Remembering Them All

My father and I sat together in early church yesterday morning. This is the service that mostly attracts older folks, their quavery voices singing hymns they choose out of the hymnal before the preacher delivers his message from a podium he moves right down in front of these faithful.

Because it was memorial Sunday, candles were ceremonially lit for those from this fellowship who have died during the past year. After each flame flared a skinny teenager swung a heavy handbell, its deep toll marking the passing of souls aged two to nearly a hundred years:

Remember. Remember. Remember.

I hugged the woman sitting next to me, with whom our family camped by the lake six decades ago. Sitting next to her was the son my sister and I babysat when he was a preschooler. Her husband was the one who patiently drove the boat that circled back and picked me up dozens of times in my (futile) efforts to learn to water ski. I can still hear him shouting "Keep low until you get your balance," then gunning the engine.

His candle was lit third.

Remember.

After this service Husband, Dad, and I drove 20 miles to a small town where all of the community's churches had gathered for a special Memorial Day service.

My father is 91 years old now and in the past decade he has gotten older. In his case this means he's losing his height and his hearing, but he still swims in Senior Olympics and lifeguards at the community pool, and a couple of times a month he preaches at churches too small to have full-time pastors. For this service he was the featured speaker.

Dad had seemed especially quiet as we went through the memorial service in his home congregation. At his age, many of those candles had been in honor of his friends, the saints who were the village that raised me and my siblings. I knew he was remembering Bob, and Fritz, and dear cousin Doralee. He was remembering my mother, who died eight years ago.

As we participated in the first steps of the community service he seemed concerned. He rarely complains about his hearing loss, even though conversations that are not face-to-face are nearly impossible, and on this morning when the entire town was gathered, he didn't want to miss a cue.

"You'll let me know when it's time to go up?" he stage-whispered. "You'll help me turn on the microphone?"

I squeezed his hand and smiled, but I was worried. What if he tripped going up the stairs to the pulpit? What if he lost his place in his notes?

And then it was time, and he was being introduced. I reached around to turn on his microphone and Dad slid out of the pew. I saw him take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and suddenly two decades dropped away. He marched up the stairs, told a joke, and in an instant the crowd was in the palm of his hand.

"He's a total gamer," I whispered to Husband, tears spilling before I could wipe them away.

It would have been easy for Dad's message to be patriotic. No one loves his country more than he does (he was 17 when he joined the Navy in 1944), but he chose Galatians 5:14 as his text: "The entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'" For 15 minutes he reminded us that our testimony is more than words, and that discipleship is based in action.

When he was done, he sat back next to me, exhaled in relief, and stage-whispered again. "Was it okay?"

It was more than okay, Dad. I will remember it forever.