I called my brother as I waited in traffic. "Hey!" He was having the same melancholy day I was. A deep sadness. A lingering ache. Similar to the homesick feeling you got as a child spending the night off. We chatted a few minutes about funeral arrangements, settling the estate, and the events of the last few days. It felt good to hear his voice. The one person who understood.
As we hung up I started to cry. That horrible ugly face cry. In traffic. Cars on either side of me. "O Sing, choirs of angels, Sing in exultation". Why was this so hard? Honestly, I feel certain at some point in my life I had judged those acting like me. That girl who can't move on."Geez, Elizabeth, what is wrong with you?" I said to myself.
There were several things our Dad adored: our mother, martinis, THE University (UVA), being a native Virginian, his church, Cape Cod, World War II history, classical music, his grandchildren, and Christmas.
That was it! The Christmas music! Every song brought back long lost memories of childhood. Feelings. Things I hadn't thought of in 45 years. Like the year I was 4. We had a blizzard. My dad had arranged for one of the parishioners to dress as Santa. He arrived on a tractor in a snow storm, Christmas Eve, giving out candy canes to our entire cul-de-sac.
My freshman year in high school. Dad insisted on buying a live tree to plant in the yard after Christmas. He brought it home. We all told him it was dead. He was too proud to admit that we were right. The tree died 3 weeks before Christmas. Fully decorated. The man undressed the tree took it outside and spray painted it green. Classic architecturally minded George. He wasn't wrong. In his mind he was right because he fixed it.
The Christmas eve he ran a stop sign and was t-boned. He drove the car home. He had hurt his leg pretty badly. We kept telling him to go to the ER. He insisted he was fine. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to deter Christmas from happening. He walked with a limp for months.
The church called. I told them that my Dad wanted only family in the chapel. The secretary said that wasn't sufficient. The choir wanted to sing for him. There were at least 100 parishioners who wanted to come. " Probably more" she said. "Your Dad was a pillar in this Church. He was a special man. He helped design the new building. The school. He was an intricate part of this community for almost 40 years. There will never be anyone like him again". The tears started flowing again.
The Vienna Boys choir still singing loudly "All Hail! Lord, we greet Thee, Born this happy morning". And then it hit me. The Lord is precious! He knew Marc and I needed to be filled with good memories. Happy memories. Funny memories. He wanted us to see what the world saw. He was letting the flood gates open as living waters. The Lord was giving us the gift of closure.
Tears streamed down my face. "Thank you, Lord. Thank you!" As clear as day He whispered in my spirit "I am the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. My kingdom will have no end. I will never leave or forsake you. You are both in the palm of my hand".
"Word of the Father, now in flesh appearing" crooned softly in the cabin of the car. Merry Christmas, Dad. Merry Christmas.
"Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel."-Isaiah 7:14
