the passing of life in the neighborhood
I know that all of my postings have been about death and dying, but they're also about life and living. It just so happens that there has been a lot of death about. Seems people can't stop doing it, and there have been far too many who are dear to me. But I live in the promise of His salvation for them, and for me.
While I was at worship team practice at C3AK (Christ Community Church, Alaska) last night a few weeks ago, my good friend and neighbor called. I wouldn't normally pick up a call on my cell phone during our gathering, but something told me it was a call to take. The voice on the other end of the line, choked with emotion, told me that another friend and neighbor, Curly, had lost his battle with stomach cancer and old age. Curly is half of the husband and wife team of Curly and Erma, who live two doors down and have been some of the sweetest neighbors we've ever had. And that's saying quite a lot, because the street we live on is populated with a number of lovely people. In the seven or so years that we've lived in this home we've seen other passings. We are praying for some of our neighbors who are waging their own fights as I write this. And we wait for still others to slip from us under the weight of the burdens they've been given. Our little segment of community reminds us on painfully regular occasion, that the march of time will steal the breath of our days when the time comes.
Curly and Erma have been lovely friends and the loss to the neighborhood will be pretty large. At any given time, during the summer months, a guy could wander two doors down and find Curly in his garage puttering with one thing or another. Then, if your day was so inclined, you could lose a couple of hours talking about literally anything. His knowledge was big and his willingness to share it was bigger. Curly had the gift of being able to share his knowledge without making you feel stupid if you didn't possess it as well. Far and away his favorite topic was racing. Having been a NASCAR driver himself, and inducted into both the Nebraska and Colorado Racing Halls of Fame, he had limitless stories to tell and he told them with great color. My boys enjoyed the chance to help with lawn mowing over the last summer and, while there was always money changing hands between them, Curly also liked to just have conversation with them too. We will certainly miss those moments. Here are a course of pictures of our friend in action. He's #5! And how cool is this helmet???
When I received the phone call telling me that Curly had left us, my oldest son, Stephen, was with me at band practice. He could see the look on my face and asked me if everything was alright. I simply said, "Mr. Curly just passed away." A dark cloud swept across his face and he summed things up as teenagers are apt to do. He simply stated, "That really sucks." And indeed it does. On the way home he said that this seemed to be the year for losing friends. I reminded him that the year had just started. "Things like this make it seem like its been going forever." I took that as his commentary that these heart wrenching events simply make time lose its relevance.
Just this past Sunday, another lifelong friend, Rose Heim, claimed the promise of her faith and wandered from us into the rest of the Lord. Times like this always make me think of all of those who have gone on before. I'd like to share about one who touched me so deeply, many years ago, and still influences me today.
A few summers ago I got a call from one of my dearest friends, Perry Noble. You know, the ones you can count on hand? One of those friends, although, I have to say that I am blessed to need two hands to count those friends of mine. We live in different states now and, like many of us, don't talk often enough or even email often enough. But I love to hear from him and I love his family, Donna and Jack. So, when he called, I was more than thrilled to see his name pop up on the contact list of my iPhone.
We said a few words of greetings and caught up a bit on how the kids were growing, how the jobs were going, and communicated our best to be passed on to our respective wives. And then he asked me to help with something that was both gratifying and immensely humbling.
"My Dad's wishes, after he passed away, were to have his ashes scattered in the Chugach Mountains somewhere overlooking Anchorage. It's been a few years and, since I'm coming up this summer, I thought it was about time I brought him along and took care of that. I'd like it if you'd go with me. Say a few words. Just be there."
There was no hesitation on my part to say that of course I would do that. Perry's father, Alfred Meier Noble, was a person I encountered on my journey who was, simply stated, so much bigger than life to me. While to many, he may not have seemed very out of the ordinary, those of who had the pleasure of knowing him knew that he was indeed, extraordinary.
