Lately, I’ve been attending more funerals than I ever expected at this stage of my life. Each service, each graveside moment, has pressed a deep, quiet awareness into my heart: life is incredibly fragile, and everything we rush and hustle for will one day fall completely silent. In those moments, listening to eulogies, watching tears, feeling the weight of final goodbyes, I find myself thinking of Ecclesiastes, a book that has long intrigued me and that I return to several times a year.
Ecclesiastes speaks the language of the funeral home with startling honesty. “Meaningless, meaningless… chasing after the wind,” it says, as if echoing the feeling that rises when we realize how quickly a full life can be summed up in a few paragraphs on a program. The careers, the deadlines, the anxieties about status and success – none of them follow us into the ground. Standing there, I sense how fleeting our days are and how fragile the things we cling to really are. The book doesn’t say this to depress us, but to wake us up: to remind us that without God, all our striving is just smoke on a windy day.
Yet, strangely, Ecclesiastes doesn’t leave me in despair. It invites me to live more awake, more present, more anchored in what matters eternally. It whispers that every simple joy – a meal shared, honest work, a kind word, a quiet evening – is a gift from God, meaningful not because it will last forever on earth, but because it’s received with gratitude before Him. Funerals and Ecclesiastes together have become my teachers: they remind me that one day the hustle will end, the noise will fade, and only what was rooted in God’s love will truly remain. And with that awareness, I long to live the remaining days I’ve been given with more reverence, more tenderness, and a heart turned toward eternity.
So help me God….
Xoxo,
Lady Abena.