September is always a hard month for me. In September of 1997, my high school sunday school teacher died in a plane crash at the Purdue University Airport. A week later, Rich Mullins, a well known Christian recording artist died in a plane crash.
Then, in 2003, my grandfather died - my first real experience with the death of a family member (aside from the funerals my parents dragged me to for a great aunt so-and-so when I was a kid and have somewhat frightening memories of meeting really weird old people). It's not that it was unexpected - his health had been going downhill since November 8th the year before - a night I well remember because I was staying at their house, having come to Indianapolis to celebrate Amber's brithday when I awoke in the middle of the night to paramedics in my grandparent's hallway. It's that a complex influx of various emotions came together (and still come together) when my grandfather died.
Grandpa McCool brought me up on the Cubs, even got me the monthly Cubs "Vineline" magazine and taught me how to keep a box score while I watched games on TV. The Cubs, as is usually the case, always lose in September. 2003 was no exception... that damned disastrous season. Bartman. The goat. A 3-0 lead over the Marlins and they still lost. I was heartbroken. I wanted them to win for my grandpa more than anything else.
And then I was asked to preach at my grandfather's funeral. I was a senior in college doing my first funeral for my grandpa. That in itself is a dizzying experience. But more than any other event I can point to, it was also the day I became an adult - the day people actually looked at me as an adult, treated me as a mature person. It was the first time my uncles and friends of my parents talked to me as if I were a man. Me being the artsy person that I was, not only spoke at my grandpa's funeral, I wrote a song for the occasion a few days before on the 19th of September, 2003.
So, it should come as no surprise that all these emotions should start flooding back this week as it is the 5-year anniversary of his death. But there is more to it than that. This year marks the 100th anniversary since the Cubs have won a World Series, and today I just watched them clinch the division title with a win over the Cardinals. Last week, I saw replays of Carlos Zambrano pitch the first no-hitter for the Cubs since 1972. This could be the year! And if you're a serious Cub fan, you have to check out http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=cubs100
But it gets more eerie than that. On Thursday, I was at my first elder's meeting for our church (yeah, can you believe it?! They made me an elder!), and our co-pastor mentioned that he was just asked by his ailing grandfather if he would speak at his funeral. This also happens to be John's first funeral, so I told him I did the same thing several years ago. I started swelling up with emotions just thinking about it on Thursday night (it didn't help that I've been exhausted at the end of every week since school starts. As my wife could testify, I tend to cry about everything when I'm really tired). John (our pastor) told me he wanted to talk to me about it after the meeting, but we didn't get the chance as the meeting ran long and he got a phone call right afterwards. So, yesterday I sent him an email detailing what I did for my grandpa's funeral (as well as Amber's grandma's funeral which I spoke at last March), and even sent him an attachment of my notes from my message along with the lyrics for the song I wrote. Yesterday was September 19th - FIVE YEARS TO THE DAY THAT I WROTE THE SONG. Craziness.
It's amazing to think that we're given this life to live to influence others and make a difference. But its crazy to think that sometimes the greatest impact - for better or worse - often comes long after we're gone. Which is why I've reasoned that (and this is only the kind of thing a philosopher reason about) if there is some kind of "judgment seat" we'll have after we die, if we are accounted for all that we have done, for good or bad, then it must not happen for quite a long time after our death, for the affects of our lives continue from generation to generation.
Which is why the lime-sized kid in Amber's womb is going to root for the Cubs.
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