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. 

Big Picture

The two-day drive from Texas to northern Indiana gives me lots of time to think. I'm not really a fan of driving, but I like the enforced solitude and the feeling of being untethered.

This time, I'm making the drive to help my parents for a few weeks. Dad is dealing with a serious health issue; Mom is frail; and my brother and his wife are juggling as much as they can.

Clearly, another pair of hands is in order.

Speeding along I-55 north, I go over Mom and Dad's health issues in my head, trying to see things from all angles. It's what I do, instead of worry.

When I was a kid, I worried about Dad because he traveled a lot. One day, in an attempt to ease my fears, he told me that the reason we worry is that we can't see the Big Picture. (In my mind, it is always capitalized.) He said that faith was about knowing the Big Picture was there, even if we didn't see it until we were further down the road.

At the time, I was young enough to think that I already saw all the picture there was to see, but his words sunk in anyway. It has become almost a mantra: I don't yet have the full perspective. I can't yet see the Big Picture but it's there, somewhere down the road. 

It starts to rain and I flip on the windshield wipers. The rain lets up almost instantly; off they go. I think about my parents and the long journey of their lives and wish we had a better picture-- 

Ahead of me, I see a flash of brilliant color. A piece of rainbow, just the bottom tip, bathes a stand of trees in shimmering light. 

The colors are intense. I slow down involuntarily (thankful for an empty freeway around me.)  As I drive forward, the rainbow grows. It stretches up, over the copse of trees - and is gone.  The road has turned, and I (again, thankfully), have turned with it and the amazing rainbow is gone.

For a moment, I feel bereaved. 

I'm tempted to pull off to the shoulder and back up to where I last saw it, but caution and reason win out. I focus instead on navigating the big curve ahead. 

Moments later, I glance to my right. There it is. 180-degrees of clear, uninterrupted, perfect rainbow stretched across the sky.   

It was just waiting for me further down the road.

[Not bad for a picture snapped with one hand, through a dirty, tinted windshield, using my phone...]