Perry and I met while working at Gary King Sporting Goods in 1985. We became fast friends and began to hang out together quite a bit. We both loved computers,which were in their infancy for private , desktop use at the time. We hiked together, biked together, made many trips to the Russian River on the Kenai Peninsula, and sometimes I let him beat me at tennis. Over the course of many years we saw each other through a lot of life changes and got to know one another's families as well. I simply have to say that I absolutely adored Perry's father and mother, Alfred and Marian Noble.
I found Al and Marian to be two of the most genuine, compassionate, pleasant, loving people I had ever met. I can't say enough about either of them to do them justice and to adequately introduce them to you. But in the limited space of this blog post I want to tell you more about my friend, Al Noble. More about his life and his influence, while he was here on earth and even after he left us to go on ahead.
One of the things that all of us who had the pleasure of hanging out with Al always recall is his famous trips to Costco Warehouse. Al simply loved that place. He was enamored with the good deals and the sometimes quirky, one of a kind, one time only items that Costco would stock. But more than that, he was extremely prone to buy something for you; something he saw that he thought you might need. Or not need, but just want. The next thing you'd know, if you weren't careful, Al would just show up with "stuff". I can't count the number of times Al would offer to buy something for me, give something to me, or do something for me. And it was never, ever with any strings attached. There was no underlying motive or intent to get one over on those who Al gave so freely to. He just loved, and gave. I think that the most I ever took was some boxes of food when Karen and I were a young couple with a brand new baby. But it wasn't because Al didn't try. He really just couldn't help himself.
One of my favorite times with Al, Marian, and Perry was a day when we all decided to go to lunch and, in those days, every restaurant still had a smoking section set aside for those who wanted to kill themselves with cigarettes. While he had been a smoker when he was young, mostly encouraged by the free Camels in every WWII soldier's ration kit, by now he had been smoke free for a very long time. Like many ex-smokers, he had become somewhat militant in his desire to no longer inhale the off-gassing of the stinking things. We were shown to our seats, the Nobles, Karen, Stephen, and I which happened to be just across the aisle from the "smoking section". We chatted for a bit, played with the baby, and placed our order. Look, here's a picture from the day we went:
Shortly, a couple of folks sat down across from us and promptly lit up. The smoke wafted and curled in our direction and I could see Al getting gradually more annoyed, but never losing his good cheer. He was sitting on the aisle, closest to the smokers and he kept looking in their direction, clearly looking for some way to change the circumstances more to his liking. Now, Al was very tall but also very thin. And by this time, he was an older gentleman and he'd lost most of his hair. He had wire rimmed glasses and a wonderfully gentle face. See? He is:
Picture with me then, that beautiful face, atop a lanky 6' 5"+ inch frame stretching across the aisle toward the smoking table. That's what Al did. And then he gathered his lips into a puffed out whistling position, took in a substantial tank of air... and blew. It looked so comical that I still laugh out loud when I think about it. What made is really funny to me was how long he blew. He was in no hurry. It wasn't a sudden expulsion of air. He simply drew it in, leaned most of the way across the aisle, and ever so deliberately blew the smoke back in their direction... forever.... And then he was done. But, somehow, it seemed lighter, brighter, and more entertaining. I think, for me, it was an example of how Al would so often just be in the moment and do things that were surprising, and moving. Sometimes funny and many times poignant. His depth of real emotion and compassion was something I admired as well as aspired to.
Al left us in 2006, advanced in age, but still seeming so young at heart. Like many, his wishes were to be cremated and those were followed. one of his other wishes, as I mentioned before, was to have his ashes scattered in the mountains above Anchorage where there was a good view of the city below and the mountain peaks and passes behind. On a warm sunny day a few years ago, we set out from for the parking area at Flat Top Mountain just a few miles from my home. The day was ripe for the moment because the weather had been pretty blase with a persistent covering of gray clouds and spitting rain. We had looked ahead and taken the best guess at the driest day in the near future and were hoping that we would catch a break. As it turned out, it was a magnificent break. As we made our way up the steep road that leads to the mountain, it seemed as if each click of the odometer pushed back the somber veil of moisture that hovered in the air. Over the course of our 15 minute drive the day turned into a positively sunny splash and the temperature began to rise.
