Taken in part from Matthew 10:26-33:

"...Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin?  Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father's knowledge.  Even all the hairs on your head are counted.  So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows..."

Garrison Keillor has a line he uses on Prairie Home Companion that seems to paraphrase this verse for me:

"He watches over the sparrows and His eyes are upon me."

             "In recognition of over ten years of service as a

             charter member, as a founding Director and

             as President - Treasurer of

                       Bradley Employees Credit Union.

             Under your wise and diligent management

             our credit union has grown each year in

             membership, assets and stability, which

             could only have come about through the

             dedicated efforts of one who sincerely

             believes in the credit union philosophy and in

             the integrity of his fellow man.

             It is with deep pride that we congratulate you

             on your achievements and with genuine

             appreciation that we say thank you for your

             guidance.

                              Fellow Members"

A haunting, or perhaps melancholic, melody with strange lyrics is one of my alltime favorites.  Coincidently, it from the Brits who I number among the best in the movie business.  Surely, a few of you remember Alfred Hitchcock who gave us some great suspense thrillers.

The song is "A Whiter Shade of Pale" by Brooker/Reid released in 1967.  The lyrics below are those in a version sung by Sarah Brightman on her LaLuna album.

"We skipped the light fandango

turned cartwheels 'cross the floor

I was feeling kinda seasick

but the crowd called out for more

The room was humming harder

as the ceiling flew away

When we called out for another drink

the waiter brought a tray

And so it was that later

as the miller told his tale

that her face, af first just ghostly,

turned a whiter shade of pale

She said, 'There is no reason

and the truth is plain to see.'

But I wandered throught my playing cards

and would not let her be

one of sixteen vestal virgins

who were leaving for the coast

and although my eyes were open

they might have just as well've been closed

And so it was that later

as the miller told his tale

that her face, at first just ghostly,

turned a whiter shade of pale"

I still have the three ticket stubs from February 19, 2004 for "An Evening With Sarah Brightman" which my daughters, Michelle and Rose, treated an aging father to one of his favorites at the Bradley Center in Milwaukee.  The ticket stubs and a poster of Sarah Brightmen still adorn a wall in my pantry.  A strange place, you may say, but three times a day I recall the happy time of "A Whiter Shade of Pale."

Wednesday, June 30 2004, 9.35 P.M.

Late today, I drove up my driveway returning from a final visit with Rose, my youngest daughter, during the past two days at the hospital.  She had paid a visit to my home on Father’s day barely ten days ago.  To adapt from a classic writing, Rose’s visit to her father’s home was the best of times; my visit to Rose at the hospital was the worst of times.  But maybe this is a selfish or shortsighted application of another’s words.

Rose, as usual on Father’s day, had arrived before others to clean her father’s home and to help in any way she could to make the family gathering a success.  I did not need to ask her for help.  She knew she was wanted and needed.  Rose was a lover of all in many different ways and knew how to respond unhesitatingly and with passion.  Her sensitivity towards others was one of her greatest strengths more than compensating for her academic shortcomings.  She recognized the latter, regretfully sometimes, but took no particular note of her innate care and concern for others.  Rose helped because she loved, not because she needed to be loved.

Rose’s visit on Father’s day was the last in which I experienced physical help and a hug from her.  But it was not the last time she expressed her love for me as well as others.  Several days before her life was taken as an innocent passenger by a careless driver, I received a "Thinking of You" greeting card.  Inside she penned, "It’s so nice to get mail if it’s not a bill.  ;-)  Love, Rose"  I will  treasure her last words to me until the day I join her.

I visited Rose in the hospital the past two days to love, not to be loved.  I held and kissed her hand many times in the all too brief, last meeting in this life.   Rose continued to exist only because she had expressed a desire to help others, even in her present state of helplessness.

Another said it far better, "Because of Rose’s love for people and her giving nature, she will be blessing many others with her gift of organ and tissue donation."  Yes, her days of helping the hungry in the food pantry, working with disabled children, comforting the dying in a hospice program, working at the local care center for the elderly, and completing only half her studies towards becoming a R.N. have ended.

But Rose’s body lives on in others as does her example and her spirit is in her heavenly Father’s home which has no need of cleaning or other mundane chores.

Love, Dad

Postscript:  December 31, 2007.  This holiday season, I have again been in touch with Rose  at least indirectly through a woman in West Virginia in which Rose’s heart, far from Wisconsin, continues to beat, and care, and love.  Hopefully, one day I will touch the hand that has the pulse of Rose’s beating heart.