The Old Rugged
Evening’s curtain wafted quietly behind me in reverence
to the midnight song I knew would be my audition tonight.
No stage here, only life’s deep breathing in the air
alongside my father’s hospice bed.
No strangers but
I
accompanying the acapella journey of this Christian soldier
moving onward in the journey from captive to free,
from life to forever, from earth to heaven and from son
to mom. The old rugged warrior stands resting even while
laying beside me in labored expectation.
Years of joy for both he and I gather with us in these shadows
tonight. The tears have dried behind me; the tears have left him as
he knocks on heaven’s door to meet his Father, his family and
the fruits of his life-long labors.
He lays quietly, eyes shut and though I stand next
to him, he stands so much taller than I can ever reach.
So much of a man, this rugged old warrior.
“Praying” he whispers to me when I bow my head toward his mouth.
Even in death, the old rugged shouts life with barely a whisper. If
Ever pride was no sin, it is tonight and it is mine.
I gently clutch his hand and as I lean close to awkwardly sing his
Favorite hymn, I find I am joined by a choir of angels.
Together, dad and I, and his welcoming valets of the Gate, hear
The harmony from my crackling, off-key rendition of
The Old Rugged Cross.
I, too, will cling to the old rugged. This wonderful warrior, dad.
