dibbons
Well-Known Member
At the time of my father's death, I gave a quick farewell address aloud after the church memorial service ended and before the mourners filed outside. One person came up to me afterward and kind of complemented my "courage" to share some thoughts with everyone:
"Very briefly, please let me describe a little story that will give you an insight on how my Dad may like to be remembered.
More and more, I have begun to introduce myself as “Young George Abel”, so I won’t be confused with my father. But now, I wonder if maybe I was presuming something that I should not have. Some of you may not realize that I live in Mexico and attend school in San Diego. Before we begin, let me just explain what I appreciate most about living in Tijuana. And that is the fact that I see first hand, every day, how family unity is treasured over all the other luxuries we take for granted. And by luxury, I mean something simple, like hot running water.
Well, this past Sunday morning, after exactly a two hour wait to enter the United States, I finally reached the booth where the immigration officer would decide whether I was a friend or enemy. He compared my face with the image on my passport. “Where are you going today, George?” I had been crying off an on all morning and wanted some sympathy, so I told him the truth, which is not a bad idea in any case. “To my Dad’s funeral,” I said. He asked me what happened. “Well, he’s 86 years old, and that’s what happens.” But the uniformed officer corrected me with an interesting observation. He told me: “These days, that’s young.” I repeated that to myself, “These days, that’s young.” I began to wonder if maybe this stranger knows something about Dad that I had failed to notice.
Up to that point, my plan to get through this week was to console myself by thinking over and over again the following thoughts: What an old man Dad is and how he overcame a family history of heart disease, a former smoking habit, and a lifetime diet of meat and potatoes. I had convinced myself he had been living on borrowed time for the last twenty years and I should rejoice in the fact that he even made it past sixty.
But I was just fooling myself. The truth is George Abel has lived constantly in the prime of his life and I envy that. This small town, familiar atmosphere of Gonzales is what keeps Dad young, vibrant, and alive. Now when I look around, I have to ask myself, does anyone grow old here?
No, Gonzales is not the perfect place for me. I need the almost constant adrenaline rush of new places and new faces. But this vagabond existence has taken its toll on me. Now I realize I am the old man and my Dad is the young man. Yes, he is the young man and I am the old man. Why? He has a gift of making people feel good about themselves and he can’t help but welcome a strange face in town. He lacks the inhibitions that most of us acquire as adults. That is why we love him in a special way. If you don’t believe me, just ask the girls.
Now I feel “in the wrong” for describing Dad to that Immigration Officer as an “old man”. So I have to dismantle the plan I had to accept Dad’s death as quickly as possible and with as little pain as possible. It will be so sad for me to think he left in his prime, but I believe he did. Dad is vulnerable and maybe a little foolish at times, but that goes hand in hand with the attractive boyish manner that he will never outgrow.
You know, now I’m torn between wanting this day to be over and done with as soon as possible or, on the other hand, wanting it to never end. I want it to end for obvious reasons: my heart is in so much pain (unexplainably more so than when Mom died).
But at the same time, I want this day never to end. It is such a good feeling to be surrounded by loved ones. For me, it is a little glimpse of what heaven may be like. An atmosphere like this would be heaven for my Dad. Your familiar faces are such a comfort.
Thank you all, every one, for making whatever effort, large or small, to be present for Dad’s memorial. God be with you."
"Very briefly, please let me describe a little story that will give you an insight on how my Dad may like to be remembered.
More and more, I have begun to introduce myself as “Young George Abel”, so I won’t be confused with my father. But now, I wonder if maybe I was presuming something that I should not have. Some of you may not realize that I live in Mexico and attend school in San Diego. Before we begin, let me just explain what I appreciate most about living in Tijuana. And that is the fact that I see first hand, every day, how family unity is treasured over all the other luxuries we take for granted. And by luxury, I mean something simple, like hot running water.
Well, this past Sunday morning, after exactly a two hour wait to enter the United States, I finally reached the booth where the immigration officer would decide whether I was a friend or enemy. He compared my face with the image on my passport. “Where are you going today, George?” I had been crying off an on all morning and wanted some sympathy, so I told him the truth, which is not a bad idea in any case. “To my Dad’s funeral,” I said. He asked me what happened. “Well, he’s 86 years old, and that’s what happens.” But the uniformed officer corrected me with an interesting observation. He told me: “These days, that’s young.” I repeated that to myself, “These days, that’s young.” I began to wonder if maybe this stranger knows something about Dad that I had failed to notice.
Up to that point, my plan to get through this week was to console myself by thinking over and over again the following thoughts: What an old man Dad is and how he overcame a family history of heart disease, a former smoking habit, and a lifetime diet of meat and potatoes. I had convinced myself he had been living on borrowed time for the last twenty years and I should rejoice in the fact that he even made it past sixty.
But I was just fooling myself. The truth is George Abel has lived constantly in the prime of his life and I envy that. This small town, familiar atmosphere of Gonzales is what keeps Dad young, vibrant, and alive. Now when I look around, I have to ask myself, does anyone grow old here?
No, Gonzales is not the perfect place for me. I need the almost constant adrenaline rush of new places and new faces. But this vagabond existence has taken its toll on me. Now I realize I am the old man and my Dad is the young man. Yes, he is the young man and I am the old man. Why? He has a gift of making people feel good about themselves and he can’t help but welcome a strange face in town. He lacks the inhibitions that most of us acquire as adults. That is why we love him in a special way. If you don’t believe me, just ask the girls.
Now I feel “in the wrong” for describing Dad to that Immigration Officer as an “old man”. So I have to dismantle the plan I had to accept Dad’s death as quickly as possible and with as little pain as possible. It will be so sad for me to think he left in his prime, but I believe he did. Dad is vulnerable and maybe a little foolish at times, but that goes hand in hand with the attractive boyish manner that he will never outgrow.
You know, now I’m torn between wanting this day to be over and done with as soon as possible or, on the other hand, wanting it to never end. I want it to end for obvious reasons: my heart is in so much pain (unexplainably more so than when Mom died).
But at the same time, I want this day never to end. It is such a good feeling to be surrounded by loved ones. For me, it is a little glimpse of what heaven may be like. An atmosphere like this would be heaven for my Dad. Your familiar faces are such a comfort.
Thank you all, every one, for making whatever effort, large or small, to be present for Dad’s memorial. God be with you."
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