What's in a bracelet?

They're ubiquitous these days, I know. Yellow and red and green and pink, all the colors of the rainbow, heartache and hope in a rubber band.

I worked in funeral service for six years. The men and women who are called to this profession understand better than most how fleeting this life is, how quickly death can come calling. Maybe that's why they hug so much, learn as much about you as they can, ask after your kids and pray for your parents.

I met Bob and Chris early on in my career at NFDA.  Bob was the incoming president, Chris his amazing wife. It wasn't until we started traveling together to hospice conventions that I really got to know Chris, though, her big smiles and throaty laugh.  The last time I traveled with them was to New Orleans, nine years ago. I was struck by how in love they were, two crazy kids wandering the Quarter.

Chris's story is amazing. It's one of resiliency, time and time again, strength and faith and love.  I have been awed, time and again, at her warrior heart.  

She's still fighting the cancer that has tried time and again to best her.  I have to imagine there are days she doesn't want to get out of bed and yet day in and day out her light radiates from thousands of miles away on my computer screen, in words of support left for her, in the love she shares with others.  The life she and Bob have made, the family they raised, it's powerful testimony to their faith and the love they have for each other.

I don't wear a lot of jewelry, but I wear that pink bracelet. Chris Biggins strong, it says, and invariably someone asks me what the story behind it is.

"Let me tell you about my friend Chris," I smile, and by the time I'm done she's gained another cheerleader, another person inspired, another person praying.

I don't think you can possibly know how many lives you've touched, Chris.  We're rooting for you, and holding you up in prayer and wrapping you up in love and light.