To a great man

Fiona's dad passed away this morning at what would have been around 3:45am Dec. 13th in Canada (10:45pm on the same day in New Zealand).  I got to know David while I was in New Zealand, and I left there with many fond memories of him.  Fi and Sam and I would go to Fi's parents' house for tea (supper) every Thursday.  David was always there with a hug ready for me, every time.  We would sit and watch the British version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" while Lynley was making supper, and between us we almost always knew the answer (and if we didn't, it would take Lynley approximately 3.2 seconds to locate the correct answer in one of her 5 million books in the lounge.. haha).  David called me "bubby" every now and then, which made me smile every time (such a kiwi thing!).  He even fixed my paua ring for me when I lost one of the small, circular pieces - he cut a new piece of paua shell using a hole punch, and glued it back into my ring.... what a crafty guy!  David also made beautiful hand-made crosses out of wood and paua shell, and I was lucky enough to receive one as a gift before I left New Zealand.  I am thankful that I had the opportunity to get to know and love this wonderful man, and that our last Thursday tea, like all of those that came before it, was full of laughter and friendship.

Lynley, Fiona, Sam, Carol, Murray, Megan... I know that there is nothing that I can say or do to make this situation any easier.  But I do want you to know that I will never have anything but happy memories of David, and I will always remember him as the sweet and caring man that he was.  All I can do right now is to send you my love from across the Pacific Ocean, and hope that you know that you are all in my hearts.  Kia kaha.

Perhaps God is a poet who writes with words

of flesh and bone and leaf and flower.

Every hour of every day, words pour out of the poet's heart,

and every word is beautiful and true and worth the telling.

And when each poem is perfect 

and there is no more which ought to be said,

the poet gently takes the words back into his heart,

where they are safe forever

... and then begins again.