c. 2018 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-18)
My father passed
away one month ago, today.
I pondered this
short anniversary while reading posts by my sister, on Facebook. She
had shared a few different songs of a melancholy nature, sweet and
sad. Remembering and reflecting. Indeed, it has been impossible to
process what transpired at the Mansfield Place care facility, mere
weeks in our past. We watched Mom and Dad hold hands for the final
time. Numb to the march of mortality. That night, I stood in his
office, alone. The spot where I knew his spirit would be close. My
heart was broken. Still, I felt motivated as never before to sit at
the keyboard, as I had done at his typewriter so many years ago, and
put my thoughts into useful prose.
Father wore many
titles during his earthly stay. But none more precious than that of
‘wordsmith.’
His DNA remains in
us, his successors. Yet also, the imprint of writing, of the joyous
habit he pursued from childhood to the grave. As he lay in his
hospital bed, ‘witnessing’ to the staff and visitors, I reckoned
that he would wish for a notepad and pen. His mind was still sharp.
Even at the moment of passage between here and eternity.
As a silent
observer, I began to hear a familiar hymn from church in my mind. It
grew louder as he struggled and fell forever asleep:
“To the work!
To the work! We are servants of God
Let us follow the
path that our master has trod
With the balm of
his counsel our strength to renew
Let us do with
our might what our hands find to do
Toiling on,
toiling on
Toiling on,
toiling on
Let us hope, let
us watch
And labor until
the Master comes.”
The
old standard had been composed by Frances J. Crosby, in 1869. It was
something often used during formal worship services at the Church of
Christ.
I
received this vision as a call to action. It continued to echo as I
stood in the office after Dad was gone. I could hear him singing to
me while I looked at his desk and chair and the many books in his
library. Though grief clouded my eyes and heart, he seemed to warn
against wallowing in sorrow. I remembered him observing that every
life experience had value for a creative writer. Now, his voice gave
me strength, singing out from oblivion:
“To
the work! To the work! Let the hungry be fed
To
the fountain of life, let the weary be led
In
the cross and its banner our glory shall be
While
we herald the tidings ‘Salvation is free!’
Toiling
on...”
I
hummed the tune to myself while driving home to Ohio.
Later,
various childhood memories brought inspiration as I pondered Dad’s
death. Stories appeared from the ether. I reckoned each was a gift of
sorts, handed lovingly down from paradise. Yet the strains of this
familiar song only grew with intensity. It was as if I were sitting
in church with family members who had gone before, all lifting up
their voices in praise. And in insistence that I busy myself with the
task of channeling brokenness into duty:
“To the work!
To the work! There is labor for all
For the kingdom
of darkness and error shall fall
And the love of
our Father exalted shall be
In the loud
swelling chorus: ‘Salvation is Free!’
Toiling on...”
Only
a short time ago, I had considered ending my work as a professional
scribe. It appeared logical to put all energy into regular employment
as a business manager. To press hard toward the nearing goal of
retirement with a full pension and profit-sharing plans tucked away.
But a sale by my employer and rising health issues exploded such
thoughts. Battling infirmity, I found myself unemployed and at the
end of my career, far too soon.
The
result came like a shining revelation.
I
had decided to give up on creative pursuits. “My journey is
finished as a writer,” I confessed to the Great Spirit. Discipline
made me turn toward practical things rather than the self-serving
interest of tapping out pages of text. He seemed to answer with a
surprising observation. “You are not done, my child. Instead, you
have only just begun!”
The
woe of watching my father fade away seemed sure to still my hands
over the keyboard. But there was zeal in the thunderous refrain I
heard in my head:
“To the work!
To the work! In the strength of the Lord!
And a robe and a
crown shall our labor reward
When the home of
the faithful our dwelling shall be
And we shout with
the ransomed ‘Salvation is free!’
Toiling on,
toiling on
Toiling on,
toiling on
Let us hope, let
us watch and labor till the Master comes.”
Four
weeks have passed, with many projects already finished. I bow
prayerfully, in awe, while considering what awaits in the months and
years that lie ahead.
Comments
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