We parked in the well used lot that sits at the base of Flat Top and at the entrance to the majestic valleys of the Chugach Mountain Range. We had each been smart enough to dress for multiple weather outcomes and stripped down to shorts and short sleeves while stuffing the leftover layers back into our packs. It was going to be a long trip, but in the wilds of Alaska, even the ones that are 15 minutes from my door, you literally risk your life by being unprepared for almost any outcome. After locking the doors, the two of us set out, onward and upward and began to search for the right place. Eventually, we parted ways with the defined path and set out to the east. In the distance, beneath the northern face of Flat Top and at the gateway to a place known as Power Line Pass, we could see an ancient monument of the massive glacier that once filled the valley and, eons ago, made it's retreat into the hills leaving behind rocks both unremarkable and massive that were the product of the violence the slow freezing of water can inflict on the seemingly indestructible.
Most of the rocks left behind are now covered with scrubs of alder bushes so thick you can't make your way through. Scattered about will be patches of clover, chickweed, and hay grass. Under the mat of decaying years of vegetation you can feel the density of the rocks below, but they have a curious sponginess lent to them by the carpet of grass and roots. In this way, the valley looks amazingly lush and serene. But there, in the middle of one of those longer patches that stretched above the treeline to the mountain face where nothing green is allowed to prosper, was a large, flat rock that looked for all intents and purpose, like a table or an alter. In my mind, it brought to thought a mental picture of the stone table from C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia. Perry and I glanced at each other and knew that it was the place. From our vantage point we could not see the City of Anchorage but we were sure that by the time we hiked the mile or so to the stone table we would be afforded a fantastic line of sight.
We were not disappointed. From where the rock stood we could see the entire Anchorage Bowl from north to south. Beyond the table, to the southeast stretched the beautiful valley, and beyond that, farther up and further in, towered the majestic Chugach Range and beyond. The sun felt hot while we unshouldered our packs and took a few minutes to rest. Then Perry zipped open his pack and withdrew the simple box that held Al's ashes. I pulled my pastor's handbook, an antique from the 1800's filled with lovely words of comfort and hope, from my own pack and turned to some of the passages I had chosen earlier. We stood with our backs to the mountain and our faces to the city at the edge of the stone table and I read out loud for a while. When I had finished we stood in comfortable silence for a few moments. Then Perry spoke from his heart as sons can do to their father's after sufficient years and respect has passed among them. I breathed a final prayer of blessing and Perry set about opening the container so that he could spread Al's ashes.
Except the damn thing wouldn't open. Not easily anyway. In a final act of defiance, with an impish grin on his face, Al had succeeded in preparing just a few more opportunities to rib us and give us his joy before he completely went on from us. After much struggle, some laughing, and not a little cursing, we prevailed on the container and removed the heavy plastic bag that was inside and in which, Al's ashes were sealed. Opening the bag proved to be only slightly less vexing that the box had been. In their fervor to keep the bag from opening accidentally, there had been placed on the top a closure much like a loaf of bread might have on it. Except a bulletproof one. Or finger proof, if you will. Certainly monkey proof, as we were the prime examples. With tears running down our faces from our own hysterics, Perry finally produced a pocket knife and cut a hole in the top of the bag. We made an attempt to settle into a calmer demeanor that "fit" the moment, whatever the moment had become, and Perry prepared to pour out the ashes into the wind.
