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Last of the Mohicans

Glenny, Jerry, and Bobby were the brothers of my Mother Verna.  I'm not sure why she seemed to always attach a "y ending" to their names, but it stuck with her and even them, regardless of their grown up years.  She also did it with my brothers, Johnny and Petey.  Maybe it was just a term of loving endearment in her big sister and motherly role.  No doubt it has happened once again this past week, as she welcomed her baby brother Bobby into his heavenly home. . .
 
Uncle Bob was probably the one brother I knew best from Mom's family.  Growing up, it seemed that we didn't always have a chance to spend a lot of time with her side of the family.  Grandma had died in her mid 50's of breast cancer, and although I was told that I was named after her, I arrived too late to ever have known her.  I only see her in the picture hanging on my wall.  Times spent with Grandpa and Uncle Jerry were limited due to lack of accommodations in their home.  Even as a kid, I can remember their house as somewhat old and rickety.  It represented great mystery to my 5 year old mind, as I recall many old things stacked and piled, an overgrown yard, and the opportunity to sit out on the front porch and gaze at huge airplanes flying overhead.  It was stuffed with "stuff," mostly Grandpa's Raleigh stuff for his home business.  Mom was always concerned and I think somewhat frustrated that she could only do so much to help them out.  Uncle Glen was a brief memory, though he lived in the surrounding city as a mortician until he passed away from melanoma.  I never knew his wife nor son, since they too were absent for my days of growing up.  Grandpa's funeral was about the last time I recall being in Mom's home, so the only other contact for us was Uncle Bob and his family.

Uncle Bob was my singing uncle.  His booming baritone voice matched his height and build.  He had eyes that gleamed and twinkled with humor and joy.  His smile lit up any room, and you always had to join in, there was no holding back or in!  He too fulfilled his calling as a minister and pastor.  I can hear him from the pulpit greeting the congregation with "Maranatha!"  He was exuberant in being a song leader as well. His wife, my Aunt Marian, was the perfect complement for him.  She sang with him, as well as accompanied him on the piano or the organ.  They were no doubt the right duo to team up with my folks when they started out in their evangelistic meetings.  That was an era of time before me.  I only read it of it my mother's old scrapbooks, but I would have liked to have seen and heard them all in action.

Uncle Bob never gave up his calling.  "Retired" from his former pastorate, I remember him singing in the choir of his church.  Dad and I would be there Sunday morning and always made an effort to be the first to pick him out.   He also was the visiting pastor for that congregation and no doubt, I'm sure was such a blessing to those who were ill, hospitalized or just unable to get to church.  Even as I write this, I realize what a life of giving and service he gave to all . . .

Yet, strange what stands out to me the most is the gift he brought to my father dying.  Dad was quiet on his bed, when Uncle Bob came in his room to be there one more time.  His voice began its song, and my Dad's eyebrows and ears perked up in subtle recognition.  The hymns and choruses familiar to him came now with such a soothing voice.  It was the comfort that was needed not only for my father's passing, but for my very broken heart. . .

Uncle Bob, the last one left behind, has joined up with his former family.  The circle of life and death as it is known in our realm is completed.   But death never does become us, and especially for Uncle Bob, one who was so filled with life and song.   Perhaps that is why Jesus made a point to say even with his close friend dying, "this sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified by it." (John 11:4).  Death was never really to be part of the plan of life, it's played out even wrong in the creation and creatures all around us.  There can only be sorrow and sadness with it, if there is no other hope.  Jesus knew that despair as well, as He was deeply moved and troubled within Himself when face to face with loss and unbelief.  He just wept and let the tears flow out.  But the story didn't end with that, for Jesus is " . . .the resurrection and the life; he who believes in Me shall live even if he dies, and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die.  Do you believe this?" (John 11:25-26)

Do I believe this?  Yes, I must confess I do, even though I do not see nor can I see the God I worship and try to follow after.  I live each day in this faith that by believing, one day I too will actually see the One I follow as well as all of those who have gone before me, like my Uncle Bob.  He was one of the generation that "what you saw was what you got."  Genuine, true, faithful and enduring, always and forever singing and praising His Savior.  I am thankful and filled with gratitude for Uncle Bob and that he leaves these memories with me.  He may be the last of the Mohicans, but all thanks to God, being the last is not the end . . .       

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