Capt. Norm

When a loved one passes on, he is always missed.  Terribly, in most cases.  And although Norman's absence leaves a definite void in the lives of those of us to whom he means so much, his death is not a mournful abyss.  His was a life well well lived.  His was a life worthy of celebration.  There was no soul that he touched in his sincerely loving way, that ever forgot their association with him.  And that was his way.  That is his way.


At Norm's wake, there was a constant stream of friends and family stretching along the funeral home's main viewing room, its entrance halls, and out the door.  His funeral was filled with laughter and tears--wonderful memories being shared of a uniquely honorable man.  Nights were spent gathered around the kitchen table in the home he built on family land.  The table was covered with photographs, certificates, letters, newspaper clippings, and hovering above them all was the constant hum of faithful wife and children's memories.  This is a man who's been given all the love anyone could ever wish for.  This is a man who gave to his family all the love a heart could possibly hold.


But that's not all he loved.  Capt. Norm lived and breathed the sea.  And even in his death, there is passed down to his posterity a quiet yearning for the salty breeze, the sound of the waves, the essence of eternity that pours itself into our deepest hearts as we look out over that ocean horizon.  A fisherman at heart, Capt. Norm is gone, but not dead.  He is sailing a Heavenly sea, fishing eternally with the greatest Fisherman.  And, as is tradition, we can't wait to see all that he's done, when we meet him at the harbor in Paradise.


The Ship
by Henry Van Dyke


I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.


She is an object of beauty and strength, 
and I stand and watch her until at length she is only a speck of white cloud
just where the sea and sky meet and mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side exclaims, 
"There, she's gone!"


Gone where?  Gone from my sight, that is all.
She is just as large in hull and mast and spar as she was when she left my side,
and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of her destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.


And just at the moment when someone at my side says, "She's gone,"
There are other eyes watching for her coming
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, 
"There, she comes!"


And that is dying.