This morning, I passed a cross on the side of the road. It marked where someone had been killed in a car crash. 

I had known the lady. She was kind and selfless. She was humble and hardworking. She was always willing to go the extra mile to help me out.

I never heard anyone speak badly of her.

I always wondered where she went to church, but I never asked.

I didn’t know much about her personal life, other than she had a husband and children. Her kids were practically grown. The youngest was a senior in high school.

The lady was killed on a rainy morning, going around that curve, and a cross marks the spot today.

I attended her funeral, standing room only. There was no minister. One of her family members spoke about her life and read a letter her youngest daughter had written for her. There was no “Amazing Grace” or “Beulah Land.” I think they played John Lennon’s “Imagine.”

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky

There was no prayer, and there was no mention of God.

I looked up her obituary to remember better. She had a unique name, but there were twelve other ladies with the same name in the search results. They were all from ages 17-98 when they had passed.

This lady had made it to her 50s.

It should have happened to me: that time when I was seventeen, traveling too fast around the curve of a slick shortcut road, and my car fishtailed, missing the tree.

Or the time I was texting and driving, now in my thirties and approaching a major intersection, my kids in the vehicle with me. I just barely got the car stopped before a fully loaded semi truck crossed in front of us, barreling down the four-lane highway.

It would have taken all of us out, and it would have been my fault. They might have put up three crosses at the intersection.

Maybe people would think of us as they passed by and speak of my legacy. I’d be used as a public service announcement, a warning of what can happen when you text and drive.

My cross would be a reminder of bad decisions, as are several other roadside crosses strewn along our highways.

I could die on the way home this afternoon, and a cross might just mark the place of my passing.

But I sure hope three things would happen:

They better mention God at my funeral.

They better mention that the cross represents more than just death.

And they better sing “Amazing Grace.” 

That’s what the cross is all about anyway. 

I also know something else that’s going to happen, between now and whenever my time is.

I’m going to be more kind and selfless, more humble and hardworking. It’s a fine way to remember someone.

But I’m also going to ask more people where they go to church.