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Saturday, I attended a funeral. These ceremonies seem to be cropping up more and more on the social schedule and since the end for me anyway is closer than the beginning they have become a time of reflection. This one was memorable.

Phil T. was a hardcore biker, a big burly Harley dude. Eleven years ago a drunk driver, with no license or insurance, pulled out in front of Phil and he suffered severe brain damage. That beanie helmet didn’t work so well. His wife couldn’t take it and left with their two children. His sister Mary, who I admire, stepped up and learned how to care for him, from draining fluid from his skull to wiping his butt. She had two young children at the time and a job, so this was no small feat.

Phil after the accident sometimes became violent and you could expect him to say anything. Once when the families’ minister visited, Phil asked the ministers wife if she would go to bed with him. The minister was in shock, he rebuked Phil for asking such a thing in his presence, Phil told him he could watch if he wanted. At one time he was on 21 different drugs a day. In February he broke his hip and decided enough was enough and refused all medication, except morphine.

Phil and I were the same age, we were raised 30 miles apart, same vocation, same number of children, both bearded and inked, raised in similar environments, and had the same love for those American V-Twins.
This is what hit home the most.

I had thought about riding the Vulcan to the funeral, but decided it might be in poor taste. The family has become very anti-motorcycle. I was surprised when I entered the sanctuary and saw a picture of Phil’s old gold shovel Electra Glide.

The funeral went well enough. I was most concerned about Mary, she is a fundamental Christian, and my thoughts went to whether Phil had accepted Christ. She had already carried enough burdens in her life and thinking her brother was in everlasting torment too, just seemed too cruel. Fortunately, for her, toward the end he had.

At the dinner I had an excellent conversation with one of the octogenarian members. We discussed everything from John Wesley (they are Wesleyans), to the Apostles Creed, Jesus and the Bible. He even invited me to become a member of their church. He assumed I was a Christian.

Mankind since his earliest writings has asked the questions. Who am I? Why am I here and what is my purpose? What happens after I die? Through the plethora of religions, philosophies and sciences he has tried to answer them.

I still don’t know.
 

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You're not alone, ash. I find that as move farther along my path that i tend to wax philosophical too. I guess it's natural. When i would once act without first thinking, i now catch myself thinking without first acting.

Sorry about Phil.
 
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