My Reflections:

It’s the day of Papa’s service.  We leave for Nana’s in the morning.  Extended family are flying and driving in and there’s a lunch planned at Nana’s place where we can all gather before the service.  In awesome-supportive fashion, the food has already been prepared by family and friends so it’s just a matter of heating it up to serve the masses.

 

It’s so good to see all these dear family members in one place, many have traveled many miles to get here and moments like these, where we’re all together like this, are rare and precious.

 

 

 

     

 

Before we know it, it’s time to get ready to head over to Nana & Papa’s church for Papa’s memorial service.  Thankfully, I don’t need to give a second thought to what dress I’ll wear.  Of course it will be the one J already picked out with me right after we found out about Papa’s brain cancer.  Not bought as funeral attire at the time, but it works.  I’ve had to shop for funeral-attire before in the wake of grief and it’s awful.  So glad to avoid that this time around.

Soon it’s time to leave.  The church and the pre-service receiving line await.

That darn awkward receiving line.

When the pastor suggested it days earlier, Mark and I both groaned (yes, audibly).  Receiving lines are awkward for the one “receiving” and the one walking the line, most specifically when you don’t know the person.  My last experience being in a receiving line was when J’s mom passed away.  I had a women I didn’t know shake my hand and say something like, “‘Oh, you’re the one who’s pregnant.”  There was an awkward pause as I corrected her.  “No, I’m not pregnant, my son is 4 months old.”  To which she added, “Oh, it’s okay then.”  I wondered what that was supposed to mean.  Was it “okay” that I still looked pregnant post-delivery, or “okay” that she’d made an already crappy day just a tad crappier?

So all that to say, receiving lines can be awkward.

But the pastor had convinced us it was important, thus why we find ourselves tonight receiving a long line of guests for an hour or more.  In all honesty, it’s actually not so bad this go-around. I get the importance of the whole thing, for the guests as well as for us.  But I also pick up on an important rule of receiving line placement when you’re the one’s doing the receiving:  if at all possible, position yourself at the end.  J & I quite by chance score this spot, and I realize it is indeed the place to be.  No need to awkwardly make small talk with unknown guests while they wait for their moment with the person they actually know in line.  When you’re at the end, and the people in the line don’t know you, they can just say a few short words and bow out as quickly as they like.  If and when this receiving line business is ever required again, you can be sure that I will be vying for a spot at the end.

All receiving line pettiness aside, I’m deeply touched by everyone who is here, the majority being Nana & Papa’s friends from their church, but many of my friends have come too.  Twice I’m almost brought to tears over who I see in line, one, a friend who’s coming could potentially put her in an awkward position due to others she might see here (her selfless act of coming in spite of this means so much to me), and two, the husband of Nana’s cousin who just passed away weeks ago (he flew cross-country to be here for just this service, an event that surely would hold painful reminders of his own recent loss).  People keep coming and the line keeps going and the pastor has to cut it short so the service can begin.  People rush to get in a quick hug before everyone finds their seats.  Yes, the receiving line proved a good idea after all.

The service begins and I’ve given strict instructions to J that there will be absolutely no “screen time” (playing games on our phones) for our big boys during the service.  They will sit quietly and listen to stories and memories about their Papa.  Moments like these are important. Yet I had given absolutely no forethought with what I was going to do with Little M during the service.  Thankfully though, my cousin’s wife had, and offered to see after him so I could focus on the service (I have no idea if she herself is able to do so, but I’m grateful for whatever she does to keep my little guy occupied).

The service is not 10 minutes in when I realize my strict “no screen time” rule is a ludicrous idea.  Yes, it’s a wonderful to think our boys can sit still and stay attentive to people talking for over an hour, but the reality of it just isn’t happening in this present moment.  And I selfishly would like to focus on Papa’s memorial service and not on repetitively “sushing” my boys and telling them to get off the floor.  Obviously there’s room for some training here, but today is not the day.  I relent, and boys and mommy are thankful for the technological “survival” tools this 21st century has provided for such “emergencies.”

While boys are thus engaged and quiet, Papa’s coworker, nephews, and siblings all share stories and memories of Papa.  As I sit and listen, I’m reminded what an awesome family Papa has/had.  What an awesome family I still have.  This is one group of incredible people.  I’m intrigued to hear their stories about Papa’s life, some of which I’ve never heard before today.  Hearing them share their memories is my favorite part of Papa’s service.

