For all the years I knew you, you could never muster a stern rebuke, but you were stern plenty that day: “Never ever speak to me about your passing again!”: You do remember, do you not? We were driving by the pesky peaks of Northern Pennsylvania with its lush blanket of greens and teasing clouds. Perhaps I was just trying to stay awake or the pressure build-up was finally getting to me, somehow I began to talk about death – my death. You would have none of it: “Never ever speak to me about your passing again!” I stopped talking, but I never stopped hoping: I hoped we might live long enough to perfect the grace of service to our King – together. Then I would leave. You were to leave too eventually, but not by the way of the dust. You were to eventually distill into the air because I could never imagine you lowered to the dust. I was never to witness it. Death had nothing on you my love. You were the least likely candidate for the grave. It still has nothing on you.