Beyond

My best friend from childhood became my “forever friend” in later years - a blonde cutie with an addictive chuckle that worked its way to my core, uplifting and encouraging me.  Although she passed away in May of 2013, her bright-and-shiny influence still lives on in that deep spot. Her birthday would have been in a few weeks. 

I miss her, and the stability of our relationship that spanned almost 6 decades.  I miss walking the 5-mile jaunt in the country near her home where we’d talk and talk and talk, and laugh as if we were kids again.  In some sense we were always the same – only older.

When walking the road by the lake last evening, I thought of her, and wished she could have been with me.  I snapped this picture with her in mind – a visual illustration of Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poem entitled Beyond.  Rest in perfect peace, Senie Bug. I’ll join you someday, and we will walk together again. Until then, I’ll treasure memories that only you and I share, including that last precious conversation: http://bethbanter.blogspot.com/2013/05/normal_16.html

Beyond by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

It seemeth such a little way to me

Across to that strange country – the Beyond;

And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be

The home of those whom I am so fond,

They make it seem familiar and most dear,

As journeying friends bring distant regions near.

So close it lies, that when my sight is clear

I think I almost see the gleaming strand.

I know I feel those who have gone from here

Come near enough sometimes, to touch my hand.

I often think, but for our veiled eyes,

We should find heaven right round about us lies.

I cannot make it seem a day to dread,

When from this dear earth I shall journey out

To that still dear country of the dead,

And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.

I love this world, yet shall I love to go

And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.

I never stand above a bier and see

The seal of death set on some well-loved face

But that I think ‘One more to welcome me,

When I shall cross the intervening space

Between this land and that one “over there”;

One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair.’

And so for me there is no sting to death,

And so the grave has lost its victory.

It is but crossing – with a bated breath,

And white, set face – a little strip of sea,

To find the loved ones waiting on the shore,

More beautiful, more precious than before.