My Image Does Not Fade

I see her, tirelessly working, pleasing, and creating as the image of my grandmother finds its way through my tangled, grief stricken thoughts. As winter's chill comes, the trees, now leafless, stretch down their long branches toward her. I see her struggle, as the icy fingers of death seek to take hold. She becomes weak and weathered, her bones grow tired. yet she is still working, pleasing and creating; my image does not fade.

My picture grows as I see her bring the tender light of love and beauty to all who know her. I can feel the warmth in her smile,k her laugh, and her joy. Never ceasing to love and cherish, to bless and provide, to worship and praise, I see a godly women I have always admired. I see her working, pleasing, and creating; my image does not fade.

As death comes again, its icy breath whispers in her ear and she passes from this life. Yet on that day, the sun shown clear lighting the world and casting colorful. rays across the land. Death is mocked. Where, oh death, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting? Though she is gone, your battle is not won. Her Father's love for her has pierced the darkness like the dawn and I fill with joy as she finds eternity. As my thoughts begin to stray and my hand begins to fade, I understand the truth: because He has conquered death, I still see her working, pleasing, and creating; my image does not fade.