I stand here in my father’s house, alone and my heart aching. He’s gone now. Dispatched so quickly, cremated, and inserted into the ground as one more statistic is created for the records. We mourn and we shed tears at his passing and soon we are back to living our lives, his memory committed to the ages.
I stand here in my father’s house, and the memories sweep over me, snapshots of a life lived to the fullest. A young man rugged and a tireless worker doing his best for the family he loved. An older gentleman he began searching for yet another person to help, to touch, and love. The goodness of God taken refuge in this tired old body, he wasted no
time spreading God’s love with everyone he met until
God said, “You’ve done enough, my son. It is now time
for you to rest. Come take my hand, Lawrence Fields your work here is done.
I stand here in my father’s house, with this emptiness here inside. I miss this man whom I called my dad. I miss him so much. Gone are so many things we shared. Gone are the baseball games, antique shops, walks out to Grandma’s, playing catch on a warm summer day. Goodness is a virtue we spend our lives in pursuit, yet for this one man it came with ease. His tired body is gone now, its usefulness no longer needed for his spirit soars on high and dwells in the hearts of all he touched.
I stand here in my father’s house, and I marvel at what he has done. Not a rich man or a man of fame, he left little of himself behind. But ask the black man behind bars in prison or the six year old learning to read, ask them about the hole left inside, ask them if this old man made a difference. For in the final analogy, it isn’t the rich man that God searches for, it’s the man who made a difference. This man came into the world some 85 years ago. He left behind a world that’s just a little better for his being here. There is little doubt in anyone’s mind that he did make a difference.
I stand here in my father’s house a little sadder and yet a whole lot wiser. The march of
is unceasing, it’s cruelty relentless as it devours the last of a generation
gone by. The hopes and dreams of youth are consumed by the passage of time. I silently bow my head in respect for the
passing of my father and the passing of yet another generation into the