A cousin of mine, Paul by name, died last night. He leaves behind a wife and four late teen early twenties children. He was a good man. Please remember him and his family in your prayers.
This Sunday is also the twelfth anniversary of my father's death. He has never been far from my thoughts. I have told recorded a few of his stories here and here and here .
When I was a child he was my hero. He taught me how to fish, how to bowl, play golf, how to laugh, how to tell a good story, how to enjoy life. I never really rebelled against him as a teenager, but there were times I didn't think he knew what was "going on" so to speak. I mean, the man had only grown up during the Depression and came of age serving in the Second World War, and had supported a family- what could he possibly know about life? Fortunately I outgrew that stupidity quite quickly.
He lived long enough to see his fist grandchild, our Elder. I didn't have time to get much advice from him, but he did fire off a few pithy remarks. I once asked him: "Dad, when do kids start making sense?"
He looked at me a moment before he drawled: "I'm still waiting."
Now that I am myself a father I understand him better. Because of him and my mother I know that there is only one thing a parent can give a child that matters, and that is a good example. It is among the blessings of my life that I had a good one.
I will always miss him, for I am one of those who can honestly say that the best man I ever met, or will ever meet, was the first. But I think of the words of Seneca, who said, in effect, that everyone dies, but not everyone lives. My dad lived, and as we are Christians, he lives still.