The years and the connections they shared compelled her to attend the service acknowledging the end of his time on this earthly plane. There was just one problem. She had a three-year old . . . and funeral masses are usually not well tolerated by such creatures . . .

For the past several years I’ve taken the week before Memorial Day to focus on a few members of our military who lived in our area—and who gave their lives in service to our country.

My maternal grandmother was a fiercely independent soul, having been born and raised on a farm in the New Hope community of rural Hardin County, Tennessee. She made up for her lack of travel experiences by marrying my grandfather who worked for TVA during their years of dam construction across the southern United States.

It was late one Saturday afternoon when the guests gathered beneath the boughs of an ancient oak. They had come to celebrate the beginning of a life together for two young people they all knew and loved, but before the ceremony began with the official seating of the grandparents and parents of the bride and groom, a woman walked down the aisle, carrying sunflowers which she gently laid in a chair at the front.

The crowd was tremendous, numbering in the tens of thousands, and all willing to wait the almost eight hours it could take to reach their destination. And the vast majority of them came armed with cell phones and the occasional selfie stick.

As a child I always had a love-hate relationship with Easter. I loved the egg hunts we had at school, walking to a nearby classmate’s home and searching for the elusive eggs scattered about the yard. I wasn’t crazy about being required to dress up for the church service—mainly because I wasn’t crazy about being required to dress up for much of anything.

When a family comes to the funeral home to make arrangements for someone they have loved and lost, they come bearing much more than clothes and a picture for the memorial folder. They just don’t always realize it.

If you were allowed to live a normal, rough-and-tumble childhood, then you probably have the scars to show for your adventures. I know I do.

It was one of those nights when his daddy had to work late, and our youngest grandchild Malcolm was upset because he wouldn’t be home for their normal bedtime routine.