Except that there was no wind. In an uncharacteristic Alaskan weather moment, there was absolutely no breath of breeze moving in any direction. This was contrary to our vision for the impromptu ceremony. In our mind's eye we had planned to see Al's cremains angelically lifted up the valley and into the nether in a physical representation of what we knew had already happened to his beautiful spirit. Instead, Perry looked at me and with a crooked smile and said "If I pour these out now they're just going to fall to the ground." And then we laughed some more. This was just like Al would have liked it. With a gleam in his eye he, if he'd had his own hand on the bag, would have turned it sideways and waited for the "plop" sound as it hit the earth. At the thought of this Perry and I began to laugh. We laughed until we cried. And then we cried because our hearts hurt. Perry tipped the bag and we watched as the ashes trailed out of the plastic, so little left of such an enormous human being.
And then, halfway through the bag, the wind began to blow. Just a hint at first, no more than a rustle. And then it came to in a steady breeze, blowing up the hillside and into the valley behind us. And we watched as Al's ashes cascading from the plastic bag began to catch them and sail into the sky. They created quite a cloud and kept rising and swirling against the brilliant blue. We watched for such a long time and fancied that we could still see the cloud of Al coalescing and receding well into the pass between the mountains. We stood in silence for some time and then decided it was time to go. I shuffled around looking for my pack and was brought up short. Both Perry and I had set our packs down together at one corner of the stone table. As we dove into our task we lost track of where they were and I had now discovered that they were sitting on the ground just below where Perry had stood on the mountain. And now, with one last guffaw, Al smiled at us his from his ashes that covered both of our backpacks. We felt a little stupid.
I picked up my backpack and shook it off a bit, and then thought better of it. I suggested to Perry that this was a good way for this turn out. After all, forevermore, whenever I would use that backpack I would remember this moment. But, more importantly, every time I used that backpack, I would have a little bit of Al Noble with me. And that's just how it should be with all of those who have gone on before us. We can't forget them. It isn't as if they were never here. In some way or another, the remains of their lives are scattered among ours. You get them in your nostrils and smell their living. They cover your clothes and parts of them remain long after it seems they've gone. And, if you're mindful, they can be with you wherever you go.
I love that backpack.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. - Hebrews 12:1-2a
Here are some pictures of Al that Perry sent me as we reminisced in preparation for this blog post. I'm grateful that he shared his dad with me then and now.
While I was at worship team practice at C3AK (Christ Community Church, Alaska) last night a few weeks ago, my good friend and neighbor called. I wouldn't normally pick up a call on my cell phone during our gathering, but something told me it was a call to take. The voice on the other end of the line, choked with emotion, told me that another friend and neighbor, Curly, had lost his battle with stomach cancer and old age. Curly is half of the husband and wife team of Curly and Erma, who live two doors down and have been some of the sweetest neighbors we've ever had. And that's saying quite a lot, because the street we live on is populated with a number of lovely people. In the seven or so years that we've lived in this home we've seen other passings. We are praying for some of our neighbors who are waging their own fights as I write this. And we wait for still others to slip from us under the weight of the burdens they've been given. Our little segment of community reminds us on painfully regular occasion, that the march of time will steal the breath of our days when the time comes.
Curly and Erma have been lovely friends and the loss to the neighborhood will be pretty large. At any given time, during the summer months, a guy could wander two doors down and find Curly in his garage puttering with one thing or another. Then, if your day was so inclined, you could lose a couple of hours talking about literally anything. His knowledge was big and his willingness to share it was bigger. Curly had the gift of being able to share his knowledge without making you feel stupid if you didn't possess it as well. Far and away his favorite topic was racing. Having been a NASCAR driver himself, and inducted into both the Nebraska and Colorado Racing Halls of Fame, he had limitless stories to tell and he told them with great color. My boys enjoyed the chance to help with lawn mowing over the last summer and, while there was always money changing hands between them, Curly also liked to just have conversation with them too. We will certainly miss those moments. Here are a course of pictures of our friend in action. He's #5! And how cool is this helmet???
When I received the phone call telling me that Curly had left us, my oldest son, Stephen, was with me at band practice. He could see the look on my face and asked me if everything was alright. I simply said, "Mr. Curly just passed away." A dark cloud swept across his face and he summed things up as teenagers are apt to do. He simply stated, "That really sucks." And indeed it does. On the way home he said that this seemed to be the year for losing friends. I reminded him that the year had just started. "Things like this make it seem like its been going forever." I took that as his commentary that these heart wrenching events simply make time lose its relevance.
