For George

I've tried so hard to find the right words today.

And as I sit here all I can hear is a woman named Cory, singing "Silent Night," on Christmas Eve.  All I can see is a darkened church lit with the soft glow of a hundred or so candles.  I can look through the windows and see the night sky and the snow covered ground and I can feel that chill that never seems to leave in winter.  Cory sings with that pitch perfect tone, full and rich, yet light, so light, so gentle.

And there, I think, at the front of the church is her husband, George.  He's the pastor.  He will move in a minute but for a second his head is bowed.  I can see it still.  I didn't know it then, but I know it now.  I know what he felt and if I were there today I would weep for it.  For it is in these moments that God is so very near.

Such is the power of memory.

Those were my Christmas Eve for a few years until I moved to Florida.

Yesterday George lost a devastatingly quick battle with cancer.

Others knew him better.  My dad knew him well. 

But for me, I have Christmas Eves and George's smile. 








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