For our family, Memorial weekend brings not only memories of all who have given their lives in service for our country but it is a time to reflect on how Bob so added to our lives. Last year I wrote of the events that surrounded Bobs becoming Present with the Lord, (which can be read in the Notes section of my FB), but this year, now three years, I repost Lukes words, so eloquently rehearsing how blessed we were to have Bob/dad in our lives. We look forward to someday being reunited with him in the place where God’s dwelling will be among the people. Lukes Eulogy given at his fathers funeral--May 27, 2011 First of all, thank you. Thank you on behalf of my mom, Esther, my sister Anna, my wife Sarah, my brother David, and the rest of our family. Thank you for the overwhelming love and support you’ve offered us over these past few difficult days. Thank you for your presence here today. These things are meaningful beyond what I might convey through my brief words. Know that what you are offering to us is carrying us. And indeed, you are ushering into our tragedy the presence and peace of the Lord Jesus. Thank you to Jeff Halsted, to Calvary Baptist Church, to Lionel Young, to the people of Indian River Baptist Church, to Dave Pederson and staff. Thank you. As you can imagine, I did not anticipate writing a eulogy this week. I know none of you expected to be here either. On Tuesday, the day I received the phone call from my mom about my dad’s accident, I had picked up a card that I planned to share with him this week. It was a card to say congratulations—congratulations on his installation as Senior Pastor at IRBC, congratulations on returning to the US after the better part of a lifetime of service overseas, congratulations on finding a wonderful home in which to spend the next great years of his life with mom. Beyond these congratulations, I was going to share with him again how glad we were that he and mom and David were here now, in Michigan, close to home, a visible presence in our lives. A family, together again. Alas, I did not get the chance to write these things. Instead, I find myself here, in front of you, with the privilege of honoring my dad with different words. I’ll have you know, I’d rather have had the chance to write the card. An Open Letter to Robert Keith Rapa, my Dad, On the Occasion of His Death May 27, 2011 Dear Dad, We miss you already. We know that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, but this is not quite the way we hoped things would go. We wanted to have many more years with you here before we said farewell. You were a good man—a good husband and a good father. We could not have asked for anything better than what you provided or hoped for anyone other than you to be our father, and mom her husband. We know you loved us. You loved us well, and we are grateful to you for that. You were a great teacher, and as my dad you taught me many important things. One thing you taught me is that, despite good intentions, people sometimes make mistakes—and that we have to forgive. The object lesson was a bit extreme, but I definitely learned it. You were teaching me how to hit a ball, and we were in the yard practicing with tennis balls. When we made the switch to using a real baseball, you promised you wouldn’t hit me with it. But sure enough, on the first pitch, you hit me square in the head. You also taught me to be careful of what I say. When I was young, probably seven or eight years old, I told you a joke. “What do you get when you cross an elephant and a rhinoceros?” I asked. You said you weren’t sure, so I replied “elephino.” At the time, I had no idea why you didn’t want me to tell that joke again. Now I understand, and I always work to choose my words carefully. You taught me about honesty and integrity. I remember one time in particular, as a young boy, I was being a bit rambunctious before Sunday church. You told me to stay put on a chair without moving while you finished getting ready. When you turned around, I stuck my tongue out, and you immediately turned back around and asked me if I had indeed just stuck my tongue out at you. I said “no,” amazed that you somehow knew what I had done. I felt supremely guilty about lying to you, and you just let the guilt work on me—that was punishment enough. It was not until some time later that I realized you had a clear view of me in the mirror you were using to tie your tie. You taught me about hard work and responsibility. When Anna and I were little, we had a dog named Lucky. Because it was our dog, we had to take care of it. One Saturday, we were over in the basement of Belmont Baptist Church. Although you were the pastor, you and mom were working hard to clean the building, getting it ready for church the next day. I brought the dog over to run around in the basement while you cleaned. When the dog pooped, you played your fatherly part and told me it was my responsibility to clean it up. Of course, I threw up because of the terrible smell and you ended up cleaning up for both of us. But I learned little bit about hard work and responsibility in the process. You taught me, by example, about how to care for people. You opened up your home to Anna’s friends and my friends and treated them like your own children. You tended to the needs of the people in our churches even though it often meant sacrificing to do it. You gave up the comforts of home to share God’s love with others around the world. You showed me how to love my wife by the way you loved yours. Indeed, even in your death you are teaching me. “Life is fragile. Cherish the moments you have with one another.” Or even “Yes, sorrow and pain are a part of our lives, but they too help to conform us into the image of Christ.” You might not have said these things in exactly this way, but you have taught me this. You are teaching us these things now. Great teachers are, first and foremost, learners. You taught me to love learning, to question things, even when others get uncomfortable with the questioning, to be on the quest for deep understanding about life, about God, about anything worth learning. Your love of learning and your good teaching have impacted not only me—my life, my thinking—but many, many people throughout the world. Those here around me today are a testament to that. Not too long ago, you and I talked about the importance of developing strong relationships with the people in our lives. Thank you for acknowledging this as central to our purpose here on earth. Our years away, overseas, and our years apart, while you yourself were overseas, were challenging in many ways. I am grateful that we got the opportunity to talk about the value of community, the significance of connectedness with family, the necessity of having a group of people around us to carry us through hard times and to share in the joys and the richness of life. Know that we have these connections with our family and friends who are here today. You knew that TS Eliot was my favorite poet. I bought a copy of Eliot’s Four Quartets for you a few years ago, before you headed back on one of your trips overseas. Sadly, we didn’t get a chance to talk about this collection of poems. I wish we had. They have helped me to better understand humanity’s struggle to find and make meaning in the world, to grow in my awareness of the connection between and intersection of this life and the next, and, ultimately, to grasp in a more fundamental way the necessity of seeing the Incarnation as the only means through which we find peace. These are ideas that governed your life’s work, ideas that you helped others understand. As I reflect on your death—your gain but our loss—I think sadly of my life without you, think sadly of our lives without you, but I also think, happily, of your new life as you begin to celebrate in God’s eternal glory. These words from the second of the Four Quartets continue to help shape my reflection: As we grow older The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion. We rejoice knowing that you have now found what you spent your life cultivating—that deeper communion with our Lord. I want you to know, Dad, that we will be okay. We are holding fast to the promise of being reunited with you in the place where God’s dwelling will be among the people, where there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, where all things are made new. Your son, Luke
Posted on: Sat, 24 May 2014 15:02:17 +0000
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