If I should die...

This morning Jeremy is headed off to a funeral. His mom said that Barbara was so loved that the church will be overflowing with people. Having been in Barbara's company, I can wholeheartedly agree. She was a woman full to the brim of life and love, and her home was filled with music and happiness. Barbara was a brightly shining light. She has not dimmed or extinguished, but she has been placed in the heavens where she belongs, to shine ever brighter.

I don't think there will be so many people at my funeral.

I'm absolutely certain that Jeremy's will be packed.

But not mine.

I'm pretty sure that the ripple effect my life has had is pretty minimal at best. And that's okay.

I'm a hermit, and I like it that way. Instead of a bright star, I'm more like a phosphorescent mushroom. Or maybe a truffle, all buried in dirt until some porker sniffs me out.

However, those few whom I have managed to become close to are the very parts that make up my heart and soul. They are my life's blood, and I hold them close to my heart fiercely. This life is a long battle, and I am honored that I have these few who stand by me in the fight.

So, when my spirit exits my mortal husk, I hope that those few who attend my funeral services understand why I'm going to have Henry V's St. Crispin's Day Speech read from the pulpit.

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more methinks would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse;

We would not die in that man’s company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say “These wounds I had on Crispin's day.”

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words-

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered-

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

And after the speech is read, I'm going to have the congregation divided up into two teams, and have a PVC sword fight on the church lawn, and the rule will be when someone dies, they have to shout "BY JOVE!" if they are on the British side, and "SACRÉ BLEU!" if they're French, with lots of  "oui oui," "hauh hauh,"and "stuff and nonsense" exclaimed throughout.

And then they can set my coffin on fire and push it out on a raft on the lake.

It's gonna be epic.