I am sorry...
I am sorry I have only known you from afar.
I can say that I was not given the opportunity to know you, but I know I could have done better.
I am sorry I only really remembered your name at your wake.
I am sure they have mentioned it before in front of me, but I just didn't think it was necessary enough to lock it in memory.
"There is always the next time," but now there isn't.
I am sorry I only got to know you through your eulogy.
I have only know you as the tall, steady old uncle who still drives to church every Sabbath.
You were also the sweet old husband who still takes such good care of your wife.
You were never noisy. You were never murmuring.
You had that quiet confidence which I admire.
A faithful, silent worker.
I am sorry that I have never spoken a single word to you.
I now wished that I had.
I wonder now if you even knew my existence, whether you have noticed me around.
And I am glad now, extremely thankful, that God had allowed a small gathering just a couple of weeks ago, when I had the opportunity to sit at the same table with you.
Though it was brief, it was probably the only time when we had shared the same space, and air.
But you didn't speak much,
I don't think I heard you at all.
As I watch you now lying there,
I know that you are no longer there.
I know that you have rested from your labours,
and you would be very happy with the Lord.
But as I sing, the tears just came.
Perhaps it is a sense of sadness for the family you left behind.
Or perhaps it is a sense of regret for not knowing you.
How many yous must it take me to change?
I have got to stop making excuses for myself and move out of my comfort zone.
I have got to sit and listen more.
So that I can learn more, and love more.
It's really strange, but I miss you, Uncle Patrick.
I will definitely miss seeing you and your car every Sabbath lunchtime,
and how you would help your wife into the car.
I hope we will meet again.
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
I can say that I was not given the opportunity to know you, but I know I could have done better.
I am sorry I only really remembered your name at your wake.
I am sure they have mentioned it before in front of me, but I just didn't think it was necessary enough to lock it in memory.
"There is always the next time," but now there isn't.
I am sorry I only got to know you through your eulogy.
I have only know you as the tall, steady old uncle who still drives to church every Sabbath.
You were also the sweet old husband who still takes such good care of your wife.
You were never noisy. You were never murmuring.
You had that quiet confidence which I admire.
A faithful, silent worker.
I am sorry that I have never spoken a single word to you.
I now wished that I had.
I wonder now if you even knew my existence, whether you have noticed me around.
And I am glad now, extremely thankful, that God had allowed a small gathering just a couple of weeks ago, when I had the opportunity to sit at the same table with you.
Though it was brief, it was probably the only time when we had shared the same space, and air.
But you didn't speak much,
I don't think I heard you at all.
As I watch you now lying there,
I know that you are no longer there.
I know that you have rested from your labours,
and you would be very happy with the Lord.
But as I sing, the tears just came.
Perhaps it is a sense of sadness for the family you left behind.
Or perhaps it is a sense of regret for not knowing you.
How many yous must it take me to change?
I have got to stop making excuses for myself and move out of my comfort zone.
I have got to sit and listen more.
So that I can learn more, and love more.
It's really strange, but I miss you, Uncle Patrick.
I will definitely miss seeing you and your car every Sabbath lunchtime,
and how you would help your wife into the car.
I hope we will meet again.
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
Labels: contemplation
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