On legacy and remembrance
The Tapestry of Providence hasn't any coincidences.
Earlier this week, I asked after my godfather. You wouldn’t know him. He is not like the godfather of one of my sisters. Ah, now, that name: you might know that name. But not this name. Not my godfather. No fame, no glory.
I learned that my godfather is dead. He was taken up, led by the hand by Angels Glorious into his place amongst so great a Cloud of Witnesses. It was in May of AD 2023. No one told me nor my family. The funeral was in September of the same.
Today, I was sent a link to an unlisted YouTube video of the funeral. And tonight, I watched it. In his church, they called it a celebration of life—but it was a funeral, of course. There was no casket, for he had been buried months prior. But the pastor, a young fellow, maybe early 40s, fought to keep his composure. I was surprised by this. My godfather was in his nineties, after all; how emotionally close could a young pastor have grown to a man twice his age? His congregation is not small, after all.
And so one of the sons steps forward to read his remarks, his remembrances, from a crumpled, tear-flecked sheaf of papers. His accent blazes out in the first sentence: ah, that accent. I have not lived in that grand old part of the United States for decades, now. How I miss the sound of that accent. For it is the sound of home. And in his orderly, Germanic fashion, he keeps his composure; until he does not. It is near the end of his remarks, as is usually the case. He recounted these bounding, countless days of fun: of hikes, lake-swimming, plays, concerts—the music, O, the music!
My godfather was a musician. His life was music. He served in the Navy in wartime, and then returned home, and served families. He was a schoolteacher: he taught children how to sing, how to make music with their hands and lips. He directed bands and orchestras and choirs. He sang in community choirs; he directed community choirs. He built church choirs, singing and directing. He bore three children, who in turn bore twenty-seven grandchildren, and he taught nearly all of them music. Piano, singing, strings, what have you—something musical. He sang until his frail body could no longer navigate choral risers, those despicable contraptions which prey upon even the limber, much less those wisened by years.
When his son lost his composure, it was because of proffering an object lesson. He placed a mature, wilted sunflower next to the lectern of the church. And he remarked, “This is how he was by the end, after all. Hunched over, colorless. But do you see how the flower hasn’t any seeds left? And so it was, with—with…”
Then, the eldest grandchild, now a grown woman, rose to speak. She spoke as well of his abounding love for family and church, of the riches of his teaching, of his care for all those about him. She wept more than the son. And then her face changed, shining like the purest silver, hard as iron.
“But perhaps I never fully knew him until I lived with them, my grandparents, for two years…
I was working then, and I would get up early for all that, of course, but no matter how early I got up, I found he had always been up much longer. He had been reading, and praying—praying for his family, his children, his grandchildren…
And one day, well, for a while, really, I was not doing well. You know, when everything—when—I was very sad. I was not doing well. Things were very difficult…
And I came downstairs, and there he was, having been up long before me (of course). And he began to ask me how I was doing. How I felt. What was going on in my life. And as we began to talk, I felt like he was reading my mind. It was like he could finish my sentences, like he knew what I was going through…
And I learned that he suffered terribly, too. But you could have never known. But he lived under a feeling of profound failure, a fear that perhaps none cared for him…”
Her tear-streaked remarks carried on a little longer, and then, in closing, she read a poem of sorts. She had written it the day he died. I’ll not include it here; but I shall speak of it.
She names countless beautiful things, skills and knowledges, talents and intrigues, of which her grandfather had taught her. Loves which he had given her. “And now, I am you,” she writes. For now she carries all of those, infusing her own family therewith. And she recognized, grasped, held, the Truth: that there are some, some blessed few, who etch upon others’ hearts—not themselves, no, they etch not themselves—but rather, etch beauties and splendors. This slender company, who haven’t only eyes to see and ears to hear, but which give away that which they see, that which they hear. Whose hearts are of such gentle constitution that you may see thereinto; whose lives are stained glass, exposing the heart within, this blinding Light; but the heart is not the Source; O, no. The heart is but as the moon, dear Luna; such a heart is reflective and refractive of that staggering Grandeur of the Light of Lights. We may speak of Greater and Lesser lights, but as to what Light is Greatest: we’ve no debate.
My godfather was no famous man. His funeral was, if the recording is any measure, rather sparsely attended. And a great minority of the attendees were, after all, his many grandchildren.
But there was some day, some suffocatingly hot summer day, those many years ago, when he took upon himself baptismal vows over me. He and I do not share the same name. It is not like with me and my heroic namesake, the titan which is St. Paul. And yet, so many small, flighty details of his family’s words: how striking, how closely they resembled the passage of my own days. How many have written or called me, out of the blue: “Paul, I was thinking about what you said, it was about five years ago, you told me…” How many have, in so many words, said: “Paul, I am you: for you bestowed upon me this love, this discovery, this wonder.”
In the summer of AD 2022, I think it was, I began to make an allusion to Lewis’ Till We Have Faces to a friend, in conversation; and then I cut myself short.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t want to spoil it, because—”
“No no, keep talking, Paul. I’ve read it.”
“Wait, but—when? You’ve no time, and the last time I—”
“I noticed a look in your eyes when you mention it. So I read it.”
There is no plasticity to fate; no flexibility to Providence. The Tapestry is set out in all its Glory, needing only every thread in its place. I was named after a man whom I do not hesitate to term one of the most brilliant and strong-willed men to ever have lived. Do I live up to the faintest drop of his shadow? Likely not. But I try.
And I was baptized under the care of a man who loved ceaselessly and evidently often felt little in return. Or, at least, little enough that despair and anguish still found easy entrance into the cathedrals of his heart. And I am writing this the evening on which is a party thrown by a family who, once dear friends, elected to throw me under the [social] bus due to finding ties with me to be embarrassing or problematic. And I only ever gave them love and care, kindness and sacrifice. Much is given; little, returned. But my godfather knew such dearths too. Do I live up to the faintest note of his music? Likely not. But I try.
Yes, he knew such travails well, and he labored on. Over four-score and ten years was his Earthly labor. And now, the Work which presently fills our Sundays—the Sacred Work of worship and wonder—why, that Work is now the only Work which he knows.
The road is long; the race, arduous. But let us run it with verve and courage. For the Wreaths are not perishable, but imperishable; the Glory, not evanescent, but Eternal.
