Angel Flight
Copyright© 2023 by Mark Randall
Chapter 1
The announcement was brief.
“It is with great sorrow that the family of Pete Rogers announces his passing. Our patriarch was a multifaceted person. Son, Soldier, Savior. He will be sorely missed. And all of our lives are enriched by having known him.”
The Chapel was standing room only. When the preacher nodded at me, I stood and walked to the podium. I did not notice the tears clouding my eyes. Suzy described it to me later.
Standing at the podium, I paused as I looked down at Pete’s casket. I cleared my throat, and then I began.
“I met Pete later in life. At the time, I was a directionless drifter seeking meaning to my life. He gave me an anchor to grab onto and plant roots. Those were the roots of our friendship. I sometimes look at where I was at and where I was going. And I sink to my knees in gratitude for having met and befriended Pete. My life was at a cusp, and Pete provided me a map.”
“I once heard that the measure of a man wasn’t the medals, ribbons, and awards that grateful people bestow. The yardstick the Almighty uses are the scars and wounds on his soul. That the creator, whatever their name, looks at the depth and length of those scars. And most importantly, how have those wounds have healed. Has hate and anger festered the damage? Or has time, compassion, and forgiveness cleanly healed the wound? Making its bearer stronger and more compassionate.”
“Pete carried wounds and scars, but he lived his life without anger or hate. His scars are proud symbols of a life honorably lived and a dignified passing.”
“While his passing is painful for us who are waiting our turn, for Pete, this is a reunion with the lives and loves that have preceded him. His parents, wife, and a child tragically taken much too early. They have all joyously welcomed Pete home. For Pete, it will be a mere moment before we, the rest of his family, will cross over and join our friend.”
I looked out over the assembly hall. Philip and Jackie Taggart, the owners of the Bar T, sat towards the rear of the hall. Ms. Taggart was gently dabbing at the moisture in her eyes. Her husband sat ramrod straight, his face a frozen mask. But his emotions were betrayed by a drop easing down his cheek. His son Bruce and family sat in the front row, With Pete’s Daughter and her family. The tears flowed freely among this group.
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