My sister calls to ask about court shoes, but she’s just left the cemetery and needs me to share her grief. In the last years of Dad’s life, she spent almost every day with him. Sometimes it was just being still, but more often it was watching Gunsmoke and picking up a pizza. Four years later, after visiting his grave, her pain is still acute.
As she walks away from his grave, she notices in the distance a man digging around a new grave. She feels intense appreciation for him, and it is the Christmas season. She drives as close to him as she can and shares a “Merry Christmas” along with a hundred dollar bill. The surprised man graciously receives her gift. It’s what Dad would have wanted; it’s the kind of thing our Father did. He gave to strangers, to friends, to nieces and nephews, and he never left my house without leaving a hundred dollar bill.
“He was a good man.”
“He was a great father,” our feelings echo one another.
Later that afternoon, my sister’s incident tucked into the forgotten file, I visit a bookstore. Someone calls my name. I turn around to see a young man who grew up around the corner and down the hill. He is waiting for a framed print he purchased for his wife’s Christmas. I ask him to show me which one, and he points to a heavenly painting of a mother and children.
Our conversation ensues because this is a young man my husband and I love. I learn his wife has wanted the painting since they had a stillborn child years ago. I remember. I feel compassion for him, his wife, for their suffering, but I also feel happiness for the blessing of their newborn son.
"Did you already buy the present?" I ask. He affirms that he did. "I would have bought it for you," I boldly say.
Because I would have--to show my love, my care, and because I wanted to be an itty bitty part in the healing from the loss of a child.
We are standing together at the cash register to pay for my purchases. I open my wallet and because I haven't opened it in weeks, I'm surprised to find a hundred dollar bill among the ones. I can still be a part of his gift. "Here," I say, as I roll the bill into his hand, "Will you accept that the gift is from me too?" He understands my intentions and his heart says yes.
In that moment, I understand I'm not acting of my own accord. I'm under the influence. The influence of my father who somehow exerted his influence twice that day so we could remember the importance of life and its purpose~~to serve others and in that service to find the greatest joy. I remember the importance of Dad's life. That life continues. Its connection to Christmas and the birth of the Savior who would break the bonds of death.
Earlier in the day, during my sister's phone call, her sorrow lifted when I reminded her she'd acted upon an impression, and the impression came from our father. Her tears had turned to laughter when she recognized that our father knew how to transform pain to joy.
As she walks away from his grave, she notices in the distance a man digging around a new grave. She feels intense appreciation for him, and it is the Christmas season. She drives as close to him as she can and shares a “Merry Christmas” along with a hundred dollar bill. The surprised man graciously receives her gift. It’s what Dad would have wanted; it’s the kind of thing our Father did. He gave to strangers, to friends, to nieces and nephews, and he never left my house without leaving a hundred dollar bill.
“He was a good man.”
“He was a great father,” our feelings echo one another.
Later that afternoon, my sister’s incident tucked into the forgotten file, I visit a bookstore. Someone calls my name. I turn around to see a young man who grew up around the corner and down the hill. He is waiting for a framed print he purchased for his wife’s Christmas. I ask him to show me which one, and he points to a heavenly painting of a mother and children.
Our conversation ensues because this is a young man my husband and I love. I learn his wife has wanted the painting since they had a stillborn child years ago. I remember. I feel compassion for him, his wife, for their suffering, but I also feel happiness for the blessing of their newborn son.
"Did you already buy the present?" I ask. He affirms that he did. "I would have bought it for you," I boldly say.
Because I would have--to show my love, my care, and because I wanted to be an itty bitty part in the healing from the loss of a child.
We are standing together at the cash register to pay for my purchases. I open my wallet and because I haven't opened it in weeks, I'm surprised to find a hundred dollar bill among the ones. I can still be a part of his gift. "Here," I say, as I roll the bill into his hand, "Will you accept that the gift is from me too?" He understands my intentions and his heart says yes.
In that moment, I understand I'm not acting of my own accord. I'm under the influence. The influence of my father who somehow exerted his influence twice that day so we could remember the importance of life and its purpose~~to serve others and in that service to find the greatest joy. I remember the importance of Dad's life. That life continues. Its connection to Christmas and the birth of the Savior who would break the bonds of death.
Earlier in the day, during my sister's phone call, her sorrow lifted when I reminded her she'd acted upon an impression, and the impression came from our father. Her tears had turned to laughter when she recognized that our father knew how to transform pain to joy.
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