My Father . . .

The day he died, I stood in his room and said to him, “You can go now.”

He could not respond.  He was somewhere between this life and the next. 

For some time he’d lost his zeal for living and it broke my heart, for he had more zeal for life than anyone I knew.  Though I saw his torment and prayed that God give him rest from it, I never said that to him until that morning.  In a short time, he was gone.  No big thing, just gone.  It didn’t hit me at first.  Eventually, I struggled with the moment.  Had my words killed or released?  Truthfully, I’m not that powerful.

I was laying a rock patio behind my house.  I worked furiously the morning of the funeral.  I saw the verse “We’re surrounded by a cloud of witnesses” in a different light.  My dad was a man of simple faith, always surprised at the result like a child who asks for a treat and does not know if the treat will be given.  Yet he asks, trusting the good in people, the good in life, the love of a parent.  The receiving brings a light heart and a confident joy.  So was my father and that morning I knew he was hearing and seeing from afar.

I put a few cds in the player and programmed a set of songs.  Leader of the Band;  Goodbye My Friend; Elijah; The Last Time I Was Here; North of the Sky.  I put it on repeat sequence and worked and cried.

My niece was staying with me, getting ready for the funeral.  Later she told me that when she heard the songs the first time, she was intrigued by my choices.  When they came round the second time she thought, “Well, that’s neat.”  The third time she listened quietly.  The fourth time, she said “I think I’ll just stay in my room.”  I didn’t mean to scare her.  That night she stayed with my mom.

There was a cleansing, solidifying quality to that list.  I’ve never listened to it that way again, though I consider it each Memorial Day.

When I am pressed in by the direction or non direction of this world, it comes back to me eventually.  My father stood for what he believed, sometimes quietly, sometimes not.  He was a man of integrity; he was my hero, my mentor. 



My father was a good man.