A Visit With Dad

"Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?“ 1 Corinthans 15:55

I went to visit my father’s grave the other day.  I visited him beneath a sunny sky, a half hour before the grounds closed and the dead are left to sleep amongst themselves.  As far as I could see there was only one other visitor, a man somewhat older than I and much closer still to his grief.  He was some thirty yards away but I could tell he was crying. I was not. He had brought flowers, lots of them actually. I had none. I let go of most of the tears and many of the flowers years ago.

Ever since I was young I have felt that our loved ones are allowed to visit us on such days as these, when we come to the place where they have been laid to rest. Many of you will find this silly, I know, but I can’t help it. I just feel that way. I imagined my father sitting there next to me, angel-like, or perhaps standing there, allowed to partake in my one way conversation.  If I take this idea to the extreme I find problems. I mean, how could one be sadness-free, in a heavenly state, and still be able to stand idly by while loved ones come sad and in tears to your grave? I realize there are problems with my notion. I cling to it still. We all grieve differently I guess. And the logic works both ways. My father and I were so close I can’t imagine him happy in heaven without occasionally being allowed to check up on his son (and grandson, and granddaughter).  The difference is now my father has perspective, and a universal one at that, which I also imagine makes the tears and sorrows we create of this life less serious, and far less powerful. 

So we had a chat, my Dad and I. Like we used to.  I told him how much I missed him. He sent a random dog across the cemetery to tree a squirrel. No leash and no owner around as far as I could tell. My Dad loved squirrels. When he was older one of his favorite things to do was to visit our house and sit at the dining room table, early in the morning, over a fresh cup of coffee, and look out the window and laugh at the squirrels moving up and down our old maple tree. I told him that I hoped he was happy in heaven, free of his cancer and so very alive. I was greeted by an eruption of birds, a huge flock of sparrows I think, from a tree nearby. They broke into an amazing cloak of feathers, dark specks against the fading blue of that sunny sky, weaving and bobbing their way to another tree opposite me and my grieving friend, and even he had to stop to take a look. It was beautiful.  I told my Dad that the only thing missing was the sound of the ice cream truck that usually accompanies my visits, from the street adjacent to his corner of the cemetery, out there on “the other side” of the wall. I waited. Nothing. It was a weekday you see. The ice cream man is usually a Saturday or Sunday kinda guy.

I said goodbye and took one last look at my grieving companion not so far away. I thought about how death leaves us all with an immense hole in our lives. Many of you reading this know exactly what I mean, those of you who don’t will someday and it is to you that I write these words. That hole? You have a choice of how you want to fill it. Will it be with the dry dirt of bitterness and sorrow? Or will it be with the rich soil of faith and hope?

As I walked to my car, over the wall, guess what I heard? No, not an ice cream truck. Instead I got one of those car horns that blasts one of those old Mexican dance songs. I smiled and laughed. Dad always told me not to take myself too seriously.  Got me again Dad.