Bury Me With a Fork: The Best Is Yet to Come

Sometimes the simplest stories carry the biggest lessons. And sometimes, apparently, those lessons come with dessert.

I came across an old parable about a woman who wanted to be buried with a fork in her hand. I had heard it before, but this time it hit a little differently. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's everything life has thrown at me lately. Or maybe I've just reached that point in life where a good story, a little faith, and a decent piece of pie can make me think about things I used to take for granted.

Whatever the reason, I loved it. And I think it's worth sharing.

The story goes that an elderly woman, knowing her time on earth was coming to an end, asked her pastor to visit so they could discuss her funeral arrangements. She had everything planned out. The songs she wanted, the scriptures she loved, and the little details that mattered to her. Then, just as they were finishing up, she made one last request.

She wanted to be buried with a fork in her right hand.

Naturally, the pastor was confused. A fork? Of all the things a person might want to take with them, she wanted a piece of silverware?

But the woman smiled and explained.

Throughout her life, she had attended countless church suppers, family dinners, and gatherings where everyone sat around a table enjoying a good meal. And her favorite part was always when someone started clearing the dishes and leaned over to say, "Keep your fork."

Because she knew what that meant.

Dessert was coming.

Not another helping of vegetables. Not something you had to eat because it was good for you. The good stuff. Chocolate cake, homemade pie, something sweet that somebody's grandmother had spent all afternoon making.

The best part of the meal was still ahead.

So she told the pastor that when people came to her funeral and noticed the fork in her hand, she wanted him to explain why it was there. She wanted everyone to remember that even though her life on earth was ending, she believed something wonderful was waiting for her.

The best was yet to come.

Now, first of all, I love a woman who takes her dessert seriously. I also love a woman who can make one final request that leaves everybody scratching their heads until they understand the meaning behind it. There's something about that kind of humor and quiet confidence that I admire.

But the more I thought about this story, the more I realized it wasn't really about dying at all. At least not for me. It was about living. And about how easily we convince ourselves that the best parts of our lives are already behind us.

I think we all do it, especially as we get older. We look back at old pictures and remember who we were before life got complicated. Before the responsibilities, the disappointments, the losses, the health problems, and the thousand little things we never saw coming. We remember being younger and thinking we had all the time in the world. We had plans. Big ones. And we were pretty sure we knew exactly how everything was going to turn out.

Which is funny, because life has never once asked my permission before changing the plan.

I spent a lot of years believing that if I worked hard, took care of my family, and did what I was supposed to do, things would more or less fall into place. Of course there would be bumps along the way. I'm not completely delusional. But I never imagined how quickly an ordinary day could turn into a dividing line between the life you knew and the life you suddenly had to figure out.

When your health changes, when your career gets put on hold, or when the things that once made you feel independent suddenly become difficult, you start looking at life a little differently. You miss things you never even realized you appreciated. You grieve versions of yourself that nobody else necessarily understands you've lost.

And sometimes, whether you want to admit it or not, you wonder if your best days are behind you.

That's a hard thing to say out loud.

We're supposed to be positive. We're supposed to be grateful. We're supposed to find the silver lining and turn every difficult experience into some beautiful lesson. Well, I don't know about you, but there are days when I don't particularly want a lesson. I'd like a normal day, a little peace, and perhaps for the universe to stop assigning me character development for five minutes.

I can be grateful for my life and still be frustrated with parts of it. I can have faith and still have questions. I can believe everything happens for a reason and still wonder what on earth that reason could possibly be.

I don't think those feelings make us any less faithful. I think they make us human.

And that's why I keep coming back to the woman with the fork.

She wasn't pretending that the end of her life wasn't sad. She wasn't asking the people who loved her not to grieve. She simply believed that what was coming next was worth looking forward to. She trusted that the story wasn't finished just because she couldn't see the next chapter.

I think there's something incredibly powerful about that kind of faith.

Not the loud kind that needs to announce itself to everyone in the room. Not the kind that insists everything is wonderful when it clearly isn't. I'm talking about the quiet, stubborn kind of faith that sits beside you when life gets ugly and reminds you that you haven't seen everything yet.

Maybe that's the lesson we need while we're still here.