Just this past Sunday, another lifelong friend, Rose Heim, claimed the promise of her faith and wandered from us into the rest of the Lord. Times like this always make me think of all of those who have gone on before. I'd like to share about one who touched me so deeply, many years ago, and still influences me today.
A few summers ago I got a call from one of my dearest friends, Perry Noble. You know, the ones you can count on hand? One of those friends, although, I have to say that I am blessed to need two hands to count those friends of mine. We live in different states now and, like many of us, don't talk often enough or even email often enough. But I love to hear from him and I love his family, Donna and Jack. So, when he called, I was more than thrilled to see his name pop up on the contact list of my iPhone.
We said a few words of greetings and caught up a bit on how the kids were growing, how the jobs were going, and communicated our best to be passed on to our respective wives. And then he asked me to help with something that was both gratifying and immensely humbling.
"My Dad's wishes, after he passed away, were to have his ashes scattered in the Chugach Mountains somewhere overlooking Anchorage. It's been a few years and, since I'm coming up this summer, I thought it was about time I brought him along and took care of that. I'd like it if you'd go with me. Say a few words. Just be there."
There was no hesitation on my part to say that of course I would do that. Perry's father, Alfred Meier Noble, was a person I encountered on my journey who was, simply stated, so much bigger than life to me. While to many, he may not have seemed very out of the ordinary, those of who had the pleasure of knowing him knew that he was indeed, extraordinary.
Perry and I met while working at Gary King Sporting Goods in 1985. We became fast friends and began to hang out together quite a bit. We both loved computers,which were in their infancy for private , desktop use at the time. We hiked together, biked together, made many trips to the Russian River on the Kenai Peninsula, and sometimes I let him beat me at tennis. Over the course of many years we saw each other through a lot of life changes and got to know one another's families as well. I simply have to say that I absolutely adored Perry's father and mother, Alfred and Marian Noble.
I found Al and Marian to be two of the most genuine, compassionate, pleasant, loving people I had ever met. I can't say enough about either of them to do them justice and to adequately introduce them to you. But in the limited space of this blog post I want to tell you more about my friend, Al Noble. More about his life and his influence, while he was here on earth and even after he left us to go on ahead.
One of the things that all of us who had the pleasure of hanging out with Al always recall is his famous trips to Costco Warehouse. Al simply loved that place. He was enamored with the good deals and the sometimes quirky, one of a kind, one time only items that Costco would stock. But more than that, he was extremely prone to buy something for you; something he saw that he thought you might need. Or not need, but just want. The next thing you'd know, if you weren't careful, Al would just show up with "stuff". I can't count the number of times Al would offer to buy something for me, give something to me, or do something for me. And it was never, ever with any strings attached. There was no underlying motive or intent to get one over on those who Al gave so freely to. He just loved, and gave. I think that the most I ever took was some boxes of food when Karen and I were a young couple with a brand new baby. But it wasn't because Al didn't try. He really just couldn't help himself.
