read at my funeral,” announced my eighty-five-year-old mother-in-law. Two thoughts raced into my head: she was years away from a funeral, and I was now the guy who was going to have to make good on this deal.
“Have you told anyone else?” I asked, praying so.
“No. Actually, yes. I told Matt the other day.”
She reached toward the coffee table and opened a green book entitled Prayers by Michel Quoist (Sheed and Ward, 1963). It was a gift given to her late husband by one of their daughter’s boyfriends nearly forty years ago. The inscription was dated 1974. Sure enough, her son Matt had attached a yellow Post-it to Page 21.
Mom read it aloud. The way it came out of her mouth sounded more like a hymn. It filled the room with light and soul. Vivid images flooded into my mind with every word.
I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t want to.
The Wire Fence
The wires are holding hands around the holes:
To avoid breaking the ring, they hold tight the neighboring wrist,
And it’s thus that with holes they make a fence.
Lord, there are lots of holes in my life.
There are some in the lives of my neighbors.
But if you wish, we shall hold hands,
We shall hold very tight,
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