Gone from my sight. . .

(Just a warning, this one may require tissues.)

I miss the dead people in my life.
I say it like this because though they are no longer here, they are still very much a part of my life, of me.
I miss them in ways I never knew it was possible to miss someone until now.
Morrie, of Tuesdays With Morrie fame, said, "Death ends a life, not a relationship." He was right.
I can see them sometimes, so clearly in my minds eye -- every contour of their faces, their expressions, their smiles.
I can hear them too. There are times when I hear their voices in my ear, my head, my heart -- how they would say a thing, the tone, inflection, quality of it.

So, when I read something I know grandma would have loved, I can hear her talking about it, what she would have liked about the characters and why.
We talked about books a lot. And the boys. And God. And all the bad things going on in the news . . . all the missing and abused children, all the persecuted Christians in other countries, all the oppressed people in the world.
Grandma cared about these people. She prayed for them like she prayed for her own family. She was a prayer.
On her refrigerator, even now, is a scripture she wrote out for herself in large black letters: "God forbid that I should sin against the Lord in ceasing to pray for you." I Sam. 12:23.
Many times, the boys and I would walk into her house and find her on her knees, praying and crying out to God.
I miss her.
I miss her listening to a good book on tape and telling me all about it.
I miss her singing through the house, everything from hymns to big band.
I miss her smooth, knuckley hands, her silly sense of humor, her life.

I miss my dad, too.
I miss the laughing mischief in his eyes.
I miss his quiet advice, his gentle guidance.
And I hear his voice in my ear so many times; I know what he would say, and how, when certain situations arise.
I hear his hilarious stories playing over in my mind . . ." I knew a man named . . ."
I miss him calling me from the road, "Hey, guess where I am? Roman Nose. That's right."
He called me everyday and sometimes we would talk for hours and some days a few minutes and some days he would just leave a message. Everyday. Let me tell you, it leaves a pretty big hole.
Not a day goes by that my sons don't talk about Pop and grandma at some point.
Not a day goes by that I do not see them, hear them, talk to them, miss them.
If I can be half the prayer gram was, if I can remember half of the wisdom my dad imparted to me in his short time here, I will be better for it.
Death ends a life, not a relationship, and in remembering them, those relationships continue until that day when we will see them again.
When gram was dying, Hospice gave us a book with this poem in it. The first time I read it, I never wanted to read it again. But I did. Because of everything I have been through this past year and a half, it has become one of my favorite poems, because it is about the bigger picture.

Gone from My Sight

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side
spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and
starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty
and strength. I stand and watch her until at length
she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where
the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in
mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and
she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her
destined port.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the
moment when someone at my side says: "There, she is gone!"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout: "Here she comes!"

And that is dying.

Death is not really "death".
It is a shedding of our mortality for life eternal.
It is a change of form, if you will. As a lowly caterpillar morphs into a beautiful butterfly after a short sleep, a small death, and flies away -- something that was only a dream when an earth-bound worm.
It is a changing into our true selves . . ."Beloved, we are God's children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. . ." (I John 3)
It is a voyage.
It is a journey to our true home.
A homecoming.
A reunion.
Death ends a life, not a relationship.

Because I believe in ending on a high note, Joe will begin his journey home in a few short hours. On Thursday, we shall see his travel weary face, and it will be wonderful! Pray for his safe trip home.