Dad is Gone
Jun 12 '02
The Bottom Line Dealing with grief is a personal thing. Sometimes the answers are within us.
DAD IS GONE
Heavy, rain-laden clouds overshadowed the chilly October morning. It was only fitting, perhaps, reflecting the heaviness in my heart, the grief in my spirit. The memorial service had just ended. Yet Dad’s favorite hymn, ’How Great Thou Art,’ sung by Art Smith, Dad’s favorite soloist from church, had not lifted the doom-clouds from me. I could hardly wait to get away from everyone, to finally be alone. The heady fragrance of the many floral arrangements had kicked up my allergies. My head was beginning to throb.
My husband, Jeff, and I walked outdoors from the funeral home. We were to lead the entourage of friends, now bonded in a common mourning, to the gravesite. My dad rode ahead of us, along with his flowers, in the place of honor -- a shiny, black limousine.
“Boy! That’s living!” Dad would have said to me, in an aside. Referring, of course, to a poor man’s response to seeing a wealthy Texan being lowered into his grave in a gold Cadillac, per the Texan’s wishes. I shook away the irreverent thought and stepped under the canopy. Jeff and I sat down on the cold, gray-metal chairs, provided for that purpose.
I could feel the gathering of persons around us, hushed and reverent, but I had eyes only for the flag-draped coffin. Perhaps this is a dream, I thought. Perhaps, I’ll awaken and find that he is still here.
“I am the Resurrection and the Life.”
The pastor’s voice startled me. Somehow it seemed sacrilegious, piercing the utter stillness as it had. Jeff reached out, placed his hand over mine, pain and pity filling his eyes. I smiled; trying to indicate that everything was okay. We’d soon leave, drive back to Dad’s. He would be waiting with coffee and donuts, as he always did. No, you’re wrong, Lori. He’s gone. Never again to ----.
“He that believeth in me shall never die.”
“Courage must be your middle name, Lori,” Dad had said when I was seven. He had laughed and hugged me to him then while the doctor was stitching a huge gash in my leg. “Whatcha got, Punkin? Gutsy corpuscles or just brave blood? You want to bring your bike in for the Doc to fix up, too?”
I had giggled. That’s how Dad was. He could turn tragedy into light comedy. He could take worthless pieces of broken things and turn them into things of beauty. I wouldn’t cry now, for Dad had never cried -- unless you’d count the time I caught him sobbing in the basement after Uncle Walt died. But that was understandable. Walter, after all, was Dad’s only brother. But, then, again, Dad is my only dad.
“Let not your hearts be troubled,” Pastor Bob continued, “neither let them be afraid.” His voice sounded sorrowful, yet strong. I looked up directly into his eyes and smiled, hoping to reassure him.
Then the wind began gusting, stirring things up. The huge flag over the Bell Tower slapped the sky, and many of the carefully arranged grave decorations around us blew away. Even some of Dad’s floral arrangements toppled over, spilling onto the temporary emerald-green carpet. A tear slid down my cheek. I let it slide. Nothing is ever permanent, anyway
“In My Father’s house there are many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you.”
Wrenching my eyes from the fluttering flag, I looked out and upward to the dark blanket of fast-moving clouds. For one brief moment, the clouds parted and I glimpsed a patch of blue sky, laced with golden streamers. Dad would have called that spot ‘a window of heaven.’ My heart hammered within me, skipped a little with an emotion not unlike joy. Perhaps he was looking out that window, watching me, right now.
I had an impulse to wave to him. I wanted to be in the celebration that heaven must be having right now, welcoming him. I’d even venture to bet that the golden streets are sparkling as they never have before. After all, Dad brightened this planet for almost sixty years, and my life for almost thirty of them. I can only imagine what he can accomplish in an eternity.
I visualized him, arm around Mom, smiling at the angels with that glorious smile, entertaining them with his fabulous stories, corny jokes. Yes, Heaven must be topsy-turvy today. I choked, almost laughing out loud.
Jeff nudged me and brought me back to the present, forcing me to compose myself. Two men in black suits were solemnly folding the American flag, using slow, precise movements, their manners crisply reverent. The taller man, his white hair fluffed by the breeze, walked over from the casket and handed the tightly-compacted bundle to me. I smiled and accepted it proudly, but, again, I had to suppress a giggle.
You see, Dad and I had a secret joke, a family joke, about flags and his Uncle Elmer. Seems Elmer was a nut about the flag. At a parade, one day in Connecticut, the flag bearers marched by. Uncle Elmer jumped up in the bleachers, holding his hat over his heart with one hand, pumping the air with his other fist, and literally shouted to the world, “I love that flag.”
Well, Aunt Emma, prim and proper Victorian lady that she was, briskly yanked Uncle Elmer’s coat-tails and shouted, “SIT DOWN, YOU FOOL!” At that very moment the marching band stopped playing and her words spewed forth as if she had used a megaphone. There followed a moment of startled silence, then a spattering of low snickering.
The story is that Uncle Elmer slumped back down to the bench amid raucous laughter, dropped his head, and stared at his feet for the rest of the parade. The story never failed to crack me up when Dad told it. Now, however, I graciously thanked the funeral director for the flag, and stood up for the Benediction.
“May the peace of God which passeth all understanding, keep you from this day forward and even forevermore,” Pastor intoned. And all the people said, “Amen!”
It was over. Back to living again. The guests started moving away, sniffing, smiling gently at one another. Whispering. I mingled with them, accepting many condolences and even offering comfort to some of them. “Please come to the house,” I announced. “We have enough food there for the whole town.”
“Thank you, dear, but we wouldn’t want to intrude on your grief. You must want to be alone,” said Mr. Martin, the postman, sniffing and wiping his eyes.
“Intrude?” I replied. “Goodness, Dad would be so proud that you are honoring him. He would love to see you having a good time. And I would love it, too,” I said, amazed at the simple truth of it. Appearing delighted, yet a mite embarrassed, Mr. Martin and many of Dad’s other friends agreed to come to the house. And Jeff was downright beaming over there by the car.
I grinned at him and reached out to hug Mr. Martin, throwing my head back and laughing. At that moment, for one small fraction of time, I felt exactly like my dad.
My Dad. Will he ever really be gone? Not as long as I am around, I decided. Just then the sun broke through the gloom, spotlighting the beautiful grounds with a heavenly brilliance. The bells in the Tower began to chime, and Jeff and I left for home and friendships.
"He that believeth in Me will never die."
Thanks for reading.
Lorace©1990
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Epinions.com ID:
lorace
|
 - Top 500 |
|
Member: Lorace
Location: The Heavenly Realm
Reviews written: 277
Trusted by: 444 members
About Me:
No matter how you spell it, L-U-V_still says_LOVE! Hope your day is full of it!
|
|
|
© 1999-2009 Shopping.com, Inc.