Remembering

Preparing the bulletin and worship service for this Sunday, I had a flashback to one of the many firsts of my first year as pastor. Memorial Day weekend snuck up on me. Although I had prepared prayers of gratitude for those who had died serving our country, I neglected to ask about other traditions the congregation valued.

That Sunday morning, as I sought the too-late advice of the volunteer who deftly handles the nitty gritty details of worship, something caught my eye outside. Fluttering. Actually, a flurry of fluttering. Small American flags lined both sides of the sidewalk leading to the church. "Uh-oh," I thought to myself.

Those flags raised the expectation for something that was not going to be happening in worship that day. Like patriotic music. Like red, white and blue sprinkles at coffee hour. Like scriptural assurance that God had a special soft spot for our corner of the world. I quickly moved to the other entrance. More flags. More fluttering. Suddenly, I couldn't remember if there was a flag in our worship space or fathom what I would do with it if there was.

Improvising at the beginning of the service, I was moved to tears when dozens of veterans stood to be recognized - some had served long ago in far-flung places, some had returned from the Middle East just days before. Five years later, that group has dwindled - lost to other battles with cancer, kidney failure, dementia, suicide.

I might quibble about secular holidays creeping into worship, but I hope to never pass up an opportunity to bless the people in front of me. To listen to and honor their stories. To thank them and to give thanks for them.

"Hi, it's me."

Something startling happens when I call my mom's cell phone and she doesn't answer. The voice mail greeting reminds me, in my sister-in-law's familiar voice:

"Ron Gray is not available." 

Tell me about it. From a dripping ceiling in our daughter's room to our congregation's looming capital campaign; from our son's pending high school graduation to farmers preparing their fields for spring planting - I'm acutely aware of my father's absence. Even after a year and a half, the declaration stills jars me.

My parents held on to their first cell phone for years, passing up free upgrades and newer models in favor of one they knew how to use. Once bound by the awkwardness of a party-line shared with neighbors up and down their rural road, mom and dad learned to text. Once cautious about the expense of long distance calling, they learned to call for no reason - unlimited minutes were used to report monarch sightings or a new kitten or the death of a neighbor or a funny story.

I suspect that clunky cell phone, replaced only after my dad's death, sits in a kitchen drawer at the farm. Though its chirping crickets and croaking frog ringtone is now silenced, it still holds little bits and pieces of our lives - texts and pictures and voice mail messages collected and forgotten over many years. That it once had the power to connect me to my dad on the best and worst of days or for no reason at all makes it - for now, for me - too precious to throw away or recycle.

My mom is savvy enough to change the greeting on her new phone - but I hope she won't.