John Donne was Right

I erased another name from my address book today.

Already this year, I have erased two.

First, my sister, Lucy,

then Richard, the husband of a long-time friend, Jody,

who both helped with the luncheon

at my sister's funeral.

When I say long-time friend, I mean life-long for Jody.

We were neighbors in Stadium Village back when she was a baby.

By chance, we were neighbors again in Bountiful;

By now Jody has two younger brothers

and we have two small children.

Our two families bought property and build homes together

on the secluded banks of Holmes Creek near Kaysville.

Her mother died not a year

after they moved into their new home

when Jody was in her mid-teens.

Eventually, her dad remarried and they moved away.

We kept in touch at Christmastime through the years.

At Thanksgiving time,

when my friend Jody, in the Relief Society Presidency,
visited Lucy in the hospital,
they discovered the surprise connection.
"You know my sister?"
"You are a sister to my friend?"
Jody said they were asked to prepare a luncheon

for 176 people after my sister’s funeral.

“We said a prayer that everyone wouldn’t come

and that the food would stretch,” she confided.

Jody and her husband, Richard, were the last ones

to leave after putting away all the tables and chairs;

washing all the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.

Lucy’s brothers, sisters and family members

were still visiting in the Relief Society Room.

He came in to tell us to be sure to take everything

with us when we left because

the doors would lock when we went out.

Five days later Richard was dead

from a massive heart attack.

Fifty-eight years old.
Twin sons on missions.

In sorrow, I erase names from my address book.

So many have been erased already.

Parents.
Recently, my sister.

Brother-in-law.

A niece.

Aunts and Uncles.

Double-first cousins.

Childhood friends from the Valley.

Good friends from Stadium Village.

Cherished friends from

Orem, Bountiful, Farmington, Kaysville—

everywhere we have lived.

I am diminished

each time I erase a name

from my address book.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

--John Donne

Another sonnet by John Donne, who was once an atheist.   He is not afraid to speak directly and forthrightly to death.
Holy Sonnets:  Death, be not proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men.
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy strokes; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.