AND I HELD HIS HAND AS WE SAID GOODBYE
By Ron Brantner, his youngest
September 12, 1987
|
He was born at the turn of the century. A simple start in the Texas prairie sand, Where he shared his damp, half-dugout cradle, With all the other little creatures of the land. Where the rush of summer breezes was seldom, And rain clouds were infrequent in the sky, And the sun's waves danced 'round about him, In a shinnery-scape that was too stubborn to die. (And he took a firm hold of God's hand, to walk the path that lay ahead.) Ambrose his father, was a searcher, a seeker, Wandering endlessly on the pathways of his mind. His time was a great oak-span, mostly winter, The hidden rivers, his roots would never find. His ninety-five years were vagabond many. His mind vex would make life mostly a lie. Like the indigenous earth life around him, He never flourished, but stoutly refused to die. (And grandsons gathered in Red Mud's dying dusk, to lay the patriarch to his rest.) Her singing heart and brood-loving spirit, Bode her valiantly through many a lonely day. And she often paused with each hour's passing, To gaze southward for his appearing on the way. Life's reaper claimed the bouquet in her beauty, In the fullness of bloom, at midseason. The mother of eight found rest much too early, Leaving the young man to wrest with the reason. (Lugenia, a flower, shedding sky-petals earthward, to grandchildren she never knew.) Two brothers also answered His early calling, Young men snatched from life, cruel still. But He spared two young boys and four sisters, To stay the course, never doubting His will. Manhood was thrust upon him early in life, Far too few days to spend in youthful play. But he admitted to his share of frivolity, Great escapades with my uncle, Son McKay. (And he shared deep fellowship with other brothers-in-law throughout his days.) Kay P. took the hand of Marie and they abounded, Tilling God's great land and reaping His mind. And He gave them good crops and five children, Humble souls richly blessed with bounty so kind. Cowboy, blacksmith, carpenter, storekeeper. Talents many, yet he chose to turn the soil, And see newborn calves, from gentled mothers, Closeness to nature would be his favored toil. (And they smiled and cried as the five children grew and left in their turn.) He sought out the lowly, was sought by the wise, Choosing not to be a leader, he was followed by all. He was slow to speak, much quicker still to listen, A humble man, admired by those both great and small. Short of stature, but exceedingly tall in grace, A gentle soul, radiating God's mercy from within. A thumb-worn Bible, a sudden new-found truth, God's mystery held simple, his answer for all men. (And he placed his hand on many a shoulder and said, "I understand.") His days started early and were work-filled. Each was met with resolve and thanksgiving. A purity of heart greeted each day, each neighbor. He saw people, not things, as the reason for living. He saw continuity of life in the little ones, And was quick to take a child to his knee. Stories of coyotes and riddles of chickens, Removed little tears and filled wide eyes with glee. (And he squeezed little fingers as they went to explore God's creation, so grand.) On his youngest he lay his great blessings. Soft gray eyes spoke of mundane ways as royal. Gentle spirit unraveling the mysteries of life, Plantings yet lost in the shifting, youthful soil. Old man, old fashioned, out-of-date, and fading, With simple truths, so impertinent for the day. What was needed was knowledge and exploration, Of the new world, and a modern, far better way. (And I released his grasp, as I hastened on to greet the real world.) Out of sight, and for the most part forgotten, An aging man, simpler yet as years passed in haste. Yes, I'm sure he oft marveled at the cycle of life. Would aught come from this boy--or mere waste? Standing afar, he was close as if present. In my mind I now called to him more and more. And his mild voice grew louder and clearer, But my own search would not cease its soar. (And I reached out to touch another fate, another way.) When my own midlife term came upon me, And young eyes searched mine for the truth. What could I say that might be enduring? I ran quickly to the father of my youth. His eyes smiled from great depths of knowing, That the great pattern of life was circling 'round. For he knew that the words had been said many times, And only in old truths can life's meanings be found. (And we shook hands firmly as I made this departing.) Still I sought for the end of the searching. Will it come? Will old truths now seem right? My inner self yearned more to be like him. Would my children see in me his great light? The final call to his bedside was sudden. A thousand miles later, scant moments to spare, The gray, misty eyes smiled their last admonition, Then his First Love beckoned him up there. (And I held his hand as we said good-bye.) And now, and more so with each day passing, I journey back to those sweet, bygone years. To the knee, to the barn, to the hot, dusty row. To the true meaning of life, unhidden by tears. In his weakness there was strength so great, It could hardly be seen by one yet so small. In his strength there abode a servant's heart, To be imitated by one who would dare to be so tall. (And my spirit now soars upward, to hold his hand once more.) |
| Appendix Links | Home |