Who among us hasn’t visited a small village cemetery in one of the remote corners of the world, passing our fingers across unfamiliar names inscribed on headstones often found out of place, as though someone were thrusting them up from below? Burial grounds often set in locations with picturesque views of the ocean, or tranquil rolling hills, or huddled next to reverent churches.
In many instances these graveyards have long since been overgrown; the weathered wooden or stone crosses still serving as sentinels within rusty iron railings and neglected gates, having endured gale-force winds and torrential rains over land or off the seas.
Among these monuments to the dead, are found the names of fathers lost at sea; those who have died in service to their country; those who have succumbed to the cruelty of disease, taking refuge in the grave; or those who have simply lived out their lives, falling asleep each night in hopes of awaking in that other world of life everlasting.
It is while our fathers are still living that we should seek his cherished imprints on our lives. Imprints that will not easily be removed by life’s uncertain voyage. We should desire to know each other well, to invest in each other’s lives–before the memories of our father fade from our thoughts and affections once he is gone.
My father’s passing is not yet remote; he left this world in March of this year. I visit my father, not in a cemetery, but at the foot of the folk’s “praying tree,” where he and my mother’s ashes were scattered on the gentle slope of a hillside located under the protective canopy of this stalwart tree overlooking the meadow with its mixture of sweet grasses, thistle and thorn, milkweed and wildflowers–representative of the combination of life’s experiences: some sweet, some thorny, some rich with resplendent colors.
The last time I visited this place, the shades of twilight were already beginning to descend. The sun had hidden itself behind a grove of Norway pine, which grew to the west, their shadows stretching out illimitably across the motionless meadow. The rays of the sun made their way into the grove, piercing between the uniform trunks, flooding the ground on which I stood. Above me rose a pale azure sky, faintly crimsoned by the sunset. A wedge of Canada geese flew high overhead, wending their way to their night sanctuary–a body of water that lay to the northeast. The breeze had completely died down although the exhilarating freshness of the oncoming night drifted in, its mysterious whispering seemingly audible.
He has gone ahead, I thought to myself; yet, I will always carry him with me as God has enlarged my heart for that very purpose– my father’s passing having accentuated my consciousness of vanishing life.
I am grateful for a father who was kindhearted, loving, affirming, gracious, giving, not willful . . . but willing; not so preoccupied with “getting” in this life, that he missed countless opportunities to “give” of himself.
I am grateful for a father who instilled in his children a great sense of right and wrong founded on a clear understanding of God’s Word.
I am grateful for a father who was counted among the millions of fathers who will not permit others to trample under foot their most sacred beliefs.
I am grateful for a father whose right knowledge of life was revealed in his words. He never invented.
I am grateful for a father who loved and honored his helpmate in this life more than any other man I have met or ever expect to meet.
I am grateful for a father that was present; that our home included our father.
There are so many memories behind me now; yet, his imprints will continue to last for what is left of my life.
And of this I am confident: in remembering my father, life will be all the richer.
Author Byron R. Pulsifer advances, “The extension of the positive characteristics of a father can contribute more to the healing of a nation than all the money laden do good programs combined. It is these caring, compassionate, respectful and loving attributes that can not only encourage and heal a family, but can be extended outward to a neighborhood, a town, a city, a territory, a region, and a country.”
Former Cook County Commissioner Garry Gamble is writing this ongoing column about the various ways government works, as well as other topics.
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