Thursday, September 15, 2011


I've been to funerals. Some in funeral homes with the charm of a school cafeteria. Even the nice ones are just places where you can say a few words, a prayer or two and you're done. The best you can say about them is that they're better than nothing.

Dad's memorial was at the lake, at the yacht club where he'd spent so much time. Where I spent a lot of my childhood, come to that.

I can't think of a better place for a memorial than a place the deceased loved to be at, where his presence is so close

The priest said

When Bill died he left his boat tied to the rigging dock. It took six of us an hour and a truck to haul his boat out of the water. Bill could do it in five minutes, alone, with a Mercedes.


Every one of us here has had a moment when Bill would wander over to what we were doing, offer some advice. And his way was always right, and easy.


In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brother Bill, and we commit his body to the deep.

And we did. And it was good.

Later I'm driving home. In deep night of the Iowa countryside, behind the wheel of a truck just a little bit younger than I am. V8 motor throwing noise into the night and heat into the cab. My youngest is in the middle of the bench seat, his head leaning gently against my arm, sleeping.

With my youngest dozing at my side, I felt him one more time. Then he slipped away.

Rest in Peace, Dad.

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