For Thou Art With Me

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

My favorite Psalm, Psalm 23. It's been read at nearly every funeral and memorial service I've ever attended, at least the ones I can remember. I have a unique feeling for this Psalm, as well as for the song Amazing Grace. 

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me....

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now, I see.

T'was Grace that taught...

my heart to fear.

And Grace, my fears relieved.

How precious did that Grace appear...

the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares...

we have already come.

T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far...

and Grace will lead us home.

The Lord has promised good to me...

His word my hope secures.

He will my shield and portion be...

as long as life endures.

When we've been here ten thousand years...

bright shining as the sun.

We've no less days to sing God's praise...

then when we've first begun.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me....

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now, I see.

They're both so beautiful, yet so sad. They're always played at the most disheartening of times; the loss of a loved one. I've come to associate death with these verses. 

I've been thinking about my grandparents lately. Their smiles, the way they laugh, the way they talk. I've realized that I'm slowly forgetting the little things that I used to love about them...how Pop used to talk...I'll never forget the day that I called my grandparent's phone number, like I had done countless other times, simply to hear his voice on the machine. What I didn't realize was that my grandmother had already asked my Godfather Randy to re-record a new message. When the machine picked up and it wasn't his voice..I'll never quite be able to put into words the feelings that rushed through me. 

We never called my grandma Charity anything but her first name...even her kids called her Charity. I'm not quite sure why, but it was just an adapted thing that always made people look at us a bit funny. When a 6 year old girl with spiral red curls is crossing her arms and shaking her head and saying, NO CHARITY!, people tend to take a second look. 

This post isn't focused on me, however. Or even my grandparents. It's actually focused on someone I've never even met. I won't divulge names or anything; it's not my story to tell. I hope they read blogs in Heaven though, because that's definitely where she is, looking down on her family with a smile. I know she would have made them proud. 

Time is sacred. The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. There isn't a countdown, a giant clock with a ball waiting to drop as people shout and yell and laugh. No one is given an itinerary, a check list, a map, or even a nudge in the right direction. No one knows when their time will come to an end, not naturally at least. 

Some people don't believe in the same thing I do. Heck, I'm not even sure what I believe some days. I sometimes have those moments where I think, 'Wow. I don't know what's out there...but it's definitely something great.' I'll end with a short story; a reason that always reminds me to believe in something bigger than myself. 

I was 15 when my grandpa passed away. It was the first true loss I had ever experienced when I was old enough to understand; old enough to grieve. He was the first of my grandparents to pass away, and I would go on to lose two more within the next twelve months. His funeral was held in Woburn, Massachusetts, a small town north of Boston. I remember piling into my mom's car after the service, following the hearse, and leading the long line of cars from the funeral home to the cemetery. Grandma was in the front seat. She didn't know that Mom had asked the driver to pass by Gram & Pop's old house on the way to the burial. The house across the street from where Pop saved the life of my Aunt Susan after a gasoline explosion ripped through their house. Aunt Susan spoke at the service, telling her story of how Pop, after seeing her parents badly burned come rushing out of the house and without any regard for himself, charged into the burning house to find her. Susan said every time she saw Pop for the next few years, all she would do was cry, too young to associate him with anything but being burned by the fire. At the cemetery, prayers and final goodbyes were said. A flag was presented, and Pop received an official military ceremony. I'll never remember what was said, but I will remember what happened next. As the bagpipes played Amazing Grace in the distance, a lone firetruck passed by the cemetery, giving one whoop of a siren. No ambulance followed, no police cars or additional noises were heard. Just a single sound; a final goodbye to the hero who drug my Aunt Susan out of the fire. Mom later told the funeral director that she was a miracle worker, since she didn't know until Aunt Susan spoke a mere hour before that the fire had ever occurred. The woman smiled at my mom and I, paused, and then said she wished she could take credit for it, but that Pop must have made an impression on a much greater being than her, because she had nothing to do with it. 

To this day, I look back on that moment, that lone fire truck, as my beacon of hope; my belief in a greater good, a greater being living far beyond my sight, but so close within my grasp. 

Rest easy, guys...Rest easy.