One of my favorite times with Al, Marian, and Perry was a day when we all decided to go to lunch and, in those days, every restaurant still had a smoking section set aside for those who wanted to kill themselves with cigarettes. While he had been a smoker when he was young, mostly encouraged by the free Camels in every WWII soldier's ration kit, by now he had been smoke free for a very long time. Like many ex-smokers, he had become somewhat militant in his desire to no longer inhale the off-gassing of the stinking things. We were shown to our seats, the Nobles, Karen, Stephen, and I which happened to be just across the aisle from the "smoking section". We chatted for a bit, played with the baby, and placed our order. Look, here's a picture from the day we went:
Shortly, a couple of folks sat down across from us and promptly lit up. The smoke wafted and curled in our direction and I could see Al getting gradually more annoyed, but never losing his good cheer. He was sitting on the aisle, closest to the smokers and he kept looking in their direction, clearly looking for some way to change the circumstances more to his liking. Now, Al was very tall but also very thin. And by this time, he was an older gentleman and he'd lost most of his hair. He had wire rimmed glasses and a wonderfully gentle face. See? He is:
Picture with me then, that beautiful face, atop a lanky 6' 5"+ inch frame stretching across the aisle toward the smoking table. That's what Al did. And then he gathered his lips into a puffed out whistling position, took in a substantial tank of air... and blew. It looked so comical that I still laugh out loud when I think about it. What made is really funny to me was how long he blew. He was in no hurry. It wasn't a sudden expulsion of air. He simply drew it in, leaned most of the way across the aisle, and ever so deliberately blew the smoke back in their direction... forever.... And then he was done. But, somehow, it seemed lighter, brighter, and more entertaining. I think, for me, it was an example of how Al would so often just be in the moment and do things that were surprising, and moving. Sometimes funny and many times poignant. His depth of real emotion and compassion was something I admired as well as aspired to.
Al left us in 2006, advanced in age, but still seeming so young at heart. Like many, his wishes were to be cremated and those were followed. one of his other wishes, as I mentioned before, was to have his ashes scattered in the mountains above Anchorage where there was a good view of the city below and the mountain peaks and passes behind. On a warm sunny day a few years ago, we set out from for the parking area at Flat Top Mountain just a few miles from my home. The day was ripe for the moment because the weather had been pretty blase with a persistent covering of gray clouds and spitting rain. We had looked ahead and taken the best guess at the driest day in the near future and were hoping that we would catch a break. As it turned out, it was a magnificent break. As we made our way up the steep road that leads to the mountain, it seemed as if each click of the odometer pushed back the somber veil of moisture that hovered in the air. Over the course of our 15 minute drive the day turned into a positively sunny splash and the temperature began to rise.
We parked in the well used lot that sits at the base of Flat Top and at the entrance to the majestic valleys of the Chugach Mountain Range. We had each been smart enough to dress for multiple weather outcomes and stripped down to shorts and short sleeves while stuffing the leftover layers back into our packs. It was going to be a long trip, but in the wilds of Alaska, even the ones that are 15 minutes from my door, you literally risk your life by being unprepared for almost any outcome. After locking the doors, the two of us set out, onward and upward and began to search for the right place. Eventually, we parted ways with the defined path and set out to the east. In the distance, beneath the northern face of Flat Top and at the gateway to a place known as Power Line Pass, we could see an ancient monument of the massive glacier that once filled the valley and, eons ago, made it's retreat into the hills leaving behind rocks both unremarkable and massive that were the product of the violence the slow freezing of water can inflict on the seemingly indestructible.
Most of the rocks left behind are now covered with scrubs of alder bushes so thick you can't make your way through. Scattered about will be patches of clover, chickweed, and hay grass. Under the mat of decaying years of vegetation you can feel the density of the rocks below, but they have a curious sponginess lent to them by the carpet of grass and roots. In this way, the valley looks amazingly lush and serene. But there, in the middle of one of those longer patches that stretched above the treeline to the mountain face where nothing green is allowed to prosper, was a large, flat rock that looked for all intents and purpose, like a table or an alter. In my mind, it brought to thought a mental picture of the stone table from C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia. Perry and I glanced at each other and knew that it was the place. From our vantage point we could not see the City of Anchorage but we were sure that by the time we hiked the mile or so to the stone table we would be afforded a fantastic line of sight.
