Twenty Fifth Anniversary, 2014

March 19.  I did not choose this date,
but today has some significance to me,
because it was 25 year ago today

that my father died.  And maybe
I shouldn’t dwell on this, but
He was 51, the same age I am today.

And he died of a heart attack, which
apparently runs in the family:
all six of my dad’s brothers and sisters

have had heart conditions since then,
So here I am in the middle of Lent,
focusing on my mortality.

As we are supposed to do, I guess,
but what I really want to talk about
is the rest of the story.


March 19, 1989 was Palm Sunday. Lent
came early that year, and it was (imagine!)
a beautiful beginning-of-spring day.

The grass was turning green.  The sky was blue.
And I was going to get out and enjoy the day.
But then the phone rang, and it changed everything.

My thoughts ran all over the place: Immediately,
I missed my dad.  But then I remembered
that I hadn’t talked to him in over a month.

I thought about how 26 was way too young
to be making funeral arrangements.  And I thought
about the 600 mile drive I had in front of me.

But that call had come just as I was about to go
to church that morning, and something compelled me
to keep on going.  And it was a good thing.


Because for all of my scattered thoughts, I needed
to hear and sing those processional hymns,
and even though there were tears in my eyes,

it was good to be part of a crowd raising their
palm fronds and turning their eyes to Jesus
and maybe it was going to be a tough week ahead,

but it was nice to be reminded that Easter was coming.
And the reminders kept coming, all week long.
Everyone was so warm and close that week,

friends, family but also members of my dad’s church,
people I didn’t even know, and they were smiling,
even laughing, as they took time to remember Joe Vold,

and when we got to the funeral, there was even
a sense of celebration, because my dad knew
where he was going, and he wanted us to know it, too.


By Friday, I was back home in Chicago,
and Friday night I found myself back in church.
This time it was the Good Friday service:

the Tennebrae service, where they shroud the cross
and dim the lights and everyone slowly filters
out of the church, quietly, somberly,

and where the name of the day practically begs
the question: what’s so good about it?
But we all know the answer, don’t we?

And that’s the rest of the story.
You know, I might just live another 51 years,
and I have some encouragement in that:

of my dad’s six brothers and sisters,
five of them are still going strong,
and they’re all getting well into their eighties now.


But more importantly, I’m encouraged by
the daily reminders all around me,
encouragements from my aunts and uncles

and many of you, too, reminding me daily
that regardless of where we are in life
or how tough our Lenten journey may seem

it is good to know where we are going.