My Funeral Eulogy

If the phrase “You have one year to live,” ever came from the lips of my doctor, fleshly the first thing I would do is weep. I would crash into my mommy’s arms and my daddy’s strong chest as we shook and cried together walking to the car. During the drive home staring out of the window, pulling out of my brain all of my favorite joys in life that would soon be no more. Joys such as reading the Bible before bed with my parents, trips to Elcharro’s after church on Sundays, Christmas shopping every Saturday after Thanksgiving until Christmas, and Friday night family night at my grandparent’s house. I would picture the last time I led worship at church, wondering if they would let me sing all 52 Sundays until I passed. The pleasure of attending
A eulogy that I would fear to be read at my funeral would be as follows. “Number 17 was my daughter. At least she biologically was. She thought she was kind to me, she thought I didn’t see through her insincere comments. She always asked me questions about her mom and I’s life, or commented on the freshly mowed yard, but it was only because she wanted me to hurry up and finish talking so that I could ask a question about hers. People thought that she was genuine, but she was genuinely not the person she professed she was. She worshiped on stage in front of several people, but when it was just she and I, Number 17 would gossip about the girl with the messed up hair and old jeans in the front pew. That is not what Jesus would do. In front of others, she would be sweet as sugar, silently sitting by. However, when the crowd left and the door shut at home, she would say things that people would never dream of hearing come from her “perfect” lips. She never listened, yet expected me to listen to every piece of good news happening at college or bad news she ever had. Her eyes squinted and she would nod as if she cared, pitying me, but she was already planning out the story she was about to tell me next. My daughter is gone now, unexpectedly. I never heard the words, “thank you,” or “ I love you.” I thought I taught her better. Yet, she did teach me one thing. She taught me what I wished my
Being told that my existence was going to end within the year would leave me feeling wretched, stumbling around in pain and confusion. Praise God, I would not have to live the remainder of my life in that miserable state. I know Jesus, and He is not a God of confusion. He takes the pain and gives joy. My last year would not be lavish or expensive, but it would be a year that I loved, a year that reflected the hope found in Jesus. I wouldn’t live for Jesus just so that I could have nice things written about me in a eulogy, but so that I may leave a legacy. A legacy that my epitaph would sum up nicely, “Well done thy Good and Faithful servant and