"Heavy hearts, like heavy clouds in the sky,
are best relieved by the letting of a little water."
~~Christopher Morley


Poetry and Readings

Quote:  "Grief never ends... But it changes.  It's a passage, not a place to stay.  Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith... It is the price of love." -- Author Unknown

Butterfly Memorial Poem

A rush of wings
they flutter high
to touch the sun
and kiss the sky
A butterfly
is with us now
No more a caterpillar
upon a leaf
(Person's Name) with angel wings
A soaring butterfly
with us they sing. 

by Lili Pintea-Reed copyright 2002, for the IBBA

“Death is the future for everyone.   It is the Last Post of this life and the Reveille of the next.   Death is the end of our present life, it is the parting from loved ones; it is the setting out into the unknown.   We overcome death by accepting it as the will of a loving God, by finding Him in it.   Death, like birth, is only a transformation, another birth.   When we die we shall change our state… that is all.   And with faith in God, it is as easy and natural as going to sleep here and waking up there.”-- Pope John XXIII in Journal of a Soul

William Butler Yeats said:  “Death does not end life but is part of it, one of nature’s transformations as we work our way through its cycles.  Death informs life.  It is not simply the mother of beauty… it is the mother of life itself… for how could we conceive of life if there were no death?”  
One day the Creator was resting, sitting, watching some children at play in a village. The children laughed and sang, yet as he watched them, the Creators heart was sad. He was thinking: These children will grow old.
Their skin will become wrinkled. Their hair will turn gray. Their teeth fall out. The young hunters arm will fail. These lovely young girls will grow ugly and fat. The playful puppies will become blind mangy dogs. And those wonderful flowers-yellow and blue, red and purple-will fade. The leaves from the trees will fall and dry up. Already they are turning yellow.

Thus the Creator grew sadder and sadder. It was in the fall, and the thought of the coming winter, with its cold and lack of game and green things, made his heart heavy. Yet it was still warm, and the sun was shining. The Creator watched the play of sunlight and shadow on the ground, the yellow leaves being carried here and there by the wind. He saw the blueness of the sky, the whiteness of some cornmeal ground by the women.
Suddenly he smiled All those colors, they ought to be preserved.

I'll make something to gladden my heart, something for these children to look at and enjoy. The Creator took out his bag and started gathering things: a spot of sunlight, a handful of blue from the sky, the whiteness of the cornmeal, the shadow of playing children the blackness of a beautiful girls hair, the yellow of the falling leaves, the green of the pine needles, the red, purple, and orange of the flowers around him. All these he put into his bag.

As an afterthought, he put the songs of the birds in, too.
Then he walked over to the grassy spot where the children were playing. Children, little children, this is for you, and he gave them his bag.
Open it; there's something nice inside, he told them.
The children opened the bag, and at once hundreds and hundreds of colored butterflies flew out, dancing around the childrens heads, settling on their hair, fluttering up again to sip from this or that flower.

And the children, enchanted, said that they had never seen anything so beautiful.
The butterflies began to sing, and children listened smiling.
But then a songbird came flying, settling on the Creators shoulder, scolding him, saying: Its not right to give our songs to these new pretty things.
You told us when you made us that every bird would have his own song. And now you've passed them all around. Isn't it enough that you gave your new playthings the colors of the rainbow?

You're right, said the Creator. I made one song for each bird, and I shouldn't have taken what belongs to you.
So the Creator took the songs away from the butterflies, and that's why they are silent. They're beautiful even so! he said.
Buck Conner
Member of the "Turtle Clan" - Lenni Lenape Society

Do not stand by my grave and weep
For I am not there.

I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am diamonds that glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush of butterflies in joyous flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there.
I did not die. ~~

As the Lord had finished creating the earth, something was missing so he chose pieces from all the flowers, threw them into the sky and blew life into them and the butterflies were born.
From an Easter service attended by
Penny Wilson of Monarch Meadows.

As you release this butterfly in honor of me,
know that I'm with you and will always be.

Hold a hand, say a prayer,
close your eyes and see me there.

Although you may feel a bit torn apart,
please know that I'll be forever in your heart.

Now fly away butterfly as high as you can go,
I'm right there with you more than you know.

By Jill Haley

More coming