Yesterday was spent at the funeral of Denise’s uncle Pat. Interestingly Denise’s father’s sister is roughly her same age and therefore her uncle, by marriage to her aunt, was merely one year older than me…51. And his untimely death has left his wife and three sons, 27, 23 and 17 with many questions and few answers. Naturally explanations for the ending of relatively youthful lives are often beyond the grasp of mortal minds. But in their years together as a family it is evident that these remaining loved ones have each nurtured an inner strength that allows them to persevere. And further, they appear to be replete with the proper personal values to carry on into their future lives with a steadfast moral compass that seems poised to lead them each toward success.
As a homebuilder in the central Nebraska town of Kearney, Pat touched many lives. This was evidenced by the standing room only crowd of 700 plus mourners who turned out on this day to honor this homebuilder at St James Church in the cold wet wintery mix of Nebraskan March weather.
The Priest’s message was one of answer seeking and of the eternal loving embrace of the Father upon the Son and upon the returning flock. The message seemed to find its mark with the audience as best as it could under these most trying of circumstances. There were many in the church of similar youth to whom this message struck home within their personal lives and inspired thoughts of their own families. The message was clear and touched upon everyone’s private fears of mortality and their life’s affect upon their acquaintances and closest of friends and their precious loved ones. Eyes were damp and hearts were weary.
Then the priest indicated that T, the youngest son, had asked to say a few words on his father’s behalf. There was an immediate and noticeable collective stiffening and taking of breath by the entire congregation. These next few moments would be powerful indeed and our individual struggles to maintain composure would be sorely tested.
As T stood and walked onto the chancel and took the podium, everyone braced with uncertainty for the emotional blow that was about to be delivered. And as T struggled with his first sentence, the jolt was immediate. “Today I’m here to bury my hero” he began. What precious little space within the volume of this church that was not saturated with the lingering presence of these simple words was quickly filled with the muffled sounds of pulled tissues, falling tears and crumbling hearts. Drawing breath he continued on. “But I don’t consider this a good bye. I know that I will see him every day in the many homes he’s built and in the friends and family that he’s touched." T grew in strength and gallantry with each passing word. “I’ll see him in the words and deeds of my brothers and if I’m lucky, maybe someday I’ll see a little bit of him in the mirror…”
I wish that I could remember the rest. But I, together with every living soul within earshot, was struggling against the gushing of personal thoughts within and the ever expanding blanket of this extraneous barrage of emotion. And the emotive source was much deeper than his words. It seemed to emanate also from his virtual passage into manhood that transformed seemingly before our very eyes. These were words wrenched straight from his heart and delivered precisely and directly upon the wanting emotions of the large congregation of mourners. And they were delivered by this young son with the courageous fortitude of the hero himself.
I thought of my own children and our family’s unique yet parallel paths through the last quarter century. I thought of their three sons and of our three daughters all roughly the same ages. I thought of the designation of “hero” upon this departed father. And I thought of the importance of our daughter’s lives within the past, present and future lives of Denise and me. It’s interesting, this difference of perspective between parent and child. Through positive influence and mutual respect, lives lived with purpose and righteousness are then reflected back upon themselves through the actions of the other. A parent looks pridefully upon their maturing children. A young adult looks admiringly upon the aging parent. And as families evolve, countless forgotten sacrifices of the past are repaid ten-fold in the coming of age of subsequent generations of goodness and virtue.
And I thought again of these three young men and how proud their “hero” would be to see their strength and common bond on this of all days. He would see them all now as we see them individually…the children, the young men, the heroes of the future. And as composure's were regained the truth was self evident. T and his brothers had grown unquestionably to be, and remain, their hero’s heroes.
As a homebuilder in the central Nebraska town of Kearney, Pat touched many lives. This was evidenced by the standing room only crowd of 700 plus mourners who turned out on this day to honor this homebuilder at St James Church in the cold wet wintery mix of Nebraskan March weather.
The Priest’s message was one of answer seeking and of the eternal loving embrace of the Father upon the Son and upon the returning flock. The message seemed to find its mark with the audience as best as it could under these most trying of circumstances. There were many in the church of similar youth to whom this message struck home within their personal lives and inspired thoughts of their own families. The message was clear and touched upon everyone’s private fears of mortality and their life’s affect upon their acquaintances and closest of friends and their precious loved ones. Eyes were damp and hearts were weary.
Then the priest indicated that T, the youngest son, had asked to say a few words on his father’s behalf. There was an immediate and noticeable collective stiffening and taking of breath by the entire congregation. These next few moments would be powerful indeed and our individual struggles to maintain composure would be sorely tested.
As T stood and walked onto the chancel and took the podium, everyone braced with uncertainty for the emotional blow that was about to be delivered. And as T struggled with his first sentence, the jolt was immediate. “Today I’m here to bury my hero” he began. What precious little space within the volume of this church that was not saturated with the lingering presence of these simple words was quickly filled with the muffled sounds of pulled tissues, falling tears and crumbling hearts. Drawing breath he continued on. “But I don’t consider this a good bye. I know that I will see him every day in the many homes he’s built and in the friends and family that he’s touched." T grew in strength and gallantry with each passing word. “I’ll see him in the words and deeds of my brothers and if I’m lucky, maybe someday I’ll see a little bit of him in the mirror…”
I wish that I could remember the rest. But I, together with every living soul within earshot, was struggling against the gushing of personal thoughts within and the ever expanding blanket of this extraneous barrage of emotion. And the emotive source was much deeper than his words. It seemed to emanate also from his virtual passage into manhood that transformed seemingly before our very eyes. These were words wrenched straight from his heart and delivered precisely and directly upon the wanting emotions of the large congregation of mourners. And they were delivered by this young son with the courageous fortitude of the hero himself.
I thought of my own children and our family’s unique yet parallel paths through the last quarter century. I thought of their three sons and of our three daughters all roughly the same ages. I thought of the designation of “hero” upon this departed father. And I thought of the importance of our daughter’s lives within the past, present and future lives of Denise and me. It’s interesting, this difference of perspective between parent and child. Through positive influence and mutual respect, lives lived with purpose and righteousness are then reflected back upon themselves through the actions of the other. A parent looks pridefully upon their maturing children. A young adult looks admiringly upon the aging parent. And as families evolve, countless forgotten sacrifices of the past are repaid ten-fold in the coming of age of subsequent generations of goodness and virtue.
And I thought again of these three young men and how proud their “hero” would be to see their strength and common bond on this of all days. He would see them all now as we see them individually…the children, the young men, the heroes of the future. And as composure's were regained the truth was self evident. T and his brothers had grown unquestionably to be, and remain, their hero’s heroes.
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