It seems a lifetime has passed in the past week.
Only a week ago today, we had the showing for my father’s funeral.
A gray overcast sky remained above us all day; it fit our mood perfectly. I began my morning long before the sunrise. Through the night rain had fallen, so with trepidation, I faced the coming dawn. Dad had passed Friday and we were there in New Harmony preparing to take his body on its final journey.
The day before, Saturday, had been a long one with my drive beginning in darkness as I headed over the Blue Ridge to meet up with my sister and her family in Lenoir City. Driving over the mountains through the pre-dawn mist I reflected on my dad’s life. In many ways, my mind was like a snowstorm of memories and thoughts all flying about overhead. It was as if I was in a giant snow globe and someone had shaken my world, subsequently scattering all ideas into a blizzard of recollections. All I had to do in order to recall one was simply to stick out my tongue and catch the nearest falling snowflake.
Among the myriad of remembrances, I wondered if he was listening. “God would surely give me a sign if he was,” I thought to myself.
Outside my little car’s windows passed ancient mountain tops who had witnessed countless lives. My passing was nothing more than a blink of an eye in their time. The road descended downward toward the bridge ahead that spanned the deep ravine below, connecting the interstate to the other mountainside. Around me the clouds hung like blankets of silence, the glowing dawn just beginning to bring color to the blue-gray landscape. It was then, just past mile marker 445, a magnificent bald eagle soared over the roadway ahead. I had never seen a bald eagle in the mountains before and as the sun rose behind me, a gentle glow was painting the tops of the peaks before me and like a spotlight, the great raptor was illuminated. He flew from my right to left and soon our ways parted but the memory lingered in my mind.
“Was that from him,” I hesitated to believe? “Would that be it?’
Trying not to awaken anyone else in the house, I quietly sipped my bitter brew and studied the scriptures in the dimly lit kitchen I couldn’t help think of the scene from the day before, the eagle so close, so beautiful. We had stayed up late visiting the night before but here I sat. The others were still asleep, which allowed my solitary bleakness to compound upon itself. Alone, the darkness was bigger and our losses tend to be magnified; so it was with me. Outside the warm weather, the week before had been replaced by a bitterly cold rain. The bleakness of missing dad overwhelmed my thoughts again and again until I could only do one thing; go for a walk, regardless of the weather.
I slipped on my jean jacket and gloves then headed out. I wondered if they would be enough, but I had no choice; I had to go. Stepping outside, I was thankful the rain had at least paused for the moment. The air was crisp and fresh. The morning light was just beginning to fill the cloud filled skies above. Lights inside warm, cozy houses greeted me along my path, my destination not yet determined. Something called me toward the old homestead, the remains of the farm we once called home on the edge of town. Through the park where we played as children, the dark, ominous trees stood, vestiges of a time when the park was new; now giants towering above. Past the old farm I walked. It was nothing more than a pasture with the images of the home and outbuildings remaining in my mind, forever etched in place.
I kept heading south, the cold wind at my back.
The graveyard called.
Just past the house that was once Ms. Wolf’s, I heard the rooster crow. The sun had not yet found the horizon and already the cock was crowing. “Would this be my sign today,” I thought, ‘Would this be it?” My mind slipped back to the passages of Peter denying Christ. How painful it must have been for him to realize Christ’s own prophecy was fulfilled by the sound of the rooster crowing at the coming dawn. These were still fresh in my head as I made the turn at the gates of Maple Hill Cemetery.
There before me stood the daunting scene of weathered tombstones scattering the tree covered hillside. The sound of water rushing from the recent rains gurgled by the roadside as I began my ascent up the hill to the top, following the crude graveyard road. At the top, I turned left heading toward our family’s grave sites. All around me massive oaks still dark from their winter slumber stood watch. Their barren branches, like bony fingers reaching for my soul, made an eeriness about this place. It was then I heard the hoot owls ahead of me, beyond the cemetery boundaries in the direction of the Old Dam.
“Was this my sign, was this it,” came the thought again?
Continuing on, I eventually reached the end of the cemetery and soon found myself standing looking down at grandpa and grandma Tron’s headstone; Victor and Mildred Tron. Their lives and memories are a part of who I am and will always be. I gently pulled the weeds away from their dates, then gently wiped off the face of the cold granite stone. Around me, the world was alive with birds of all manner singing the praises of the coming dawn. The hoot owls called again and the rooster crowed once more.
Compelled to spend more time here, I sat down on steps nearby where I could overlook Victor and Mildred. Farther down the hill by the old cedar was my cousin Michael; death called him home too soon. Beyond him was Uncle Bill; a saint to our family. I was there, sitting and reflecting while their souls had been gone for some time. In my solitude, I felt a calming peace come over me.
Then the sound of a woodpecker rang from behind me, over my left shoulder. The rooster and hoot owls called again as if to respond.
Serenity can come in the oddest of places and at the most unexpected times.
As I sat reflecting on the well-being of the rest of the family, my thoughts were interrupted by yet one more woodpecker tapping on a distant tree but in a different pitch than the first. Then oddly enough, the first woodpecker responded. The hoot owls called and the rooster crowed. All around the plethora of birds tweeted and sang. A smile began to creep across my countenance.
As I sat in the lonely graveyard, I listened as woodpecker after woodpecker joined the chorus, each adding their tap at alternating pitches, each as if playing their own notes. It was as if I sat in the middle of a flock of woodpeckers. The tapping began to ring true in my mind as another ringing of a similar sound returned from my childhood.
When I was a young lad, my dad worked in the main telephone office in Booneville, also known as the Central Office (CO). In that day, there was no digital switching equipment; everything was analog. When the phone lines would ring, the relays would chatter, making the sound that would be unique to that line. The chattering of those ancient relays sounded just like the woodpeckers that surrounded me. Phone line after phone line around me began to ring that morning.
It was at that moment I realized, dad was ringing the phones.
A smile came across my face as a tear ran down my cheek while I listened to the miracle taking place.
Yes, there was a calming like I had never known at that moment as the peace of knowing he was still with me. The thought overshadowed even the bitter cold that numbed by fingers.
Walking back to town, into the freezing north wind, I was never farther from being cold while my hands lost their feeling. Deep inside, my heart was overflowing with the warmth and the joy of the life eternal.
In my heart and in my mind, there was finally the answer, “That was it.”
Thanks be to God.
“In God is my salvation and my glory; The rock of my strength, And my refuge, is in God.” -Psalm 62:7
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