Twenty-two years ago, as spring arrived, my father’s spirit departed.  I remember brilliant sun radiating through the windows.  My mother remembers a windy day with snow on the ground. The difficult final weeks of his passage drew to a close with just a few shallow breaths and then–holy silence.

I am now only eight years younger than he was at the time that he died. I wish he could have lived to see his grandson teach at the college his father taught at.  I wish he could have held his two great grandsons. He would have been thrilled to know that his son might well legally marry that man he loves.  And I am glad he knew that man.

To be sure there were times as our country got polarized and uselessly went to war more than once, that I was almost glad he did not have to see it.  I was glad he did not have to see my church get kicked out of its denomination for being too inclusive.

But now we are here to see all those things for him.  To rejoice and grieve in his place.  We are here to do the work he would have continued–opposing war, loving justice, celebrating life, doting on those who remain behind and those who never knew him but follow.

We are here to bring in the spring, year after year.  To watch the flowers and green emerge. To make the world grow.