A hell of a man......

Note: These are my personal feelings and observations. Since it is very likely some of my family are to read this, I sincerly apologize if this hurts anyone or brings up something they'd rather not remember....it's not my intent. It's my tribute to him.....and I am very likely to digress along the way. What I write here is out of love to him.

I lost my Uncle Virgil this past week. And...even for a family as close as mine is, my reaction to his passing has, at times, been surprising even to me. I said to my cousin Vicky the day he passed that I wish I could cry right away at bad news--it's rare that I do. I've made up for it in the days since. When he died, I was mentally grasping at memories--anything--and for the first few hours as the news sank in, I was drawing blanks. They have since come flooding back......and all of them make me smile, even if I am smiling through my tears.

I was describing my Uncle Virgil to a very good friend of mine on the phone today. And this friend said, "He sounds like he was one hell of a man...."

That he was.

I was reminded of a verse I read in a book once, many years ago, when he died:

This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang......but with a whimper.

Although his military days were long behind him, I somehow always thought my Uncle Virg would go out with a bang. He went seemingly with a whimper, if I am understanding correctly.

A hell of a man who went through a hell of alot in his 71 years. My Uncle Virgil survived much in his life, including two combat tours to Vietnam. He had a stroke when I was ten. The doctors told the family he'd be a vegetable. Uncle Virg walked out of that hospital--with the help of a walker, yes--but he didn't look much like a vegetable, I am sure.

My earliest memories of him are of when I was a kid: Saturday nights and my Uncle Virgil, Aunt Tena, Uncle George, Aunt Lola, and various cousins--usually Dave, Dianne, Vicky and others around Aunt Lola's kitchen table playing poker. Of shooting BB guns off the deck of his house with my sister and my cousin Jeff, pinging them off an old tin roof of the barn across the narrow road in front of his house. Of shooting in the field across from his house with him, my Daddy, and my Uncle Lee.

When I was a teenager, hearing Dad tell him how I loved history and how I could talk about it for hours, he gave me a huge stack of history books. I still have them. They are now so precious to me. We argued politics during the Clinton Administration. I took him to a couple of VA appointments years and years ago, and he tried to convince someone he bumped into that I was his girlfriend. The memory makes me smile.

The minister who presided over the service for him made mention of--in our dying hours--God will send his angels to comfort us and to take us on this last journey we make. I believe this--my mother was convinced in her last hours that first a woman with long blonde hair--and then her grandmother--were there in the room with her. Her agitation with the rest of us--that we couldn't see them, too--was great. I'm sure they were there for my uncle, too; and the thought of what his angel might have said to him to make him follow also brings a smile.

I made mention of this to someone--someone who happens to be a Christian. The opinion of this person was that it's not angels at all.....it's the deterioration of the physical mind. I steadfastly refuse to believe this.....and found myself not for the first time at loggerheads with this person's opinion. But then.....my anger and irritation with this edict--that it is the physical and not the spiritual that causes a person to 'see things that aren't there'--turned to pity. What is faith if you can't have something hopeful to hold on to; in this case, the idea that God will give us ease in those final hours? Hope is supposed to be central to the Christian faith. Just as I have hope of Heaven; being only human, I do fear death a little. I pitied that, in spite of the faith this person is supposed to have, he believes that God would do nothing to make the end easier for us--since we have to make that journey without having a loved one--those we leave behind, to put an arm around us and cross over with us. Just as I have hope of Heaven and eternity, I have hope that God is going to send someone for me.

We who are left may not have an angel to guide us and help us through parting with the person we have lost--at least, not in the way our finite minds think of angels.

Our angels are in the form of our family. We are left behind when someone dies, but we are left behind with people who loved the departed as much as we ourselves did. Our families and loved ones are our touchstones to whom we have lost. We share the memories of that person, we share the love both for the deceased and for each other.

My angel was my father, who I watched lovingly pin his big brother's ribbons and medals on his chest just before the service began.

My angel was my Aunt Lola, who placed a Bible in her little brother's hands.

My angels were my cousins, some of whom I hadn't seen in years (and the irony here is--just like my mother in her final hours hadn't seen her grandmother in years....her grandmother was there to ease the pain at her passing) whom I shared memories of my uncle with.

My angels were family members I didn't even yet know I had: my cousin Jeff's wife, Brenda.

My angel was my sister......who I put my arm around, and who put her arm around me, as we leaned our heads together and looked for the last time on this Earth at Uncle Virg through our tears.

My angels were my Aunt Ann, who wrapped her arms around me in the parking lot of the funeral home, shushed me gently and said, "He's not hurting anymore, baby....."

My angels were all around me at the cemetery: Aunt Ann to my left, Amanda to my right, arms linked (Amanda, who used to run around at three years old telling us she'd give us an uppercut)--my Aunt Crys behind me, her arm around one of my shoulders, and Misty with her arm around the other. And Ginger, standing on the other side of Aunt Crys.

My angel was my Uncle Lee, kneeling to give my Aunt Tena the flag Uncle Virg earned.

My angel was my son, saluting his Aunt Tena.

My angels were the kisses, the hugs, and the 'I love yous' given to me by each and every member of my family in attendance.

My angel was Vicky--who called me only minutes after I got the news, who talked to me for about half an hour, and who gave me a truly heartfelt, "I love you, Cheri," before we hung up.

My angel was Rebecca, who emailed me to tell me she loved me and was praying for me.

So......God sent His angel for Uncle Virg, I am sure--because He certainly sent them to me.

Uncle Virgil--I love you. Every single memory I have of you brings a smile; every last one of them a bright spot that nothing can take away from me. And if you ask me--that is the measure of a life well lived. Perhaps your angel was someone you knew, just as Mom's was her grandmother. Maybe--and the thought brings a smile--Mamaw came and tugged your ear with a switch in her hand, just as she told me she used to do at your bus stop when you were a little boy.

And I hope you haven't strapped dynamite to any trees up there yet.

On the other hand, if God requires tree pruning services in Heaven--He's got one hell of a man for the job.

Again.......I love you. And I'll see you later.