Below is the poem I read at Papaw’s funeral on Saturday. The poem is full of allusions to Papaw’s own poetry and life story, and may or may not make perfect sense to those who didn’t know him.

It was a beautiful service, honoring a beautiful man and celebrating a long, beautiful life. It started with the church bell ringing once for each of his ninety years and ended with full military honors. In between, his daughter sang a beautiful hymn and his son (my Dad) led the service, telling touching stories and the truth about the grace of God. It was a memorable memorial. My brother read a touching poem that I’m amazed he got through and my cousin honored a life of service, including his service in World War II as a ball-turret gunner on a B-17. To end the funeral, Dad asked me to read this poem. I took my 6 year-old son up with me and he recited this passage before I read my poem:

“But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For as by a man came death, by a man has come also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, so also in Christ shall all be made alive. But each in his own order: Christ the firstfruits, then at his coming those who belong to Christ. Then comes the end, when he delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying every rule and every authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet. The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”
(1 Corinthians 15:20-26 ESV)

A Farewell Song for Papaw (Clair Shadwell Smith)

A rare gem indeed, this gentle man,
Without a title, and precious, little land,
          But true native soul.

Saw ribbons of highway, held fantasy wars,
With daisies and tenderly, imagined much more,
          Wept over daisies killed.

A ball-turret gunner, with crippling dreams,
How many angels, guarded Chute 13?
          Misnamed as it was.

Rode a flying a fortress, into flak-ridden hell,
You lost Don and many, many others as well.
          Irreplaceable, inescapable loss.

In a Northampton church, an ancestral sound,
There you felt kinfolk, long-laid in the ground.
          Your own, whispering over the years.

It was a true war and now, more daisies cut down,
And gathered to grace the fresh graves in the ground.
          But you came through, at last.

You had a last mission, saw, breaking through clouds,
The fine shore of England, bright as a crown,
          England! and thank God.

You and so many others, fought on gallantly,
Got the hell out of Europe, and set millions free,
          Saved England and endless others.

Home again, then, America for you,
Back to the New World and old life you knew,
          The green, familiar hills.

Married your Myrtle, a family tree grew,
We have these dispatches, of the joy you knew,
          A country poet’s verse.

A daughter to start, and many to come,
A warrior whose quiver brimmed daughters and sons,
          Life, hard and happy, you knew.

You got your own Don, to honor the fallen,
Who served in his turn, then heeded a calling,
          To an even-nobler cause.

And your life was grand, here in your home,
A fine man and good, who was never alone,
          Surrounded by loving ones.

Grandsons competed to be your most beloved,
And maybe all felt that they were, I know I did.
          Each granddaughter was.

And to the great-grands, you were a King out of Faerie,
They loved you and believed your fried eggs legendary,
          Even as I always had.

The last thing I saw, was the best ever done,
You spoke words of blessing to my daughter and son,
          Tender, life-giving words.

And words make up much, of our prized patrimony,
It’s the loving of words, not the words we love, only.
          But oh, what words!

I remember keenly, the great blaze that roared,
In my soul, when over your poems, I poured.
          Reshaping all my life.

And so you did, I suppose, all your days,
Reshaped the world in a thousand bright ways,
          An instrument of God.

Blunt instrument, yes, a man clearly flawed,
But a good man, yes perfect, in the eyes of God,
          Clinging to Christ’s work alone.

What can we say, now here as we lay,
This precious body, down in its grave?
          It’s you, but not you, entire.

When Christ the firstfruits, comes once again,
To make of black death an inglorious end,
          Clair Shadwell Smith shall rise.

Your mission is over, for you, no more war.
You land at last, on a lovelier shore,
          Than England ever was.

Night
by Clair Shadwell Smith

The grey and death-like, quiet night.
          Where, in its non-directed light,
The moon from four horizons shines,
Revealing naught but softest lines
          Of hill and plain.

Where man’s hard shell of pride is lost,
          And lain aside, his soul the host,
Now clothed in softer gowns of thought,
No glare of day or deed is brought,
          To hide truth’s face.

How like the end of life, the day,
          When we have ceased our thoughtless way,
And our ennobling armor lain aside,
Defenseless, beside our selfish pride,
          We meet our God.

For those of you who heard the poetry session Andrew Peterson and I shared at Hutchmoot 2011, this is the poem I read from my Grandfather. It’s long been a favorite of mine and one of the first poems that ever really “got me.” Many people there loved it, including AP. I hope you enjoy it too. -Sam

Rare Gems
by Clair Shadwell Smith

They burned us in the fire,
Your page and mine;
And I was glad.
But still, though curled and charred,
The printing could be read.
Then came the wind
To draw us up its whirling draft
And shatter us to bits.
Together in one airy cloud,
We drifted around the world
And while above
Some far and distant land,
A shower bore us to the ground.
And a child’s small, chubby hand,
On that soft, summer day,
Rolled us into tiny pellets
While at her festal play.

