"Is it a girl or a boy?"
"A boy?! Does he have a name? Who does he look like? Does he have any hair yet?"
"They named him Richard? Hmm... okay. A little boy named Richard Elliott, born to Jessie and Hap."
I'm sure
there were many who were excited to receive the news of Jessie
Holdaway's new baby, born that autumn day in 1943 in Price, Utah. Her
mother and father, Gypsie and Lawrence, were probably busy at home,
getting everything ready to welcome this little boy, their grandson, to
his first home. Jessie's sisters and brothers were probably curious to
meet this new little nephew and wondered what the future would hold for
him. It was the beginning of a new life; a start to a new adventure; a
blank canvas, waiting to be filled with colors, shapes, and images of a
lifetime filled with memories, experiences, and relationships.
Fast
forward to the present. Autumn has arrived and it's September 25, 2012.
It's his birthday, and there are again many thinking about him,
remembering him, and wishing him another happy birthday. The canvas of
his life is now full of a whole spectrum of colors, images, sounds, and
memories, spanning both time and distance.
These
people who are now thinking about him aren't the same as those who were
excited to meet him on the day he was born. These are HIS children,
wife, and grandkids. These are the ones who make up the whole generation
after him; the ones who were loved by him and shaped by him into who
they are now; the ones who hold tight to the canvas of memories that he
painted for them throughout his life.
They laugh as they remember a kiwi on the hood of the car or an Easter egg with "real whiskers." They smile as they remember how he
sounded when he laughed and how he had a wonderful smile, though in
most pictures, he's probably got a silly grin instead. They lovingly
remember hearing him tell stories of the haunted house, the can of
silver paint, or the fall down the elevator shaft. They think back to
the stories he shared about his two and a half year mission in France,
like his first morning in Paris when his companion made him prepare
breakfast. He went across the street to the market and, because of the
language barrier, couldn't figure out how to say much other than "egg"
so he made scrambled eggs for breakfast with what he thought was cooking
oil, but was actually a whole jar of consecrated oil. They think about
the car shows, car magazines, car brochures, car covers, model cars, and
sports cars. They remember road trips back to Price and holidays spent
with Grandma Jessie.
Then
they quietly remember how he patiently and humbly battled kidney disease
for nearly a decade, without complaining or asking "Why me?" They
gratefully remember him putting his hands on their head, or the head of
their children, blessing them, praying for and with them, strengthening
them, lifting them. They pause in silence as they think again about that
day in May 2009 when his body finally let his soul have a little rest
from the trials and pains of mortality he had endured for so long.
"Is he here? Already?"
"Who? Who is here?"
"It's Richard! Our grandson!"
"It's Richard, my brother!"
"It's Richard... my son."
I wonder
what those reunions were like for him. Reuniting with his younger
brother he had loved so dearly and had lost so prematurely. Reuniting
with his grandfather who had been like a father to him. Reuniting with
his own father who had not been much of a father to him (he told me once
that when he sees his own dad again, he's going to "stomp on his foot
and ask him 'Where were you?'"). Reuniting with his life-long buddy and
former mission companion, Sorens, who passed away only a year earlier.
Reuniting with his mom, his most precious and dear family member who had
passed on already. It must have been a joyous day for him.
But
today is a joyous day for all of us, as we think about him and celebrate
his life! And someday, we'll reunite with him again, and what a day
that will be! I wonder what that reunion will be like, when I get to see
Dad again.
