Going Home

I wrote this the morning of  my father’s funeral, just before going to the church, as I sat, ready to go, at the kitchen table, where he and I often sat.  I had tried to write a poem on the flights home and after I arrived, making various attempts.  Yet, everything seemed to be words and not the depths of my feelings.  This poem, though rough, came to me about as fast as I could write.  Its roughness seems appropriate to express my feelings.  I later attempted to polish it, but my sister said it was better in its original form as it appears below.

As the planes that brought me home

Soared into the skies,

I thought of you and all our good times,

And I did realize

That you, too, went home,

But to our Home above,

To be with our Lord

Who has unconditional love.

Dad, I love you; I miss you.

You aren’t here below.

I never ever wanted to think

That from our midst you’d go.

You said that you were ready,

And this is the comfort I know.

Our Lord always knows best.

He knew your body was worn

And not giving you rest.

I grieve; I cry.

I long for your words,

As you always encouraged,

And that for years I have heard.

Dad, I wanted this expression to be

The best I’d ever done,

Yet, the words don’t flow

Like the tears from my eyes,

Cause it’s really hard for me

To say my good-byes.

Well, Dad, your bird feeders

Are hanging in the trees.

Today there is sunshine     

And a soft, gentle breeze.

There’s no one in your chair

Because you are with the Lord        

                                                        In your home there.

Dad, I love you; I miss you,

But I know you’ve gone Home

And are waiting for us there,

And that’s my comfort

When I look at your empty chair.