And there for many years we lay,
Baked by the sun,
And polished by the wind.

Then came a wanderer from afar,
Who searched for precious stones;
And sold us in the market place
For food to warm his bones.
Now we adorn the crowns
Of princesses and kings.
And it is said these stones that fell
From out of the sky above,
Are rare because they but reflect
The lights of perfect love.

One of my Grandfather’s heroes was Winston Churchill. He would listen to Churchill’s speeches before we (U.S.) were in the War and people had to talk him out of hitchhiking to Canada to join the war effort years before he did. Churchill once said of someone, “He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.” Well, Papaw was something like the opposite of that for me. He has so many virtues I admire, and many of the vices I –if not admire– at least sympathize with. Maybe that’s just because I am so much of what he has made me. He is more than on my mind, he is literally in my heart. He is in my blood.

This past week has been one of grief and appreciation. Sometimes very hard, heart-breaking grief. But a constant, insistent, anthemic gratitude has been the theme. I feel unbelievably blessed to have such a wonderful man for a Grandfather. That we had him so long was a profound blessing, that we’ve had to say goodbye to him is very sad. But thankfulness is the refrain.

Thank you for all the kind words and for praying for us. The next few days I’ll indulge in sharing a couple of poems from my Papaw Smith, and then one I wrote for his funeral service. Next week I plan to get back to normal blogging again. I had last week’s posts all scheduled, but when Papaw died last Sunday night, it felt inappropriate to post funny/silly things. So, I didn’t. But next week, we’ll have more of what you’ve come to expect from me, which isn’t much, I know.

Thanks so much, friends.

“The memory of the righteous is a blessing.” Proverbs 10:7a

This was my Papaw, Clair Smith, on his wedding day. He died last night. I love him so much and already miss him, but I’m very happy he is at rest. In Christ, mourning is not the same as it is for those with no hope. Still it’s hard, as I’m sure you know. He is a very, very dear man. A beautiful man, my Papaw.

I’ll say more of him another time.

Thank you, friends, for your prayers. I won’t be posting for a little while. God bless you.

Watch and enjoy.

HT: Stephen Altrogge

OK…slight hyperbole.

I know this is dumb to blog about (not that that ever stops me), but I just can’t help it. I know whoever cares about this already knows and the vast majority of my readers probably don’t care. But I’ll try to explain below why this story matters to me. It’s 2:28AM right now as I write. Typos, come forth!

The West Virginia Mountaineers scored more points than any team in bowl history last night and won their first ever Orange Bowl in record-smashing fashion.

West Virginia: 70 Clemson: 33

This is West Virginia’s 3rd BCS Bowl (for the unschooled, this means big-time-huge bowl game) appearance, each time the Mountaineers have been underdogs. West Virginia won all three. In fact, like a few years ago, the ESPN poll (along with every ESPN commentator I saw) predicted West Virginia would lose. They break it down by state and every single state, except one, had West Virginia falling to Clemson.

West Virginians love this storyline. We’re a small state and frequently get overlooked, or dismissed. People often (including an ESPN commentator) don’t even know we’re a state. So this kind of thing really rings our bell. (Actually, this is both a strength and a weakness, but that’s another story.)

This was special. I’m a West Virginia fan no matter what, so it’s pretty sweet to enjoy this historic victory. Best of all, I got to enjoy it with some family, my 8 year old daughter staying up with me till 12:30 AM to see the whole thing through. In our family, West Virginia sports are a valued tradition.

When I got back from South Africa as a teen and went to my first West Virginia game in several years, I was all teared up early on. I kept trying to think why that was. After some thought, I realized it really wasn’t so much this team and these players (though they matter to me), but I was thinking of my Dad, far away in Africa. For me it’s always been about him and my Papaw and on and on back, as long as I know of, we’ve been for West Virginia. It’s something my entire family connects over, and while a dumb streak of potential-idolatry exists (as it does in all good things), I am thankful for this tradition.

What a fun night.

People the world over sing this song to bring in the New Year. Here’s a little story Denny Burk ganked on why and (a little on) what it really means. Here’s Wikipedia’s crack at it.

Do people know what it means when they sing it? Do they understand the words?

My view of that song is this:

You don’t have to know all the words to Auld Lang Syne, or even know exactly what they mean. Just listen to it when it’s sung and how it’s sung to know the meaning.

You can feel it.

(I know, I know. How very postmodern. I’m a cheerleader for propositional truth, no doubt. But really, we have ways of knowing and understanding that are not perfectly connected to grasping all the details intellectually.)

Say what you will about them and their ability to predict the end of the world, but I love Mayannaise. Eating a sandwich without it is like a human sacrifice (where I’m the human) to me, or the end of the world.

Or maybe we’ve misunderstood their intent…

HT: 22 Words

Happy New Year!

Later this week I’ll post some more substantial New Year thoughts.

Today: The great Eric Peters and Ha ha.