The next four weeks of my life will be weeks of “farewell,” and I’m already discovering that my emotions will be on overdrive. Folks have been so good to me in Arkansas that I have many reasons to be grateful. Signs abound that God’s love is at work here.
I’m also discovering that the best way to say goodbye is to give thanks, over and over. Conscious and careful thanksgiving is a powerful way to see God’s footprints throughout one’s life. That lesson was driven home for me one sunny day last week.
Just as I was leaving for Joliet on Monday for the announcement of my appointment as bishop there, I learned that Msgr. John Batson, a priest of the Diocese of Memphis, had died from complications following a stroke. He retired about 10 years ago but remained active in ministry at a slower pace. Msgr. Batson was one of the “giants,” a man who cared for the poor, worked for racial equality and loved his parishioners with a practical, warm and humorous touch. They loved him back. He had a knack for matching the right person to the right task, so much so that his parishioners would say they had been “Batsonized” when he tapped them as parish volunteers.
I was happy that my schedule allowed me to drive to Memphis later in the week for his funeral, because I wanted to pay tribute to his contribution to the Church and his influence on my life. I did not go to the cemetery immediately after the funeral Mass; I had planned to go later, after lunch with friends.
Mid-afternoon the sun was shining and a strong breeze was blowing across the 80 beautiful acres that comprise historic Calvary Cemetery in Memphis. Everything was in bloom, and it was a glorious day to be there.
My first stop was the graves of my parents. Knowing that after moving north my opportunities to visit will be less frequent, I wanted to spend a few moments there. It was the perfect place to think and pray. I thanked them for all they did for me: rearing me, loving me, guiding me, sacrificing for me, forgiving me and supporting me. I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. I also asked them to pray for me, as I do every day, that I will be a good bishop and generous in God’s service. I have truly felt their prayers in recent months.
Next I visited the graves of some elderly friends I knew many years ago in my first parish assignment. Before his death, I had made a promise to Mike that I would visit his and Marie’s graves each time I stopped by my parents’ graves. Back to that in a moment.
Next I drove to the section of the cemetery called the “Priests’ Mound,” a hill topped with a marble altar and crucifix surrounded by the graves of priests who served in west Tennessee. I began at the most recent grave and stopped at each one, circling around the altar until I reached the graves of those who had died long before my time. At each marker I remembered something about the priest and asked him to pray for me.
Please don’t think I was sad that afternoon, or that spending so much time at the cemetery was a morbid farewell. To the contrary, I was at peace, realizing stop after stop that I have been blessed by good parents, good priest mentors, good friends and good examples from saintly parishioners. In so many words, God said to me, “See how good I’ve been to you?”
Back to the elderly former parishioners whose graves I always visit. I wrote a column about them several years ago, explaining that in the late 1970s I visited their home monthly on my First Friday communion call route, and how those visits were full of sweetness and faith. I can picture the two of them in their simple home, deeply in love with one another and with the Lord, as if it were yesterday.
Do you know what I discovered a few years after writing that column? I never met Marie! She died before I was assigned to the parish. At first I was taken aback by that discovery and thought there must be some mistake on the grave marker. I remembered her as clear as a bell. I could picture her sitting in their living room. But there was no mistake. I never met her.
Not long afterward, I told someone about this strange experience, and she commented, “Isn’t it wonderful that his love for her was so strong that even though you never met her, his telling you about her was filled with such tender detail that he painted a beautiful portrait of her in your mind?” That’s exactly what had happened. His grateful love had etched a lasting image of her in my memory.
That’s why it’s crucial that we give thanks in loving detail for God’s blessings and the people who have crossed our paths. Not only are we giving God his due for all he’s done for us — we’re also painting portraits of his goodness in our memories, portraits that stay with us throughout life as never-failing evidence of his abounding presence.
