Always Remember

Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you, your elders, and they will explain to you. 

--Deuteronomy 32:7

(This is an admittedly selfish post, on this Memorial Day weekend, dedicated to the memory of my sweetie. May we always remember him in our hearts.)

In the States, this weekend marks Memorial Day, the time when we stop and remember, particularly those who gave their lives in service to the country, in the Armed Forces. It is a time to fly the flag, and it is a time for family to gather (usually for food, preferably cooked outdoors on a grill). We are proud of these friends and family who fought for our freedom, and we are grateful.

My father, John McKeever, fought in World War II, in the European theatre. He taught me a lot, in quiet remembrance conversations with my husband, about the ugliness of war and the compassionate witness of warriors. He made it home safely, and went on to raise five pretty amazing kids, if I do say so myself.

One of those kids is my brother Jim. He also served in the Army, but in Iraq during Operation Desert Storm. He, too, came home with sobering stories-- but of a different ilk.

Thank you, one and all, for your service and your sacrifice.

But for me and my family, Memorial Day now carries a different memory. 

On Memorial Day 2010, we bid my husband farewell. A heart so filled with love for his family and his Lord couldn't handle the load and gave out. At age fifty-two, Memorial Day went from an ages-old concept of remembering lives lost-- to a new reality of celebrating a life well-lived.

We will always remember his laugh, deep and resonating-- and genuine. He sang the same way, his baritone voice sinking into deep bass whenever he caught a cold. His was an amazing set of pipes-- and he knew how to use 'em.

My children will remember the "potato-masher," his goofy way of playing with them as he lay on the floor on his back. He kept it up until they were, seriously, bigger than was probably safe-- but they all loved it.

I will always remember-- always-- the joy on his face when he became a grandpa for the first time. Oh, how he loved that child-- and how he would have loved the ones who have followed!

But we would dishonor his memory if we stayed stuck there, in the past. So we lean on one another, love on one another, and little by little, remarkably, life has gone on. 

The garden has come back every spring, and I have not managed to kill it (yet). more weeds removed this weekend. Another battle won (for now).

The cats have decided it's safe to sleep on his side of the bed, although at some level they probably miss him grabbing them and pretend-chewing on their ears. Maybe.

And the sun comes up every morning, offers us the promise of another day. Whether we want one or not, there it is. 

Every day, a chance to remember. Every day, a chance to make new memories. 

This man, my husband, who loved Beethoven and sang along when there were no vocal parts, also loved this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8GwjFEnhqc

Yup. Now there's a memory. Don't let go!

Gracious Lord, thank you for soothing the pain, for holding us close even when we kick and scream and struggle to get free. Thank you for not letting us go. Amen.

Richard Bruce Denman (and Garrett)

April 17, 1958 - May 31, 2010