What if we stopped assuming that our happiest days have already happened? What if we stopped measuring the future against some perfect memory of the past? What if the best parts of our lives don't necessarily look anything like what we originally imagined?

I used to think the best years were supposed to be the years when everything was happening. Raising children, building a career, buying a home, making plans, running from one responsibility to another, and somehow managing to squeeze a little fun into the chaos.

And those years are beautiful. Exhausting, loud, messy, expensive, and beautiful.

But who's to say the years ahead can't be just as meaningful?

Maybe the best years are the ones when we finally stop caring so much about what everybody thinks. When we learn that saying no is a complete sentence. When we stop trying to fix people who have absolutely no interest in being fixed. When we realize that peace is worth more than winning an argument, and that not every invitation requires our attendance.

Maybe the best is finding a new purpose after the old one disappears. Maybe it's discovering talents we never had time to explore. Maybe it's falling in love with our own lives again, even if they look completely different from the ones we planned.

Maybe it's something as simple as sitting around a table with the people we love, laughing about something ridiculous, and realizing that for this one little moment, we have everything we need.

I've started to believe that some of life's greatest blessings don't arrive looking like blessings at all. Sometimes they show up disguised as detours, disappointments, or doors that close so firmly you wonder if they were ever supposed to open in the first place.

I don't believe we have to be thankful for every painful thing that happens to us. Some things are simply unfair. Some losses are devastating. Some circumstances deserve to be acknowledged for exactly what they are, without trying to dress them up in pretty words. its ok not to be ok.

But I do believe that beautiful things can still grow in the middle of a life that hasn't gone according to plan.

I've seen enough of life to know that people can surprise you, circumstances can change, and joy has a funny way of showing up when you least expect it. Sometimes it arrives in a big, life-changing moment. Other times it's a phone call, a familiar laugh, an unexpected friendship, or something so ordinary you almost miss it.

And sometimes, divine timing is downright comical.

We spend so much time trying to understand where we're going that we forget to appreciate the strange and wonderful ways life brings us full circle.

I don't know exactly what the next chapter of my life holds. I'd love to tell you that I have complete confidence, a perfectly organized plan, and absolutely no worries about the future. But that would be a lie, and I think we're all a little too old for pretending.

I have questions. Plenty of them. I have days when I'm hopeful and days when I'm exhausted. Days when I feel ready to take on the world and days when making dinner seems like an unreasonable request.

But I also have a growing belief that just because life looks different doesn't mean it can't still be wonderful.

I'm not finished. Not even close.

There are still things I want to create, places I want to see, conversations I want to have, and memories I haven't made yet. There are people I haven't met who may become important parts of my story. There are things I haven't learned about myself. There are probably a few more mistakes waiting for me too, because apparently I like to keep things interesting.

And I hope there's a whole lot more laughter.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life mourning the person I used to be so much that I forget to enjoy the person I'm becoming.

That's easier said than done, of course. Healing isn't a straight line. Neither is rebuilding a life. Some days you're moving forward, and other days you're standing in the kitchen wondering how you got here.

But being in the middle of a difficult chapter doesn't mean the book is over.

That's what I want to remember.

The woman in the parable believed that the greatest part of her journey was still waiting for her beyond this life. I love that message of faith. But I also think there's a beautiful reminder in it for those of us who are still sitting at the table.

Don't give up on what's coming.

Don't assume you've already experienced every wonderful thing life has to offer. Don't let a difficult season convince you that the rest of your story has already been written.

You can miss your old life and still make room for a new one. You can be sad about what you've lost and excited about what you haven't found yet. You can be a little bruised, a little tired, and still have enough grit left to believe something good is coming.

And if all you can manage today is a tiny bit of hope, that's enough.

Keep it.

Protect it.

Let it remind you that you don't have to know how the whole story ends to believe there are still beautiful pages ahead.

So make the memories. Take the pictures. Use the good dishes. Tell people you love them. Laugh at yourself. Stop saving everything wonderful for some imaginary perfect occasion.

And for heaven's sake, eat the pie.

Because someday, when someone tells me to keep my fork, I want to smile knowing exactly what that means.

The best is yet to come.

And I intend to be here for as much of it as I possibly can.

With love, faith, and a little Divine Grit.

Sacred art for a wilder life.