(In July of 2014 I did not know what was coming.)
I was driving Clifford, my 1992 Ford dually diesel, 300,000 miles on the motor, body looked like half a million, headed to Texas, pulling a trailer, long day ahead and already off to a slow start, because on a whim, I was trying to knock out an errand in Sulphur, before I headed towards Orange.
It was still early morning, and there coming towards me on Maplewood Drive was a familiar car.
I slowed, he slowed, and we passed, father and son, surprised to meet like this. I watched his 85-year-old face turn towards me and we waved, smiled, and then continued, watching each other’s brake lights in our mirrors…
I have reached a place where I roll with the blows more than ever before. If something inconveniences me, I’m more likely, at this age, to be open to the option that God is at work… and that the inconvenience is actually me being redirected for something Higher.
Like yesterday…
It’s January of 2015. He woke early, eager to go to his Father’s house.
He had trouble dressing, so we just put his church trousers on, over his pajama bottoms. Then he sat in his chair, and watched the clock, until it was time to go to church.
Neither of us knew that this was his last Sunday.
That wave he’s doing, you can take it a lot of ways: that he’s waving to the camera;
that he’s waving to his family and friends; that he’s waving to say, I know where I’m going, and I’m not afraid; that’s he’s saying, Goodbye, for now, but I’ll see you later…
My father is 85 years old. He and I have passed on the road many times, and for most of those times both he and I took it for granted, as common. We’d do the little hand wave thing like people who grew up country do, a little finger action, a head nod, and then keep on, down the road.
We passed yesterday, for the first time in years – maybe decades (!?!) – because I was delayed in leaving, and ran an uncommon errand, and because of all that…
…I got The Gift of seeing my father’s little gray car approaching, the sizzle as my subconscious notified me that this was not just any car, the anticipation – was it him, was it him? – the two seconds of seeing his happy face, with love in it, looking at me…
…and I thought to myself, ‘This may be the last time you pass like this.’
How kind God is, to give us these little moments.
When I was a child, God was thunder and lightning, sometimes frightening, but what I’ve experienced is that God is the Master of Subtlety, gifts of delicacy, in the midst of everydayness. We want our miracles to be dramatic, as if we’re missing something, that needs to be added, when in fact, most of what we need, we’ve had all along. And yes, we took it for granted, but here He comes again, in grace, and gives us yet another chance to see what Wonder was always there, ours because He knew we needed it, ours because God is kind like that…
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(That’s how it went, and that’s how I wrote it, in 2014. Here’s what happened next.)
That was July. Saturday before Labor Day, he and I attended a family reunion, and afterwards went to the cemetery where his beloveds dwell. We’re talking age and health, and he says, “I feel good, but you never know what lil t’ing is growing inside you.” His left hand went to a place on his torso.
As we drove away he impulsively started singing Precious Memories:
Precious memories, unseen angels
Sent from somewhere to my soul
How they linger, ever near me
And the sacred past unfolds…
I joined in. We looped through the chorus, and then he said, “That’s all I can remember,” and I said, “Me too,” so we sang the chorus again, and I whistled to make the moment last.
Few weeks later he was in the emergency room.
Followed by the test results, where the doctor told him, “3 to 6… get your affairs in order…”
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I am now far along on the healing path. There was nothing tragic about my father’s end. It was orderly, and as death goes, it was gentle.
What remains is the sweet.
If I were doing my father’s obituary again, reducing it to its core it would read:
“He fell in love with God when he was just a boy, and spent the rest of his life trying to get closer, closer, closer…”
My father was, and still is, the Christian-ish Christian I will ever know. Sometimes when I pray, I’ll actually say the words, “I want what my father had with You.”
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Speaking of prayer, how about we?
Our Father
So kind, so kind, so kind,
Thank You for giving us a good start
To learn love,
From parents who love us.
Thank You for Your sneaky kind ways
Of grace, in all its thicknesses.
Thank You for cycling us around
To rediscover and remeasure
What we had and took for granted.
The having was a gift,
The losing was a hurt,
The healing is a mystery,
And after that, we’re left with the sweet taste
Of memories and moments
That are sacredly ours.
Amen.
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*Uncle P has begun a new series on his Eighty-one Facebook page, titled Uncle P’s Morning Musings. So far, its one every morning, and you’re invited to see how they fit you.
Uncle P can be reached at eightyoneantiques@gmail.com. All three of his books can be found at Expressions, 3100 Ryan Street, Lake Charles, and at Flock o’ Five, 217 E Thomas St, Sulphur.
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