I was in third grade when I started taking piano lessons, and Mr. Patterson, the organist at the church we attended, was one of my biggest encouragers. I don't think he ever missed any piano recital or program that I performed in from the time I first started playing until I left for college. He had a very distinctive way of clearing his throat (not in a gross way, but in a unique "Mr. Patterson way"), and even if I couldn't see his face in the crowd, I would hear him clear his throat and think, "Well, Mr. Patterson is here!" and it was always reassuring.
When the old organ at the Baptist church was on its last leg, he played an instrumental role (no pun intended, but I like it!) in raising funds for a new, "fancy" organ with lots of cool buttons and new sounds. I was only in elementary school at the time, but rather than dissuading me from touching the brand new, very expensive church organ, he urged me to play it as often as I wanted. But no one could play the organ quite like he could. Fun fact: When he would sit down to play the prelude before church each Sunday morning, he was known to make that opening chord a loud one...maybe to make sure we were all awake and sitting at attention. And at Christmas, he would always play, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" in the full-on chime setting, because of course.
Mr. Patterson was also a former English teacher (and, by the way, guidance counselor and principal at various points in his life), and when I could not, for the life of me, understand parts of speech in eighth grade (who knew that I was an English teacher in the making?), he tutored me at his kitchen table until it finally made sense, and gave me one of his old teaching textbooks as a souvenir that I still have to this day.
When Darryl and I got engaged, the Pattersons insisted on hosting a wedding shower for me in their home. They pulled out all the stops, complete with a decorated trellis over the front walkway to their house and a food spread like no other. I asked them to sit with the family at our wedding because the truth was that they were family.
Once Amelia entered our lives, she was quickly introduced to the Pattersons. History repeated itself as she, too, enjoyed the fun of fishing from the end of their dock and visiting them in their living room that overlooked the lake, with the same golden carpet that has been there since 1974. They adored her, and the feeling was mutual. Over the past few months, as Mr. Patterson's health declined, she mentioned that she wanted to take him a basket of healthy food so that he would get better. :-)
Mr. Patterson died this morning in his home at the age of 90. He lived a long, full life with an adoring wife, two devoted sons, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and a community that loved him. When I told Amelia, she started crying. She really has never known anyone personally who has died before. I wanted her to feel the emotions she needed to feel, and I didn't want to gloss over his death, but I reminded her that Mr. Patterson is in heaven now and that he is healthy and happy because he is with God. She said, "Yes, but I'm still sad because I'm never going to see him here again." And then I started crying because I think she summed it up perfectly. As a Christian, I'm grateful for the confidence that he is in heaven, but it feels wrong that we are never going to see him in this life again.
Over the years, Mr. Patterson and I played several piano-organ duets together for the offertory at church. One of the first ones we performed together was the song "Beautiful Isle of Somewhere":
Somewhere the sun is shining,
Somewhere the songbirds dwell;
Hush, then, thy sad repining,
God lives, and all is well.
Somewhere the day is longer,
Somewhere the task is done;
Somewhere the heart is stronger,
Somewhere the prize is won.
Somewhere the load is lifted,
Close by an open gate;
Somewhere the clouds are rifted,
Somewhere the angels wait.
Somewhere, somewhere,
Beautiful Isle of Somewhere!
Land of the true, where we live anew,
Beautiful Isle of Somewhere!
I firmly believe that Mr. Patterson is in that "beautiful isle of somewhere," and that he is healthy and whole. He might even have his hair. And if I can be indulgent in my own fantasy of what heaven might be like...
I would like to think that there is this ginormous pipe organ, grander than those at the finest cathedrals in the world, and that he sits down and opens with a really loud chord that rattles the heavens, just to make sure the saints and angels are paying attention.
