of complications. For many clinics, these requirements were cost prohibitive and would have forced them to close. Also, since many abortion doctors fly in to do their work, they aren’t able to get admitting privileges at local hospitals. It is worth noting that less than 0.3 percent of women who have an abortion require hospitalization due to complications. In fact colonoscopies, liposuction, vasectomies…and childbirth—all of which are performed outside of surgical suites—have higher risks of death. In Indiana in 2016, Mike Pence signed a law to ban abortion based on fetal disability and required providers to give information about perinatal hospice—keeping the fetus in utero until it dies of natural causes. This same law required aborted fetuses to be cremated or given a formal burial even if the mother did not wish this to happen.

Alright, alright," Aberforth grunts, grimacing at the truly ridiculous amount of warm-and-fuzzies implied with all of that. The boy is usually better about keeping that shit to himself, unlike his over-emotional brother. Makes sense why Aberforth prefers him. "Fine, I'll—stop in to officiate your wedding, but I'm doing that and nothing else. I'm doing it on one condition, you hear me?" "Okay," Regulus says, eyes narrowing again. "I'm old. I'm probably gonna die in the next fifteen years or so, if I'm lucky," Aberforth announces with a grunt, and he appreciates that the boy doesn't protest, or try to deny it, or even seem to care very much. He only blinks and, after a moment of hesitation, nods. "I don't have kids, never cared to have a spouse, and all my family is dead. I don't much care what happens to my property or possessions after I'm gone, but I need someone to carry out my last wishes for my burial." "The tree," Regulus murmurs. Aberforth nods. "I want to be cremated, then buried with Albus and Ariana. Think you can handle that?" "You—me?" Regulus blinks again, this time with mild alarm, visibly startled. "Wait, you're putting me in your will? No, that's too much. I don't want your stuff, or to deal with all that shit. It's stressful. Pick someone else." "How bad do you want me to officiate your wedding?" Aberforth asks, eyebrows raised. Regulus holds his hand out immediately. "I'd be happy to bury you. You have yourself a deal." Aberforth chuckles, helplessly, and reaches out to shake his hand.

Even if we do not suffer from religious mania, unrequited love, loneliness or jealousy, most readers can identify with Burton’s account of information overload over three centuries before the invention of the internet, an extraordinary broadside which is worth quoting in full: I hear new news every day, and those ordinary rumours of war, plagues, fires, inundations, thefts, murders, massacres, meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, apparitions, of towns taken cities besieged in France, Germany, Turkey, Persia, Poland &c. daily musters and preparations, and such like, which these tempestuous times afford, battles fought, so many men slain, monomachies, shipwrecks, piracies, and sea-fights, peace, leagues, stratagems, and fresh alarms. A vast confusion of vows, wishes, actions, edicts, petitions, lawsuits, pleas, laws, proclamations, complaints, grievances, are daily brought to our ears. New books every day, pamphlets, currantoes, stories, whole catalogues of volumes of all sorts, new paradoxes, opinions, schisms, heresies, controversies in philosophy, religion &c. Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees, embassies, tilts and tournaments, trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays; then again, as in a new shifted scene, treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, deaths of Princes, new discoveries, expeditions; now comical then tragical matters. To-day we hear of new Lords and officers created, to-morrow of some great men deposed, and then again of fresh honours conferred; one is let loose, another imprisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh; he thrives, his neighbour turns bankrupt; now plenty, then again dearth and famine; one runs, another rides, wrangles, laughs, weeps &c. Thus I daily hear, and such like, both private and public news.37 And that way, Burton reminds us, that way madness lies…

