{"id":91,"date":"2012-09-13T05:25:00","date_gmt":"2012-09-13T11:25:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/69.195.124.95\/~redletu4\/who-will-care-for-the-flowers-a-call-to-the-next-generation\/"},"modified":"2012-09-13T05:25:00","modified_gmt":"2012-09-13T11:25:00","slug":"who-will-care-for-the-flowers-a-call-to-the-next-generation","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/davidrupert\/who-will-care-for-the-flowers-a-call-to-the-next-generation\/","title":{"rendered":"Who will care for the flowers? A call to the next generation"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<\/head>
<\/a><\/div>\n
The key to the front door is now in the hands of strangers. They\u2019re probably moving boxes in, thinking about what color to paint the walls, adjusting the couch against the front window just so.\u00a0<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
It\u2019s an odd feeling. Mom died last year. Dad 10 months prior. \u00a0The little yellow house in the woods kept the reality of their passing at bay. Now, it\u2019s real. <\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

There was something about that house that was a lingering reminder of their life. Although I didn\u2019t grow up there \u2014 they moved in while I was in college \u2014 \u00a0every trip \u201chome\u201d was to that place. Most of my adult memories of them are under the shake-roofed home.<\/p>\n

.<\/div>\n
\n<\/a>Set in the woods, just a few blocks away from the Lake<\/a>\u00a0they loved, it was nothing fancy. But it was home. Dad\u2019s favorite place was on the back porch, smoking his pipe, cherry tobacco floating through the crisp air. Overlooking the porch was a massive bear, carved from a dead Douglas fir tree that had to be removed. Mom called him Barnabas and had, \u201cLove bears all\u201d carved into the frontside. She was very clever.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Mom always had mounds of flowers in the backyard, most planted from seed. She embraced the process of seed pressed to soil brought alive by water and sunshine. She watered them every morning, singing hymns and talking to the blooms in a clear voice of encouragement.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
I was surprised to see so many of the flowers still alive. A long, hot summer with no one to care for them, yet they found a way to survive. Some, even flourished. \u00a0The Forget-Me-Nots craned their blooms to the sun and the daisy\u2019s shimmied in the breeze to attract a passing bee. I watered them and they wave back at me in silent thanks. \u201cWe\u2019re good.\u201d<\/i>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
I peek in the windows. The wall where all of the family photos hung is now empty, little nail holes the only visible sign of the generations who have gone on before. <\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
They were married 63 years. Not all of them were easy. There were failures, disappointments, and deceptions. And there joys, victories and miracles. They never quit on each other.\n<\/div>\n
\n<\/a>There was really little left nothing of any material blessing to pass on. My sister has some memorabilia. I have Mom\u2019s jeep with 180K miles on it. Someone in the coroner\u2019s office has her wedding ring. After the funeral and the final bills, there wasn\u2019t much else left. So I shuffle through photos, trying to refresh the memories that seem to get a little fuzzy. It hits me.\u00a0I\u2019m a rich man<\/i>.\u00a0<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
As I look in the mirror, I realize that I\u2019m the the senior generation and the heavy responsibility of legacy now falls to me. It\u2019s been that way for everyone who has ever gone before me.\n

I\u2019m not really not ready. There are still a few more questions to ask. But I can only whisper them in the form of prayers, hoping for wisdom to somehow find me..<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

When the doubt creeps in, I think about those resilent flowers. Left on their own, they\u2019re still thriving with no to care for them except the rain and sun from above.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Please, share with a friend if you feel moved.
\nRead all past issues at http:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/davidrupert<\/div>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The key to the front door is now in the hands of strangers. They\u2019re probably moving boxes in, thinking about what color to paint the walls, adjusting the couch against the front window just so.\u00a0 It\u2019s an odd feeling. Mom died last year. Dad 10 months prior. \u00a0The little yellow house in the woods kept […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2375,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[197,483,490,663,881],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-91","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-death","category-lake-tahoe","category-legacy","category-preparation-for-death","category-the-next-generation"],"yoast_head":"\nWho will care for the flowers? A call to the next generation<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The key to the front door is now in the hands of strangers. 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