Summary: "I deserve to weep." My father and I were standing in a parking lot on a Thursday afternoon, after a funeral. The previous Monday, I'd received a phone call from the pastor of the church where my father had served for over twenty years, the church where I grew up. She had thoughtfully called to let us know about the death of one the members of that congregation. Calling him a "member" was an understatement. "Pillar" would be a more appropriate description. You know, the kind of person you always think will be there, whose fingerprints are on every square inch of that building and that ministry. I thought to myself that this would be a perfect opportunity. Ever since we moved my mother into an Alzheimer's care unit, my dad had been going to visit her once, twice, even three times a day. He really hadn't "transitioned" yet. He had not taken a chance to get away, to break out of the daily routine of caring for my mom that had become the center of his life, to find a "new normal." I thought that this might be opportunity to help him make that transition. I called him up and I said, "Dad, if you want to go to this funeral, I'll go with you." I told him that I thought it would be good for him. He agreed. And so, we met at church on Thursday morning, the day of the funeral. The experience was everything that I hoped that it would be. The service was a wonderful, tender tribute to this faithful servant of the Gospel, this saint of the Church. There was sadness, of course, but also a beautiful celebration of his life.