Mark’s included a poem on the program insert he’d written and given to Papa previously.  It reads:

We took a truck through a car wash

We shared a green apple in the garage

We played tackle in the front yard

We changed the oil in the white car

 

You shared a love only Christ can share

And through your love we’re all aware

That no one else could fill your shoes

In all the gracious things you do

 

You taught me how to be a man

Though I didn’t always understand

You had in mind the best for me

Even though I did not see

 

You taught me things I did not know

It was from above so I could grow

I’m proud I can say that I’m your son

And for all the things you’ve done

 

No one can ask for the things I’ve had

And no one can ask for a better Dad

I love you more than I can say

Or try to write in this way

 

You’re not only the dad from which I’ve been sown

You’re the greatest man that I’ve ever known

 

Thank you for your love!!!

 

My life-long friend gets up and shares my Papa memories.  She reads what I’ve written:

He was:

The giver of piggy-back and horsey rides.

The killer of spiders and other scary bugs.

The reader of poetry and stories (James Whitcomb Riley’s “The Bear Story” was my favorite).

The teller of after-dinner tales and corny jokes.

The driver of curvy mountain passes and cross-country road trips.

The helper of Algebra and Trigonometry homework.

The planner of family hiking treks and camping trips.

The photographer of milestones and memories.

The singer of gospel hymns and choir numbers.

The listener of the Statler Brothers and Johnny Cash.

The leader of Bible studies and family devotions.

And always the researcher and engineer.

He was:

My dad.

And most recently, he was Papa to our boys & our home project go-to guy.  Several months ago, my friend mentioned that Papa’s fingerprints are all over our home, in all the projects he’s helped with in so many rooms of our house.  I couldn’t agree more.

I still remember Papa’s conversation with me after he’d been present during our home inspection (where the inspector had pointed out the many, many repairs our new home would require).  I’d asked Papa what he thought of us buying this house in light of what we’d just discovered at the inspection.  In standard Papa-fashion, he had a story to tell to get his point across, and his story went something like this:

A man came across a young boy who, happy as could be, was shoveling horse manure. There was a big pile of it and the boy would dig up shovel full after shovel full and toss it aside.

“What a stinky job”, the man thought to himself, “who would want to do that?”  But the boy seemed to get happier with every load he tossed aside.

Finally the man couldn’t stand it any longer and he asked the boy, “what are you doing?”

The boy, with a smile from ear to ear, answered, … “well, with all of this horse manure, there has got to be a pony underneath.”

(source: http://enlightenednetworker.com/homebased-business/what-does-a-little-boy-a-shovel-and-horse-manure-have-to-do-with-network-marketing/#axzz2gu9Vn7fi)

Papa went on to say if we were willing to take on the house with all its issues, then he was sure we could make it into a great place, and then he went on to say “better you than me!”

But the thing is, in the past 2 1/2 years, Papa’s been a willing contributor to many a renovation project at our house.  J kept telling me to stop working Papa so hard, yet Papa kept asking “what’s next?,” faithfully coming once or twice a week to paint, repair floors, build furniture, install light fixtures, and countless other tasks.  I would get a design vision, but Papa would be the one to make my vision a reality.  Ever patient with my wanting it “just so” and a good sport with my sometimes hair-brained ideas.  One of these latest ideas was using a discarded wooden pallet to build rustic shelves for Little M’s nursery.  A pallet?  Initially, Papa didn’t quite catch my vision, but soon enough he was drawing up engineer-style plans with his mechanical pencil for these pallet shelves.  He even joined in on the hunt for give-away pallets left on the side of the road.  In fact, the very day we took Papa to the ER and his brain cancer was discovered, Papa had delivered to our place a pallet he and Nana had found and strapped to the roof of the car.  Who does this?  My dad…… that’s who.

Papa didn’t just say “I love you,” he demonstrated it.  Time and time again, he offered his support, help, and love, tangibly.  To me, and so many others.  He had a genuine heart for serving others.

I’m so grateful for our house project days with Papa these past couple of years, working together to help make our house a home.  I’m so grateful for all the years and memories I have with Papa.  I’m proud of the life he lived in the years he was given to live it.  I’m proud of the man he was, and more so, the dad he was to me.   He will be missed more than words can even begin to express.

 

After my friend shares my words, Papa’s siblings and nephews and niece sing one of Papa’s favorite songs, “Just a Little Talk with Jesus” (yes, they’re musical too; one of those genes that mysteriously skipped right over Mark and myself).

The service continues with scripture reading and words from the pastor and a hymn sung by all.

Afterwards, there’s an array of snacks and desserts  for all our family and guests, all provided by those in the church.  There are tables decorated with mums and there’s lots of chatting and snacking and even laughter.  It’s not an evening of sadness and mourning, but one of good memories and good moments to catch up with friends and family from near and far.  The tears can come later, but tonight is definitely one to celebrate a life well-lived: Papa’s life.