Yesterday (11/11/06) was Veteran’s Day and, once again, it snowed in southern Minnesota. Actually, I think you could say the area had a mini-blizzard: my hometown got seven inches of the white stuff, while my in-laws reportedly received a foot. Last year, southern Minnesota had a mini-blizzard in November, too; in that case, the snow came the day after Veteran’s Day. In each case, two days prior to the snowstorm, the temperatures hit upwards of 80° F. Go figure.
Having lived in Minnesota for more than half my life, I can attest to the fact that the first snow generally flies in November. It doesn’t always hang around, but it definitely appears. This initial snap of winter follows a short heat wave, known to most locals and Weather Channel junkies as “Indian summer,” a time when native Minnesotans finish their seasonal lawn care before their yards disappear under a blanket of white for the next five months. And along with this first snowfall comes another weather phenomena that defines life in southern Minnesota --- the prairie wind.
When God created the wind, he obviously intended for it to move because that is what wind does, sometimes in gales, sometimes in gusts, and sometimes in gentle wisps. In town, this movement is slowed and redirected by buildings and such, but on the prairie where the land is flat and the trees are few, the wind is hampered by nothing; it just blows…relentlessly…across everything…all the time. God created wind to blow and, in southern Minnesota, it obeys.
I recount these Veteran’s Day weather events in order to illustrate how the Lord can, and does, pay attention to the most amazing details in my life. Last year, on Veteran’s Day, my family and I attended my father’s funeral. Praise the Lord it didn’t snow. It was hard enough standing in the cemetery in the howling wind. I spent as much time watching the awning over the gravesite as I did the graveside service itself, worried that, at some point, the whole canvas/pole assembly would blow over and tumble toward the adjacent cornfield. Thankfully, all held. I was convinced, too, that the funeral flowers we left on dad’s grave would be blown into that cornfield, but, to my amazement, when I returned to the cemetery the next day, they were still there. Not one of the arrangements had moved. This was after an entire night of relentless wind that brought to mind the funeral scene in Dr. Zhivago, where a young Yuri pictures his mother lying inside her coffin with the wind and snow howling across the ground above her grave. I had this picture in mind, as well: my dad, lying in his casket with that prairie wind ripping across his grave, shredding the flowers that we had placed there. God chose not to stop the wind, but He kept it from doing any damage, and (thankfully!) He took that cold mental image out of my head.
Instead, He reminded me that my father’s grave is exactly where it should be: very near the entrance to Lakeside Cemetery, between the railroad tracks and an open cornfield, across from the Army National Guard facility, and down the street from the location of the grocery store where he worked for almost 20 years. This location mirrors his life perfectly:
• near the entrance to Lakeside Cemetery
- church usher for 46 years
• near the railroad tracks
- childhood home near railroad
• near an open cornfield
- helped operate a family farm
• across from National Guard facility:
- World War II veteran
- Bronze Star recipient
- lifetime member of American Legion
- member Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW)
• near location of grocery store
- meatcutter for 50 years
My father’s plot in Lakeside Cemetery fits his life as a Midwesterner, too, in a way that, I think, “prairie folk” can appreciate: on any given day, depending on the time of day, my father’s grave is blanketed by sunshine, cooled by a small amount of shade, and accosted by wind. Yes, that ever-present wind that sweeps across the prairie, that part of God’s creation that surrounded my dad in life and will continue to blow long after his departure. Some days I miss that wind, but not nearly as much as I miss my dad.
No comments:
Post a Comment