saw nothing finer or more moving in Russia than Tolstoy’s grave. That illustrious place of pilgrimage lies out of the way, alone in the middle of the woods. A narrow footpath leads to the mound, nothing but a rectangle of soil raised above ground level, with no one guarding or keeping watch on it, only two huge trees casting their shade. Leo Tolstoy planted those trees himself, so his granddaughter told me beside his grave. When he and his brother Nikolai were boys, they had heard one of the village women say that a place where you planted trees would be a happy one. So they planted two saplings, partly as a kind of game. Only later did the old man remember that promise of happiness, and then he expressed a wish to be buried under the trees he had planted. And his wish was carried out. In its heart-rending simplicity, his grave is the most impressive place of burial in the world. Just a small rectangular mound in the woods with trees overhead, no cross, no tombstone, no inscription. The great man who suffered more than anyone from his own famous name and reputation lies buried there, nameless, like a vagabond who happened to be found nearby or an unknown soldier. No one is forbidden to visit his last resting place; the flimsy wooden fence around it is not kept locked. Nothing guards that restless man’s final rest but human respect for him. While curious sightseers usually throng around the magnificence of a tomb, the compelling simplicity of this place banishes any desire to gape. The wind rushes like the word of God over the nameless grave, and no other voice is heard. You could pass the place without knowing any more than that someone is buried here, a Russian lying in Russian earth. Napoleon’s tomb beneath the marble dome of Les Invalides, Goethe’s in the grand-ducal vault at Weimar, the tombs in Westminster Abbey are none of them as moving as this silent and movingly anonymous grave somewhere in the woods, with only the wind whispering around it, uttering no word or message of its own.

My dear Marwan, in the long summers of childhood, when I was a boy the age you are now, your uncles and I spread our mattress on the roof of your grandfathers’ farmhouse outside of Hom. We woke in the mornings to the stirring of olive trees in the breeze, to the bleating of your grandmother's goat, the clanking of her cooking pots, the air cool and the sun a pale rim of persimmon to the east. We took you there when you were a toddler. I have a sharply etched memory of your mother from that trip. I wish you hadn’t been so young. You wouldn't have forgotten the farmhouse, the soot of its stone walls, the creek where your uncles and I built a thousand boyhood dams. I wish you remembered Homs as I do, Marwan. In its bustling Old City, a mosque for us Muslims, a church for our Christian neighbours, and a grand souk for us all to haggle over gold pendants and fresh produce and bridal dresses. I wish you remembered the crowded lanes smelling of fried kibbeh and the evening walks we took with your mother around Clock Tower Square. But that life, that time, seems like a dream now, even to me, like some long-dissolved rumour. First came the protests. Then the siege. The skies spitting bombs. Starvation. Burials. These are the things you know You know a bomb crater can be made into a swimming hole. You have learned dark blood is better news than bright. You have learned that mothers and sisters and classmates can be found in narrow gaps between concrete, bricks and exposed beams, little patches of sunlit skin shining in the dark. Your mother is here tonight, Marwan, with us, on this cold and moonlit beach, among the crying babies and the women worrying in tongues we don’t speak. Afghans and Somalis and Iraqis and Eritreans and Syrians. All of us impatient for sunrise, all of us in dread of it. All of us in search of home. I have heard it said we are the uninvited. We are the unwelcome. We should take our misfortune elsewhere. But I hear your mother's voice, over the tide, and she whispers in my ear, ‘Oh, but if they saw, my darling. Even half of what you have. If only they saw. They would say kinder things, surely.' In the glow of this three-quarter moon, my boy, your eyelashes like calligraphy, closed in guileless sleep. I said to you, ‘Hold my hand. Nothing bad will happen.' These are only words. A father's tricks. It slays your father, your faith in him. Because all I can think tonight is how deep the sea, and how powerless I am to protect you from it. Pray God steers the vessel true, when the shores slip out of eyeshot and we are in the heaving waters, pitching and tilting, easily swallowed. Because you, you are precious cargo, Marwan, the most precious there ever was. I pray the sea knows this. Inshallah. How I pray the sea knows this.

Most of the town couldn't stand Momma, yet would show up because it was the proper thing to do then proceed to judge us on the pageantry of her burial.

Thirteen Thirtyfive Strongest taste loudest drop head is filled the thought, unlocked Strongest taste loudest drop head is filled the thought, unlocked Strongest taste loudest drop head is filled the thought, unlocked Strongest taste loudest drop head is filled you'd be thirteen I'd be thirty-five gone to find a place for us to hide be together, but alone as the need for it has grown you'd be thirteen I'd be thirty-five gone to find a place for us to hide be together, but alone as the need for it has grown, yeah cha cha, cha cha, cha cha cha cha, cha cha a cave or a shed a car or a bed a hole in the ground or a burial mound a bush or a tree or the aegean sea, will do for me cha cha, cha cha, cha cha cha cha, cha cha, ha I can say that you look pretty you turn my legs into spaghetti you set my heart on fire for you I found a vent in the bottom of a coal mine just enough space for your hands in the inside if you go do let me know you'd be thirteen I'd be thirty-five gone to find a place for us to hide a den or a dessert perhaps an ink squirt a cellar, a wishing well, a war or a guarantee will do for me for you I found a cell on the top floor of a prison just enough space for you to fit your feet in if you go do let me know for you I found a cell on the top floor of a prison just enough space for you to fit your feet in if you go please let me know I go running with a heart on fire I go running with a heart on fire I go running with a heart on fire I go running with a heart on fire I go running with a heart on fire I go running with a heart on fire I go running with a heart on fire

