God saw he was getting
tired
And a cure was not to
be,
So God put his arms
around him
And whispered, “Come
to Me.”
A friend, Bill, a colleague’s father, died on St. Patrick’s
Day. A joyful, nurturing father of three
shared fifty-seven enthusiastic years of life with an energetic, loving wife,
Peggy. Gracious, genuine, always
smiling, Bill dedicated decades of service to his parish, St. Raphael, and to
those in need following his retirement from McDonnell-Douglas. His celebration of life ceremony occurred the
Saturday before Palm Sunday.
Concluding the Mass with a
heartwarming remembrance of his father, Bill Jr. invited guests. “My father would like you to join us for
lunch celebrating his life in thanksgiving in the grade school gymnasium at
12:15 following the interment.”
In the caboose of a slow train of
folks driving to the cemetery, I drifted in thought to what must have been
circulating through the minds of the disciples following the Passover meal, the
first Eucharist. Jesus had given them
his body to eat; washed their feet. What’s
tomorrow going to bring? Were the events too strange to them? Did they struggle to pay attention? What were they expecting? I know they had to be exhausted. Considering the day ahead, I seriously doubt
they had thoughts of an arrest, trial, and crucifixion of the man that washed
their feet, taught, healed, worked miracles, and lived among the
marginalized.
I often wander through life
unconscious to the events taking place. What
was this Saturday about to bring?
In the cold mist, I traced a curved
road climbing a hillside terraced with mosaic monuments, somewhat symbolic for
Resurrection Cemetery. Friends gathered
with family in a small chapel, an artistically constructed stone structure upon
the hilltop. The immediate family seated
close to Bill laid in rest. Guests circled
them filling the chapel.
As the monsignor paused to conclude
the interment service with a prayer, an unknown voice interrupted. Barely visible, a man buried behind the crowd
against the wall shuffled forward. Well
into his nineties, apologetic, the elder humbly presented a small harmonica and
requested to play “Amazing Grace” dedicated to his dear friend. Without question, the sizable group
compressed against the stone walls creating an open space. The stranger’s labored hands trembled,
wrapped the reeds lifting them to his lips.
He began to play creating a sacred space. Each attended, amazed as familiar notes like
incense filled the space stirring ears to listen and eyes to see. He played well, the second verse a blessing. At peace, he resigned to pocket his harmonica. He began his shuffle back through the silent crowd.
Peggy could have remained in
sorrowful reflection seated beside the man she’s loved and shared life. But, she chose joy. Spontaneously rising from her seat, she cut through the
crowd to approach the musician with his back to her. Unknown to him, she sought to touch him with
grace in gratitude for his kindness. Her
kiss to his cheek delivered Christ’s grace not only upon the elder, but upon us
all. Peggy welcomed the unexpected, the
extraordinary. Grace overflowed. The harmonica player embodied the love Bill
and Peggy shared with each other, with their family and with so many people
throughout their lives.
Again, Peggy invited guests to the
meal Bill provided in a simple gym. It
was a gift; one I imagined grew from roots deeply seated from their wedding.
How conscious are we of life’s
events taking place? What’s tomorrow
going to bring?
For me, this celebration of life
preceding Holy Week set an unusual tone of expectation, wonder, and gratitude
generally reserved for somber reflection.
Jesus’ resurrection began the transformation of all creation. We offer thanksgiving to our catechumens who
bear witness to transformation, to new life not unlike our loved ones who have
risen in Christ before us.
The Bridegroom is risen! We’re invited to the feast, the table of
plenty!
No comments:
Post a Comment