This is really beautiful...God is not sleeping.

Got this from an email

Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where
I sat.
I was at the funeral of my dearest friend - my mother. She finally
had lost her long battle with cancer.
The hurt was so intense, I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive,
Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held
a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted
me at
my father's death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my
entire
life.

When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and
my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it
fell
on me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take
care of her.

I counted it an honor.

"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church.

My life stretched out before me as an empty abyss.
My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while
clutching his wife's hand.

My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms
around her as she cradled their child.

All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone.
My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her
walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together.

Now she was with the Lord.
My work was finished, and I was alone.

I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church.
Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor.
An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me.
He folded his hands and placed them on his lap.

His eyes were brimming with tears.
He began to sniffle. "I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was necessary.

After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they
keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?"

"Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary. No one called her
'Mary,'" I whispered.

I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of
the
church. He interrupted my grieving with his tears and fidgeting.
Who was this stranger anyway?

"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people glanced
over at us whispering, "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."
"That isn't who this is."
"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"
"No, the Lutheran church is across the street."
"Oh."
"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir."

The solemness of the occasion mixed with the realization of the
man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter.
I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as
sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away.

Sharp looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more
hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated beside me.
He was laughing, too, as he glanced around, deciding it was too
late for an uneventful exit.

I imagined Mother laughing. At the final "Amen," we darted out a door
and into the parking lot.

"I do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled.
He said his name was Rick and since he had missed his aunt's
funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee.

That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who
attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place.
A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where
he
was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same
church, right on time.

In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter.
In place of loneliness, God gave me love.
This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her mother
and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's truly a match made in heaven."