Akeldama is the one place I have never been to, because of the strange way that I feel when I get near to it. The Greek Orthodox Monastery of St. Onuphrius stands on the exact place where it is believed Judas hanged himself. I should have realized that before. I just didn’t think about it.” “That’s kind of creepy.” Sam grimaced at the thought. “The monastery face, the old city’s walls and Mt. Zion,” she added. “You may find the area quite familiar, Sam. There are burial caves and tombs all over the area.” Sam widened his eyes. “We were there! Thousands of years ago, but we were there! That is so surreal. Do we need the monastery’s permission to go to the burial grounds?” “No,” she said, quickly. “All you need to do is let me know when you wish to go.

How Can Black People Write About Flowers at a Time Like This" dear reader, with our heels digging into the good mud at a swamp’s edge, you might tell me something about the dandelion & how it is not a flower itself but a plant made up of several small flowers at its crown & lord knows I have been called by what I look like more than I have been called by what I actually am & I wish to return the favor for the purpose of this exercise. which, too, is an attempt at fashioning something pretty out of seeds refusing to make anything worthwhile of their burial. size me up & skip whatever semantics arrive to the tongue first. say: that boy he look like a hollowed-out grandfather clock. he look like a million-dollar god with a two-cent heaven. like all it takes is one kiss & before morning, you could scatter his whole mind across a field.

The pieces of glass from a wedding were meant to be saved. If the husband died first, the wife prepared his body for burial by weighting his eyelids with the shards. If the wife died first, it was the husband’s job to do this. I wish

58. Yahya related to me from Mālik from al-Ala ibn Abd ar-Rahmān from his father from Abū Hurayra that the Messenger of Allâh, (S), went to the burial grounds and said, "Peace be upon you, home of a people who believe! We shall be among you, Allâh willing. I wish that I had seen our brothers!" The people with him said, "Messenger of Allâh! Are we not your brothers?" "No," he said, "You are my companions. Our brothers are those who have not yet come. And I will precede them to the Hawd. (The Hawd:

the white scales from Tobit’s eyes, so that he might again see with his own eyes God’s light; and to give Sarah, the daughter of Raguel, as a wife to Tobiah, the son of Tobit, and to rid her of the wicked demon Asmodeus. For it fell to Tobiah’s lot* to claim her before any others who might wish to marry her. At that very moment Tobit turned from the courtyard to his house, and Raguel’s daughter Sarah came down from the upstairs room. III. PREPARATION FOR THE JOURNEY TOBIT 4 A Father’s Instruction. 1 That same day Tobit remembered the money he had deposited in trust with Gabael at Rages in Media. 2 He thought to himself, “Now that I have asked for death, why should I not call my son Tobiah and let him know about this money before I die?” 3 So he called his son Tobiah; and when he came, he said to him:* “Son, when I die, give me a decent burial. Honor your mother, and do not abandon her as long as she lives. Do whatever pleases her, and do not grieve her spirit in any way.a 4 Remember, son, how she went through many dangers for you while you were in her womb. When she dies, bury her in the same grave with me. 5 “Through all your days, son, keep the Lord in mind, and do not seek to sin or to transgress the commandments. Perform righteous deeds all the days of your life, and do not tread the paths of

You may specify by telephone,” the voice droned on, “whether you wish his body interred by the Government or would you prefer a private burial place? The fee for Government burial is ten dollars.

The story of Jacob’s burial, in the end, is the story of two heroes. The first is Joseph, who risked everything to bury his father according to his wishes. He risked the loss of power, prestige—and perhaps most of all, his good standing in the eyes of Pharaoh. But the second hero, unlikely as it may seem, is Pharaoh himself. He resisted the urge to impose upon the venerated Jacob an exclusively Egyptian identity. He allowed Jacob to be who he was—Israelite, not Egyptian—and still he and the populace would cherish him; still he and Egypt would regard Jacob as royalty. They would accord him all the honor of a king, notwithstanding Jacob’s rather public decision that Canaan was his true home. The humility evinced by Pharaoh’s stance is nothing short of remarkable.

