Sameiningin - 01.11.1943, Blaðsíða 5

99
himself. Really he was at war with God, his friend, whom
he thought to be, if anything, his enemy.
Life has its joys; Relief from pain, the glow of friendship,
a new success. Homesickness has her furlough; a letter from
a loved one, a son returned, a family reunion. Life has its
glories; a symphony concert, a Michaelangelo masterpiece,
a new-born baby. But homesickness inevitably returns, pain
comes back, friendship flees, the fresh start becomes an
age old failure — “Earth’s joys grow dim,” — time speeds
away those joys to fading memories. — “Earth’s glories too
soon pass away; the dying echoes of the symphony are finally
lost, the portrait becomes dust, the baby grows old and despite
all happiness and success it might enjoy will some day be
alone and surely fall at length to the grim reaper — Death.
Every thing that is of earth must live its little day, then be
corrupt, rust and decay. “Swift to its close ebbs out life’s
little day.”
On my way to my parish in Seattle, Washington, I
stopped some weeks in my little mid-western home town
where I was ordained. One beautiful day we were strolling
down the lane to the little cemetery west of town, my
brother and I. As we left Mountain behind us we couldn’t
help but think of how her joys had grown dim and how
her glories had passed away. We were struck almost speech-
less when we thought of the changes that had taken place.
Houses empty everywhere. Even the echo of past laughter,
dead. As we walked through the grave yard we thought of
how many of those mounds must mean a broken heart, a
joy grown dim or a glory passed away! Then we crossed
the fence and made our way through familiar paths until
we found the swimming pool of old. It was a perfect day.
The pool was better than we had ever seen it before. But
not a boy in sight! The thought occured to me — this is a
cemetery too. Here in these woods is interred the young
shouts and laughter of the boys. I knew. Here lie the joys of
childhood buried in the beauty of this nature We talked
about the times of old as if we were past eighty and then
trekked home. And these wcrds flew through heart and
mind cutting deep and making pain — “Change and decay
in all around I see,” and we were homesick. But that is where
the storv starts. Thank God it ends not there.
At the cemetery, in melancholy mood, I remarked with-
out much thought, “Here is the abode of the dead”. My