After

In most things there is a "before", there is a "during", and there is an "after."

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven...*

I remember the day my father died. Before I was called to come home, I was in church. Then the call came and I got in my car to make the long drive north.

During the drive my mind went back to the many things we had done together, the laughter, the lessons taught, the good times we had had.

It was a long drive, in the dark of a winter's night, a full moon shone upon the snow, I was alone. My wife waited at home, as I wished it. I wanted the time to prepare for what was to come. I wanted, no, needed to be alone.

When I arrived, one of my brothers met me in the parking lot outside of the hospital. It was time, he said. The doctors held out no hope, none at all.

We went up to my father's bedside, where my mother, my brother's wife, and my youngest brother also waited.

When my father was removed from life support, it was only a few short moments before he passed into eternity.

That was the "during."

Afterwards, I called the Red Cross to pass the word to my middle daughter, then at sea, that her grandfather had passed. I knew she would not be able to come home for the funeral. But I had already heard from my oldest child, my son, and my youngest daughter that they would be coming East.

While my father was in the "after," so to speak, the rest of us were still in the "during."

I traveled back to Rhode Island. My youngest, pregnant with my first granddaughter, her husband also then at sea, flew in and my wife, my youngest and I traveled back up to Vermont. My son flew in with his wife and son soon thereafter.

The funeral was held on a bright, sunny day. The sun was shining, the snow lay thick upon the ground, but I cannot remember whether it was cold or not. It must have been, but I have no memory of that.

My brothers and I, my son, my nephew, and one of my father's friends carried him to his final rest.

There were prayers, there was a bugler.

An old friend of mine from school was there, he had retired from the Army as a major. As Taps sounded on the crisp winter air, he and I both raised our hands in salute. When the first volley rang out over my father's coffin, I did not start, I did not jump, I had heard it all before. Besides which, my mind was far away, thinking back, knowing that the box before me did not hold my father. Only his earthly remains.

When it was done, my friend had collected some of the spent brass from the volleys fired over my father's grave. I have them to this day on my shelf, along with many other treasured mementos. I hope to have that spent brass in my pocket when I go to my own rest. It's a thought anyway.

We went to the wake, we ate, we drank, we remembered. All too soon, we all went our separate ways. As we drove south, a thought struck me.

Now it was "after," my mother was now alone in the home she had made with my father. For those of us heading back home, our daily routines would be mostly unchanged.

But for my mother, things had changed forever. She had to face the "after" and somehow carry on.

So now when I hear of the death of a friend or acquaintance, I pray for their souls and I mourn. But I also try to pay heed to the ones left behind.

For whom everything will never be the same again.

In the after...



* Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)