As I prepare to take my sister’s cremated remains to New York for interment near her son Vincent, it hit me how our life ends compressed into 9 inch X 7 inch X 5 inch box.

In my guest bedroom, I have items I brought home after clearing out my sister’s rental house.  Her important papers, photos and jewelry she treasured, collectible things she got when our father died; those kinds of things we think we need to keep.

One of the things I brought home is a huge, framed professional photo of her in her wedding dress.  She was such a beautiful bride.  She was always so photogenic too.

Then I looked over at the box of her cremated remains and I had to sit down.

What does it mean to live a meaningful life?

When this experience of mortality ends, how do I want to be remembered?