"When I write stories I am like someone who is in her own country, walking along streets that she has known since she was a child, between walls and trees that are hers." --Natalia Ginsburg

Sunday, 2 September 2012

Evermore--Edward Shanklin Ness, May 21 1930-September 2nd 2009

All my life, Sunday morning had its own sounds. My Father would be up early and usually the first sounds we heard were of him rattling the lids on the old woodstove as he lit it. He would always listen to an old time preacher named Perry Rockwood on the radio. The fragrant smell of coffee and bacon would fill the house and he would ‘sing’ along with a hymn or two as he made his breakfast. After Perry Rockwood was done—he might listen to another radio show, or there would be silence as he read his Bible and prayed.
Three years ago on Sunday, August 30th, I came down the stairs, the house was cool, silent---none of the Sunday morning sounds or smells. Dad had been ill and laying in the hospital for three weeks. As I sat there in the silence with an aching heart, I wrote this poem.

The chair by the fire sits empty
Ashes are low and gray
Sunday’s dawned full of silence
We wait, we trust, we pray
Dad taught us to love, work and respect
But the best of what he gave
Was the knowledge of God, the need of our soul
He taught us that Jesus saves
Dear God—with you we watch over Dad
Trusting you--we wait your will
We will stir the flames of the home fire
And keep it burning ‘til—
--We join You and Dad and Mom someday
At heaven’s blessed door
Where love and faith meet eternity
We’ll be joined for Evermore
---Dianne—August 30 2009
Three days later Dad went home to heaven, our hearts were heavy with the loss –but we rejoiced that Dad’s faith had been finally and completely realized—he had joined Mom in heaven and they were both home with the One who loved them best and most

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