Full of life, walking through these days, I wandered into a graveyard.
I was not in search of any particular grave and this was not a picturesque place; it was in fact quite the opposite. It sits in the grounds of a neglected church. The windows broken or boarded, duvets in its covered doorway the only evidence of recent use.
I have often passed this place, running or walking, and noticed the sad sight of memorials once proudly standing but now laid flat in the interest of health and safety.
As I walked around its mossy path, a black marble stone caught my eye. It marked a grave, a quarter of a century old; its occupant, a wife and mother. She shared my date of birth. A life cut short, in her thirties; no chance to test the notion that life begins at 40.
It challenged me, made me reflect on life and living. I felt a responsibility to make the most of life whilst there is breath in me. I walked away, down the hill, back into town, aware of the changing season. It brought to mind the words of Ecclesiastes. For everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die. A time to celebrate life.