My Uncle Richard died last Saturday. The fifth of my mother's seven brothers, he was easily my favorite uncle (Tell any of my surviving uncles this and I'll deny it and claim my weblog was hacked). Uncle Richard was a great man, and I will miss him greatly.
I grew up closer to Uncle Richard than I was to my other uncles. A goodly portion of my childhood was spent in the company of my cousin, Mark, who was Uncle Richard's only son. My closeness with Mark in those days brought me in frequent contact with Uncle Richard. As cousins, our times together were not always spent pursuing noble tasks, and I remember our foolishness and how it would occasionally raise Uncle Richard's hackles. The waters of time have run over these rough places though, and some 40 years later, it seems smoother and less coarse than it may have actually been.
The Uncle Richard I remember best is the one of my adult years. Somewhere between then and now, he came to know his Maker in an intimate way. Every time I was in town and would stop by and see him, he would talk about how good the Lord had been to him. Even later, when his lung cancer had zapped him of much of his vitality, he was always positive and upbeat, exuding a firm and true faith in the God that had loved him and had forgiven him.
Not only did he love his Lord; he loved his family, too. He loved my Aunt Brenda faithfully for the 51 years that they were married. He loved his children, Renee and Mark. He loved their children and their children's children. He loved his brothers and their families, his only sister and her family (That is where I come in). He loved my stepfather, which was a task that I found nearly impossible myself. He loved everyone, and his love was sincere, without a smidgen of falseness.
My infrequent trips back home for visits would, whenever possible, include a stop at Uncle Richard and Aunt Brenda's house. I was always welcome and was always offered a cup of coffee. These visits would always be among the high points of every trip. Those times when I was unable to stop by, for whatever reason, were always accompanied by regret at not having done so.
My favorite times with Uncle Richard were talking about the one passion we shared: woodworking. We would wander around his shop or he would show me his projects scattered around his home. On July 2, 2007 at 1:40pm, I took the above picture as we toured his shop. I had my camera and asked that he pose for a picture there in the midst of his domain. He gladly obliged. His arms rest atop a cedar chest that he was in the process of finishing.
Our most recent visit was in early August of last year, about 8 months ago. We were in town for my father's 70th birthday and I stopped by for a visit. It would be the last time I saw him. We just sat in his living room and talked. Eventually, Aunt Brenda returned from her errand-running and joined the conversation. That's a great memory of time spent with one of my favorite people.
It was Uncle Richard that called me to tell me that my mother had died. I remember his soft, tender voice, softened even more by his own heartfelt tears. It was Uncle Richard that called to tell me that my stepfather had died, and he did it with a tenderness and respect that I found absent in my own heart.
Uncle Richard loved God's creation. He loved gardening. He loved the outdoors. He loved the mountains. He would tell me about his trips, often marveling again and again at how beautiful this place or that place was. I can only imagine the joy he is now experiencing, walking around the magnum opus that God has created in eternity for his faithful ones.
Uncle Richard's life would not be considered great by the standards of this world, but he was a great man. He took the plain and ordinary things of his life and handled them with an extraordinary love and care. He saw God's hand in these simple things and accorded them the respect they deserved, having been divinely touched. He was an example of what true greatness is, and that it is not found in great deeds but in humble deeds done with great love.
With little of substance to go on, I like to let my imagination run wild when I think about Heaven. I love imagining people walking in the gates of the Celestial City, beholding for the first time the unimaginable glories of God's home.
I imagine there at the end, he drew that last breath, his lungs refusing to draw another. Then, with a renewed strength, he drew another breath, yet he knew this breath was different. The air was...perfect. It filled him with an energy that made him believe his old body had been replaced with a new one. When he opened his eyes, he saw a hand reaching out--a hand with a wound that never healed. He grabbed it and was lifted to his feet to find himself standing at the gates of New Jerusalem.
A cheer goes up as he enters the gates, and the residents of this great and glorious community swarm around him to greet him and welcome him. At the front of the line are those he has loved that have gone before him. Mom is there. She gives him a long hug and says, "Richard: It's as good as you have imagined, and better! You won't believe it! You just won't believe it!"
Not long from then, the call will go up that a new arrival is at the gates. It will be one of us, and he'll be there with that big, loving smile on his face, pushing his way to the front of that line of greeters, waiting for the go-ahead to rush the gates.
Uncle Richard: Enjoy your reward, good and faithful servant. Thank you for your example. Thank you for being a mirror in which we can see God's love reflected. We love you and will see you soon. Just not soon enough.
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