Normandy

My father did not serve in Normandy.  He enlisted in the Army Air Corps (later the Air Force) at the age of 17 as part of the post-WWII peace-keeping troops.  He served in Japan and Germany and came home with a love for languages that pointed him to his life's work.  

As I write, I am sitting a few feet from where my Papa lies.  We'll say goodbye soon.  The other night, when it was my turn to sit with him, he began to call out in his sleep.

"Who's going to Normandy?" he yelled.  "We need medics!  We need to take care of the patients first!" 

I walked nearer and he heard me.

"Hey, you!" he demanded, "Are you a nurse?"

A little stumped, I answered, "I'm afraid not.  I'm just watching over you."

"We need medics for the injured," he said, and continued his nocturnal march across Normandy, searching for those who needed his aid. Just a man going places, with a mission to serve.

Like he served the Tsáchila tribe in Ecuador, devising an alphabet for their language (never before written), translating the Bible for them, creating grammar studies, preserving the old legends before they could be stolen away by encroaching change.

He served his organization, traveling the world in order to train and assist other translators.  He served whatever community he lived in and any church in which he found an empty pew.  

Most of all, he served his family.  The memories are endless today. The ever-present knowledge that "Daddy could fix it."  The gentle wisdom and perspective that never had a box from which to be out of. The laughter he provides us still (like when I told him I would raise him --referring to the hospital bed-- and he quipped, "Seems fair. After all, I raised you.") The silly songs he sang to us as children and we sing to him now. The sweet way he tells my mother that he loves her as she leans over to kiss him goodnight. 

Dad had several other vocal dreams that night after Normandy: in each, he was helping someone in need.  Service is honor, and even in these last dreams my father is an honorable man.

So on this most personal Memorial Day, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that there is a service I can give to him, an honor I can render:

I can walk a little nearer and for a short time yet, I can still watch over him.