BVOV Magazine 2013 - present

It was a lonely drive as my sister and I headed south from Boston to the Cape. My mom and dad lived next door to my grandparents. As we arrived home, I looked across the field from our house toward the Sagamore Inn—the home where my grandfather lived and worked. It was the house where he and I played together. A wave of memories overcame me. How can I face this funeral? You must understand that I wasn’t born again until that summer, so I had a lot of questions. Grief worked its way down into my heart. I was angry and frustrated. I was determined not to go to the viewing of the body or to the funeral. The next day we headed to the funeral home for the “all-day, all-evening” viewing. It was the time when friends came to pay their respects and support the family. When we first arrived, I refused to go in. I didn’t think I could handle it. I just walked around the parking lot thinking about Grandpa. The more I thought, the more I missed him, and the more distressed I became. I finally walked up to the funeral home door and looked inside. People were everywhere. The place was jampacked. Friends and family were awkwardly trying to say the right thing. I could see my grandmother crying, and Mother doing her best to console. But my roving eyes eventually locked on one person. I stood there watching, observing my father’s every move. Reaching Out to Others Dad was manning his post by the entrance to the viewing room. He was smiling, greeting people, shaking hands and hugging necks. He was the warm host, the “pastor” over this trying event. He seemed to put everyone at ease—including me. Somehow, he was able to climb up over his own hurt and reach out beyond himself. He had become a pillar of strength and stability, something I had never noticed in him before. His example gave me the courage to go inside. I kept watching. Soon, I was doing the same. Greeting, hugging, comforting—even laughing. Acting just like my father. Little did he know he was preparing me for the future—to raise a family, to pastor a congregation. And to one day face the inevitable. That “one day” finally came. “Dad passed away.” These were the words my sister spoke to me over the telephone the week of Sept. 11, 2001. My wife, Terri, and I were en route home from Moscow on Sept. 11 when, instead of flying into New York we were diverted to Dublin, Ireland. My father had gone into the hospital that week. Just before we boarded the plane to leave Dublin, I called to check on Dad. He had gone on to heaven only a few hours before. I loved and admired my dad. We had so much in common. We shared a “Far Side” (comic strip) sense of humor. Both of us were artists. We were alike in so many ways. On trips back to New England for Christmas or summer vacation, Dad and I would go for our “traditional drive.” First to the post office, then to pick up a newspaper. Finally, we would park by the ocean and catch up on the latest or reminisce about the past. But those days were over. At least until we are reunited in heaven. Once again, an era had come to a close. Things would never be quite the same. My family was now looking to me for the strength and stability my father once provided. And this time around, I was ready. Taking My Place When we arrived at the church for the service, I purposely stationed myself at the front door. Remembering what Dad did at Grandpa’s funeral, I smiled and greeted his friends as they entered the church. I shook hands, hugged necks and endeavored to make everyone welcome—just as Dad had done. 18 : BVOV

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