I heard that the priests were concerned, my lady,” she says carefully. “I believe they said that there were an unusual number of dead girls being carried out of your castles for burial.” The countess sighs, exasperated. “I give work to so many young girls in my castles and estates that it’s inevitable that God takes some of them each year. I wish there was no plague, no sickness, no death, but that is not the world we live in. You know that better than anyone, Boróka. You saw how sick Orsolya was.

i took beatrice to your gravestone but she didn’t know why we stopped there because you can’t explain burial to a dog so i dug up my missing you with tears and no shovel and you gave me a little more understanding of my mother when i heard you whisper she’s just tired i wish you were here to remind us to love a little more and judge a little less cause our brand of love is still i told you so when we could use a little more i love you no matter what and i miss stirring gravy barefoot in the kitchen and i miss a little more salt but for you i will try to be a little more sweet and a little more resistant when she reinforces my doubts or pokes holes in my achievements i just really wish you could meet beatrice dear nana

The burial crew found him at Sara’s grave one day that summer. Without bothering to ask permission from the town council, they buried him there, beside my sister. Everything was green. For me, this was the most beautiful time of the year in Berkshire County, before the leaves all turned color and dropped away. They say that dogs may dream, and when Topsy was old, his feet would move in his sleep. With his eyes closed he would often make a noise that sounded quite human, as if greeting someone in his dreams. At first it seemed that he believed Sara would return, but as the years went by I understood that his loyalty asked for no reward, and that love comes in unexpected forms. His wish was small, as hers had been—merely to be beside her.

A maiden? Out here? And scented with festering carcasses?” Vladamir searched the forest that surrounded his castle. The hum of insects was quite clear on the morning air, and he noticed that the red bristled pigs grazing just beyond his walls were undisturbed. Nor could he detect movement within the barren limbs of the trees. Finally satisfied that the girl was alone, he turned his attention back to Ulric. He refused to show any interest in the maiden. “Wake her and send her on her way.” He kept his voice passionless and made no effort to help the woman. “If she is dead, burn her, for I won’t tolerate that wretched smell in my bailey.” “Should we not try to find out who she is first? Mayhap there are those who search fer her even now. Would you deny her kinsmen a proper burial?” Ulric protested quietly. “Do as I command!” Vladamir insisted in a low growl. Even as he did so, he saw the knights that manned the wall look over the girl with curious stares. He heard their whispering as it drifted down, though he couldn’t make out their hasty words. He didn’t need to. The woman was more than likely a Saxon wench and they would wish to know whom, for none in the manor were missing. If she was dead, there was nothing he could do for her. He didn’t need this headache. His life was stressed enough.

O great King of kings, a man can possess only so much of the earth’s surface as this, the extent that one steps on. You are mortal, like the rest of us, and yet wish to possess more and more ground. You will soon be dead, and in that state you will own just enough earth as needed for your burial.

Lazarus Saturday: The Longest Way by Stewart Stafford "Lazarus, come out!" Jesus said: A dead man awoke in a burial place, Wrapped head to foot on a stretcher; He shook away the cloth on his face. Four days dead, his soul was gone; His sisters berated Jesus's late arrival; The Lord did not doubt his power, From the afterlife came his survival. From a white light end to a dark revival, Life cascaded in decomposing flesh, His chest hurt as it rose and fell again, Bloated and blotchy skin alive afresh. Lazarus struggled to breathe in dusty air; His body was freezing and deathly pale; At first, he thought he had gone to God, The voice of his friend told another tale. Shuffling stiffly to the cave's womb exit, Newborn-blind to his second life; The Disciples rushed to unwrap him, His sisters embraced away their strife. Lazarus wanted to tell what he had seen, But was told it was not for mortal ears; His sisters had to respect this wish, Overjoyed to live to Methuselah's years. The word spread fast of this act; Of the Nazarene's immense power; That his reach could extend so far, To the world far past Babel's Tower. As the daughter of Jairus resurrected, Christ himself arose on the third day; Lazarus was in Death's grip tightest, Miracles that blood money cannot repay. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.