Sunday Snapshot {a life remembered with love}

Saturday, March 19, 2011.  A day of great sorrow, a day of everlasting hope.

 

The day the entire S family gathered to celebrate the life of a man we knew as "Daddy/Grandpa/Great-grandpa/Great-great-grandpa."

There are volumes to say.  So many stories that could be written.  (And yes, I am jotting snapshot thoughts in a journal lest I forget any of them).  Yet right now when I stop to really concentrate on each individual memory, my throat constricts, the tears well up, and I get lost...

For now I will write what I wish I could have found the composure to share at his life celebration last Saturday morning.  

"As long as I can remember, Grandpa had difficulty hearing.  As a young adult, I knew to speak slowly and clearly to him, always facing in his direction so that he could read my lips as I spoke.  But somehow, some way, he could always hear the voices of the children.  I think maybe it had to do more with his heart than it did with his ears.  You see, even as a 90 year old man, with all the wisdom life had provided him, I think he sensed a magic in the inquisitive, searching mind of a child.  

Grandpa "reeling in" a cautious Ky the day after his 90th birthday ~ 2008

He was always special, but there was something even yet more special about him when he was around the littles.  It was as if the years melted away instantly.  His face would become animated and his voice instantly became more audible as he interacted with them. 

in conversation with Caleb about the milk box during our last visit with him ~ May 2010

In addition to being able to hear the littles and converse easily with them, or perhaps because of that, Grandpa had an amazing ability to make them feel at ease, safe and secure.  Our youngest, home just two months at the time she met him, immediately sensed that he was good.  And within 30 minutes of meeting him, she reached up to take his hand as we walked around the farm. 

may 2010, DQ's first trip to the farm

He gave of his time when we called or stopped by.  Any of us.  At any time.  It is likely for this quality that he will be missed, truly missed, by my three young children who lived over 500 miles away.  Time apart and distance are simply not enough to have erased the memories of him lavishly giving his time to them when they visited."

Others did speak.  And things were said that I shall treasure in my heart always. To know that others, outside the family, thought as much of him as I did. 

Then it was time to head to the graveside part of the service.  More tears.

I knew, have always known, that Grandpa was a Marine.  He proudly served our country in the Pacific Theatre during WWII.  And I had seen the flag draped across his coffin (oh that word is painful to type) at the church.  But the men in uniform on the edge of the burial plot with their rifles caught my emotions off guard.  

And then they noticed my cousin's son Josh in his full Army dress and one man stepped out of line so that Josh could step in.  (Wasn't it just yesterday that Josh was a baby boy that my cousin Ann and I tended to during our family celebration for Grandpa's birthday?  Weren't we all just playing a lively game of volleyball before jumping into the pool to cool off?  And yet here we are, on a chilly March morning, with a wind blowing across the yet to be planted cornfields surrounding the cemetery).  I've heard a 21 gun salute before.  And the sound of Taps has always given me chills.  But now those two will forever have a new meaning, bringing a wash of emotions as I remember those moments before, during and after those haunting notes blew across the wind.  The precision of seven rifles being fired at once, three different times; the flag being folded and handed to my dad's oldest sister; wishing, perhaps even feeling as if I needed my dad to still alive to be there to be sitting beside my aunts; my cousin Ann who served in the Navy standing at salute; seeing the gravestone marked Virginia and Vernon and knowing their earthly bodies would very soon be resting side by side; the rest of us doing our best to control the wells of emotion brewing in our souls.  

I found myself doing my best to console my loudly sobbing five year old who made no effort to conceal her grief when she reminded us that we told her we would bring Daniel to meet Grandpa Curly after he came home.  And freed by her release of tears, I too let them flow openly. Many of us did.

Yet in the midst of that grief, there were smiles.  Moments where we looked beyond life here on this Earth and smiled that Grandpa has gone before us to meet our Maker.  Glimpses that while we will greatly miss him here, that there is rejoicing in Heaven at his arrival.  

And then following the service and a meal that was provided, we all went back to the farm to be together for a few more hours before many of us headed out of Ohio the next morning.  Hundreds of pictures were taken.  Pictures of all the great grandchildren on the leaning tree near the tree house, snapshots of things in the house that evoke memories of childhood, frames of the different generations engaged in conversation, my own three children at "the sign."

them posing here at "the sign" is extra sentimental because i know they were accepted by my grandfather 100% into the family

I know that my aunts were all three exhausted, but they graciously stayed and let us all explore the farm, walk back to the "crik," and look through the house one more time.  Because for those of us out of state folks, we knew with dread in our hearts that it will likely be the last time we'll see the farm.  Oh sure, we can drive up to visit with family and drive by, but it probably won't stay in the family.

As the afternoon wore on, I stood with my husband and one of my cousins, watching most of the great grandkids playing a game of kickball in the yard as the sun continued to sink.  I willed time to stop ~ thankful for even the extra hour provided by the switching of the clock just the week before ~ in those moments as the rays began to disappear behind the barn.  Because in the laughter of the kids, when I closed my eyes, I could hear the voices from years gone by.  But then I would open my eyes, and realize that this time, instead of being one of those laughing kids, I was one of the grown-ups watching.  

All too soon it was time to go.  Hugs and kisses were exchanged.  Promises were made to visit soon.  And yet it hurt as pretty much all us knew we would likely not ALL gather together again on this side of Heaven.  

There are no words to express how badly it hurt to drive away and not see him standing at the window waving until we were out of sight.  My mom summed my swirling thoughts up well when she said, "An era has passed..."

What I wouldn't have given ~ our wouldn't give now ~ to hear his quiet, raspy voice tell me to take care of myself and the kids one more time.  To hear him say "I love you now," in that reassuring way once again.  And to feel those hands pat me on the back in that way that conveyed everything when words failed as he hugged me.  

Oh I'll miss you from here Grandpa, until beyond Heaven's gates we meet again...

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