Your father in law is dancing and sparkling as light and circling above you in flight—grateful for every moment he had with you and all you did for him. I know you know this, but I offer it as a reminder for sharing your story with me. I hung on every word. God bless you and all those you hold dear.
Your father in law is dancing and sparkling as light and circling above you in flight—grateful for every moment he had with you and all you did for him. I know you know this, but I offer it as a reminder for sharing your story with me. I hung on every word. God bless you and all those you hold dear.
Gone From My Sight
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone."
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"
Yesterday I and two of his two sons dressed him. And at first they're was apprehension on my part. I've never done this before, or handled a deceased person. The coldness of his body was at first a shock, and then... Feelings of missing him came flooding back. His huge hands dwarfed mine. I was surprised that his sons didn't say more, besides the coordination of moving him from side to side as we fit the clothing on him. But all were grieving in their own way. I had previously passed on my gratitude for assisting in this effort, and at the last minute before going realized he had lost so much weight before dying that his pants were too large, so I stopped at the store on the way there to get a smaller pair. The white shirt I took from my closet was still a little big, particularly around the neck - my wife often bought his shirts based on my size.
I had wanted a prayer before doing this dressing, but one brother is characteristically late and the others and the staff were waiting for him, and we immediately went in. I asked him to do so before departing, and it was a beautiful prayer. I slipped a photo of his mother always carried by his father in his wallet into the hands of another brother, who in turn put it in his father's shirt pocket, just above his heart.
Late last night, I took the trash cans to the curb and noticed the neighbors garage door open, and knocked on his door to tell him. After closing the front door, I started to leave and remembered that I forgot to say something to him. I knocked again, and expressed my thanks to him for alerting me to the solemnity of dressing our kindred dead.
I had heard stories from the past of funerals held in homes and relatives digging graves, and while doing so, sharing stories of the deceased and otherwise celebrating the life of the deceased.
It slows things down. It sharpens and focuses life for everyone as to what is important, setting the stage for a celebration that each of us hope to have in the eyes of our loved ones - reviewing our own brief lives and committing to adjustments.
It seems we've lost so much in our hustle and bustle world, and have outsourced so much of this part of life. I suppose that was part of the apprehension I faced going in.
As I positioned his large hands for the last time on his chest and stepped back to see our work, I saw a magnificent man, clothed in robes of purity and glory, which he had worn many times in his life in celebration of the lives of his ancestors in our temples.
I was so grateful for the opportunity to serve him one last time.
And I want to again thank you for the beautiful story you passed along. I'm going to copy and paste it when I get back to my computer.
Writing all this with a single thumb swiping across a very small keyboard on my phone (because my own hands are large) has made me slow down, and think more deeply on what has transpired.
I just had a prompting to look at your substack, Tritorch. I skimmed the titles and a reply or two from you and subscribed. I think I've found a kindred spirit in the battle against evil.
Your father in law is dancing and sparkling as light and circling above you in flight—grateful for every moment he had with you and all you did for him. I know you know this, but I offer it as a reminder for sharing your story with me. I hung on every word. God bless you and all those you hold dear.
Gone From My Sight
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone."
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"
And that is dying...
—Henry Van Dyke
Wow. That is beautiful! Thank you!
Yesterday I and two of his two sons dressed him. And at first they're was apprehension on my part. I've never done this before, or handled a deceased person. The coldness of his body was at first a shock, and then... Feelings of missing him came flooding back. His huge hands dwarfed mine. I was surprised that his sons didn't say more, besides the coordination of moving him from side to side as we fit the clothing on him. But all were grieving in their own way. I had previously passed on my gratitude for assisting in this effort, and at the last minute before going realized he had lost so much weight before dying that his pants were too large, so I stopped at the store on the way there to get a smaller pair. The white shirt I took from my closet was still a little big, particularly around the neck - my wife often bought his shirts based on my size.
I had wanted a prayer before doing this dressing, but one brother is characteristically late and the others and the staff were waiting for him, and we immediately went in. I asked him to do so before departing, and it was a beautiful prayer. I slipped a photo of his mother always carried by his father in his wallet into the hands of another brother, who in turn put it in his father's shirt pocket, just above his heart.
Late last night, I took the trash cans to the curb and noticed the neighbors garage door open, and knocked on his door to tell him. After closing the front door, I started to leave and remembered that I forgot to say something to him. I knocked again, and expressed my thanks to him for alerting me to the solemnity of dressing our kindred dead.
I had heard stories from the past of funerals held in homes and relatives digging graves, and while doing so, sharing stories of the deceased and otherwise celebrating the life of the deceased.
It slows things down. It sharpens and focuses life for everyone as to what is important, setting the stage for a celebration that each of us hope to have in the eyes of our loved ones - reviewing our own brief lives and committing to adjustments.
It seems we've lost so much in our hustle and bustle world, and have outsourced so much of this part of life. I suppose that was part of the apprehension I faced going in.
As I positioned his large hands for the last time on his chest and stepped back to see our work, I saw a magnificent man, clothed in robes of purity and glory, which he had worn many times in his life in celebration of the lives of his ancestors in our temples.
I was so grateful for the opportunity to serve him one last time.
And I want to again thank you for the beautiful story you passed along. I'm going to copy and paste it when I get back to my computer.
Writing all this with a single thumb swiping across a very small keyboard on my phone (because my own hands are large) has made me slow down, and think more deeply on what has transpired.
Thank you for assisting me on that journey.
You just made me cry. Thank you Justin.
Me too! This is truly a beautiful tribute of love.
I just had a prompting to look at your substack, Tritorch. I skimmed the titles and a reply or two from you and subscribed. I think I've found a kindred spirit in the battle against evil.
Thank you for all you do and share.
Yes, Tritorch is a warrior poet with the heart of a lion. I am regularly encouraged and strengthened by his resolve and I pray for him every day.
God bless you and your house, Justin.