We were not disappointed. From where the rock stood we could see the entire Anchorage Bowl from north to south. Beyond the table, to the southeast stretched the beautiful valley, and beyond that, farther up and further in, towered the majestic Chugach Range and beyond. The sun felt hot while we unshouldered our packs and took a few minutes to rest. Then Perry zipped open his pack and withdrew the simple box that held Al's ashes. I pulled my pastor's handbook, an antique from the 1800's filled with lovely words of comfort and hope, from my own pack and turned to some of the passages I had chosen earlier. We stood with our backs to the mountain and our faces to the city at the edge of the stone table and I read out loud for a while. When I had finished we stood in comfortable silence for a few moments. Then Perry spoke from his heart as sons can do to their father's after sufficient years and respect has passed among them. I breathed a final prayer of blessing and Perry set about opening the container so that he could spread Al's ashes.
Except the damn thing wouldn't open. Not easily anyway. In a final act of defiance, with an impish grin on his face, Al had succeeded in preparing just a few more opportunities to rib us and give us his joy before he completely went on from us. After much struggle, some laughing, and not a little cursing, we prevailed on the container and removed the heavy plastic bag that was inside and in which, Al's ashes were sealed. Opening the bag proved to be only slightly less vexing that the box had been. In their fervor to keep the bag from opening accidentally, there had been placed on the top a closure much like a loaf of bread might have on it. Except a bulletproof one. Or finger proof, if you will. Certainly monkey proof, as we were the prime examples. With tears running down our faces from our own hysterics, Perry finally produced a pocket knife and cut a hole in the top of the bag. We made an attempt to settle into a calmer demeanor that "fit" the moment, whatever the moment had become, and Perry prepared to pour out the ashes into the wind.
Except that there was no wind. In an uncharacteristic Alaskan weather moment, there was absolutely no breath of breeze moving in any direction. This was contrary to our vision for the impromptu ceremony. In our mind's eye we had planned to see Al's cremains angelically lifted up the valley and into the nether in a physical representation of what we knew had already happened to his beautiful spirit. Instead, Perry looked at me and with a crooked smile and said "If I pour these out now they're just going to fall to the ground." And then we laughed some more. This was just like Al would have liked it. With a gleam in his eye he, if he'd had his own hand on the bag, would have turned it sideways and waited for the "plop" sound as it hit the earth. At the thought of this Perry and I began to laugh. We laughed until we cried. And then we cried because our hearts hurt. Perry tipped the bag and we watched as the ashes trailed out of the plastic, so little left of such an enormous human being.
And then, halfway through the bag, the wind began to blow. Just a hint at first, no more than a rustle. And then it came to in a steady breeze, blowing up the hillside and into the valley behind us. And we watched as Al's ashes cascading from the plastic bag began to catch them and sail into the sky. They created quite a cloud and kept rising and swirling against the brilliant blue. We watched for such a long time and fancied that we could still see the cloud of Al coalescing and receding well into the pass between the mountains. We stood in silence for some time and then decided it was time to go. I shuffled around looking for my pack and was brought up short. Both Perry and I had set our packs down together at one corner of the stone table. As we dove into our task we lost track of where they were and I had now discovered that they were sitting on the ground just below where Perry had stood on the mountain. And now, with one last guffaw, Al smiled at us his from his ashes that covered both of our backpacks. We felt a little stupid.
I picked up my backpack and shook it off a bit, and then thought better of it. I suggested to Perry that this was a good way for this turn out. After all, forevermore, whenever I would use that backpack I would remember this moment. But, more importantly, every time I used that backpack, I would have a little bit of Al Noble with me. And that's just how it should be with all of those who have gone on before us. We can't forget them. It isn't as if they were never here. In some way or another, the remains of their lives are scattered among ours. You get them in your nostrils and smell their living. They cover your clothes and parts of them remain long after it seems they've gone. And, if you're mindful, they can be with you wherever you go.
I love that backpack.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. - Hebrews 12:1-2a
Here are some pictures of Al that Perry sent me as we reminisced in preparation for this blog post. I'm grateful that he shared his dad with me then and now.
Labels: Alaska, anchorage, ashes, Bible, c3ak, Chugach, cremation, death, dying, father, friends, mountains, neighbor, race car, summer, weather
posted by Pastor Tracy Simmons at
7:01 PM
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