WORRIES...

It is interesting - heartwarming, really - to be privy to the thoughts and worries of one who knows they are near death. It is a gift to get a peek into the intimate longings of one who knows their days on earth are few.

My dad somehow found a balance between living life as though he weren't dying and making plans for his survivors because he knew he did indeed have little time left with us.

He was a planner.

He left behind a small spiral notebook filled with specific instructions. He made his desires known about his own funeral. He asked us to place a red, white and blue floral spray at the front of his service. He asked that he receive military rites at his graveside. He marked an old paperback Bible with scriptures he wished to have read.

Even though he rarely stepped into a church in his lifetime; he had taken an Old Testament class in college (Did you know he started college at age 50 and earned his business degree?) and he developed a fondness for these specific scriptures.

With all the plans he had made, with all of his organization, he seemed calm about the end of his life. He SEEMED calm. Surely he was fearful. After all, he was just a man. A man who was only 64 and surely wished for many more years of life.

What he wasn't calm about was his own father. His father who passed away several years ago. Sometime during his own broken vertebrae, surgery, diagnosis of lung cancer, chemo therapy, radiation, and the acceptance of his inevitable death, my dad became quite worried about his own dad's grave.

He could not rest, he could not find peace, because he couldn't remember if the American flag was visible from the gravestone of his father. His father who left for World War II when my dad, his first child, was ten days old. His father who landed on the beaches of Normandy on the second day of the invasion. His father who fought hand to hand combat with the Germans. His father who was trapped behind enemy lines for some time. His father who came home with a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart and a bullet scar.

He HAD to know if that flag was visible for his father. After all, who is more deserving to rest under the flag of our country than one who risked his very life for her?

So my aunt, the angel on earth - Teresa - went to the cemetery where my grandfather is buried, the cemetery where we would soon be burying my own dad, stood at her father's grave and took a picture of the American flag.

Then she simply e-mailed the picture to Marilyn with a note that said "Tell Ronnie to rest easy. Dad can see the flag."

And then my dad's heart was at peace.