“Goodbye, Mr. Fourth of July”
The morning of our son John’s wedding day broke, indeed, overcast and the weatherman said we could certainly expect rain. “Poor Sarah,” I thought to myself as I drew back the curtain of our bedroom window very early that morning. The plans were, for this fourth of July wedding, to have the ceremony inside the church at 3 p.m., take the entire wedding party to a charming lakeside park for pictures, and then attend a lovely, outdoor, evening reception at the exquisite home of some cherished friends. I stepped outside our bedroom door, keenly aware of the silence all around me, and sat on the top step of the staircase. “This is John’s wedding day.” I said out loud to no one. “This is John’s wedding day,” I repeated with an emphasis on the “is” as if coaching myself. As if convincing myself. I walked down the steps to the kitchen and poured myself an iced tea. “Please don’t rain…” I murmured as I looked up at the sky through our kitchen curtains. Looking over at the open basement door, I resisted the urge to go look downstairs. The basement has been John’s domain ever since we moved into this brand new house almost four years ago, and I have become so accustomed to his charging up the stairs, kissing me on the head and running out the door, that the absence of commotion coming from that direction was overpoweringly sad on this particular morning. But only for a moment. Rather than being melancholy on my son’s wedding day, I chose to turn my attention to the things about John that made me smile.
John lived at home with us for all of his “pre-wedded” 28 years. That may seem like too long for some people, but we Christian parents tend to hold on a little longer. By this I mean that our kids are not necessarily clicking their heels to leave home to see what the world has to offer. John, no exception to this rule, was always one to show deep devotion to his home and everyone connected to it, and thereby, developed some very deep attachments along the way. I remembered the last Saturday night before the last Sunday John would live at home with us. Coming home from Sarah’s much earlier than usual that Saturday evening, John was very happy to find my good husband and I sitting in the family room all alone. “Oh great! Are you guys gonna be here for a while?” he asked with such pleading fixed in his voice that even if we had plans to go to dinner with the President, we would have remained. My husband and I looked at each other and answered John in the affirmative as if we had no other plans but to wait for him to arrive home that night. John came back into the room. One of our girls had joined us, I can’t quite remember who just now, all I remember was that this 28 year old big, strong, incredibly handsome young man sat up close to me, dropped his head on my shoulder and quietly began to cry. My great hearted husband, who has never, ever failed—in all our 31 years of marriage—to have just the right thing to say at the time it is most needed, looked across the room at me with tear filled eyes and said, “It’s okay, J, you know mom and I love you son, and we’ll, by God’s grace, always be here for you…” Quiet, muffled sobs filled the room and the daughter who was sitting with us, sweetly and quietly slipped out, sniffling as she went. After what seemed like a lifetime, John spoke. “I’m just gonna miss you so much mom and dad. You’ve always been so wonderful…I can’t thank you enough for all the love, all the instruction…all the wonderful memories…I know it’s never gonna be the same…” My mind was a jumble of disarranged memories that came flying at me from all directions. John, at age 2, in his first Yankee outfit. John at age three, batting the ball over the roof of our little one story house. John, helping me clean the house, cleaning his bedroom in 2 minutes flat, surprising his father by washing his car. John, bursting through the back door after school on a cold autumn day, dropping his backpack on the floor and shouting in response to the aroma that filled the kitchen, “Yes! Butterscotch brownies!” John, sitting across from his father on a warm summer evening out on the back deck, leaning forward, receiving instruction. John, quietly strumming his guitar as our family would sit around talking and just loving to be together. And now this new memory—John, sitting beside me, quietly crying, saying good-bye.
The next day, the last Sunday John would wake up in our home as an unmarried young man, found all of us a little preoccupied. This would be John’s last Sunday dinner with us and, just as we did for Jen and Tim on their last Sundays home, we always planned a very special dinner and an afternoon of good byes. Our church services seemed to go faster than usual that Sunday and the girls and I hurried home to make sure everything was just perfect. Even little three year old Madison was very helpful, not quite understanding that her beloved uncle would not be living in the same house she lived in any more. John comprises one half of what our family calls, “The uncles.” The crazy, fun loving, treat bringing, present bearing, ice cream man chasing, ‘fly Madi through the house by the seat of her pink overalls’ loving uncles— “Unca John” and “Unca Tim”—whom Madison adores. We ate and then, I called Madi into the kitchen to help me light the sparkler candles atop the homemade chocolate cake piled high with John’s favorite vanilla frosting. She was ecstatic and as we lit the candles, our family began to sing, “Goodbye, our God is watching o’er you, goodbye, His blessings go before you…” but we never finished. As we got to the table with the cake, Madison crept up into John’s lap and began to cry her little heart out. And, John, enfolding her in his embrace, just wept. I stood there, with the cake—sparklers sizzling in the silence—and looked around at my family. Everyone was crying. And so, I continued to hold the cake and, with my heart in my throat, finished the song, “Goodbye, and we’ll be praying for you, so goodbye, may God bless you.” The sparklers had sputtered to a soundless stillness and the stillness remained for quite a while. Finally, as we had done on so may occasions before, we repeated to our beloved son, brother, brother-in-law, and cherished uncle, the very reasons we loved him so much and how it would never be the same without him.
I was still staring at the basement door, though a million miles away in thought from it when the front door burst open. “Hey mom!” the groom threw his arms around me, ”I’m getting’ married today!” I squeezed him hard, that big lug of a son, as he swung me around. “And so you are!” I answered him. His mind and heart was a million miles away from last Sunday, and last Saturday night—and rightly so. And through our kitchen window, I noticed, the sun had once again begun to shine.
Encouragingly yours,
Liz
