The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,18
I’m the pastor of this church. We’ve gathered here today to celebrate the life of a great man. Or, I should say, a man’s life lived greatly. The attendance here today speaks volumes to the kind of life Robert Book lived.
“In Ecclesiastes, the preacher taught, ‘There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot… a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.’
“Today is a time for us to weep and mourn. But not for long. Our Savior counseled, ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms;… I go there to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.’ ”
The pastor looked out over the congregation. “We can only hope there are many books in Robert’s room.” There was a soft chorus of pious laughter.
“We are comforted to know that Robert Book is not alone. He was preceded in death by his beloved wife, Celeste. He will be followed in death by all of us. As we still have time, let us use it wisely and live such that our deaths may too be sweet. May God bless you with his eternal peace.”
The pastor was followed by a soloist, a thirtysomething woman with a beautiful, operatic voice. She sang the hymn “How Great Thou Art.”
The reading of the obituary was done by Wendy. She was, as I expected, emotional, and had difficulty getting through the short reading, even though she’d written the obituary herself. I think she’d planned on saying more but was too emotional to continue, so she returned to her seat instead.
After Wendy sat down, the woman from the viewing—the well-dressed one who had approached the casket after me—walked up to the lectern. I looked down at the program to see who she was. Her name, appropriately, was Grace.
It was immediately clear to me that she knew my father well, as she spoke of things I didn’t know about him. She ended her eulogy by reading a quote from one of my father’s favorite authors.
“The author John Steinbeck wrote,” she said, looking down at a piece of paper, “ ‘It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.’ ” She looked up. “There is no pleasure in our farewell. Robert’s death is a loss to all who knew him.” She furtively glanced down at me then back out at the crowd. “He was, simply, one of the finest men I’ve ever known. It was an honor to be counted among his many friends.” She teared up. “Godspeed, my dear one.” She slowly turned and walked back to the chair she’d risen from.
A moment later an older Black man dressed in an Army Service Uniform walked up to the lectern. He spoke briefly about their service together in Vietnam and the occasion on which my father had been awarded a bronze star with a “V” device for valor under fire. I had no idea my father had been given the medal. That’s how tight-lipped he was about his service.
Afterward, the pastor stood and gave the benediction.
“The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, the great Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant: Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well-pleasing in his sight; through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.”
This concluded the service. The funeral director gave instructions to the congregation and the casket was lifted by a half dozen pallbearers who carried it outside to the waiting hearse. I followed the casket out. After the casket was in the car, one of the pallbearers—the man who had served in the war with my father—approached me. “Noel, my name is Steve Johnson,” he said, handing me a business card. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you just call. Your father was there for me. It would be a sincere honor to return the favor.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank your father.” He turned and walked away. I looked