To a Waterfowl

By Shirley Griffiths

I will always remember the Christmas just before my dad passed away. Dad was one of those strong, quiet individuals with deep religious convictions and a great love for his family. He wasted few words on small talk, but a strong forte was his love of poetry. His long ago school years often required poem memorization, and in years after, he entertained us with perfectly remembered classics of poetry such as "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and "Little Orphan Annie." One of his and my favorites, which I asked for often, was William Cullen Bryant's "To a Waterfowl." The deep spiritual undertones escaped my adolescent brain, but in later years I came to appreciate the insightful writing and why it touched Dad's heart so deeply.

"There is a Power whose care,
Teaches thy way along the pathless coast, —
The desert and illimitable air, —
Lone wandering, but not lost. …"

Some years later, Mom and Dad made their home in Utah. Life was mostly what they had planned it to be until Dad was diagnosed with cancer and the surgeon's sympathetic assessment of the outcome left no doubt that the struggle would be uphill — always uphill.

My usually quiet dad became quieter still, and the emotional armor went up. He did not wish to discuss the illness with anyone but Mom, and the detours around it became awkward. Dad went through the standard treatments, and as so many victims of the dreaded disease find, there were periods of hopefulness followed by despair followed by more hope. When it became apparent in the fall there would be only one Christmas left in Dad's life, a large question arose. What do you give someone with such a precarious hold on life that material possessions have ceased to be important? What can you give that will communicate to him the deep love and gratitude you have for his life and the shaping he has done in yours?

That question bothered me for several weeks, till one gray December afternoon, I saw the answer. Displayed on the wall of a small gift shop was a pair of shiny wooden plaques painted with a marshy shore, cattails and willows. Silhouetted against a rosy sky, a flock of geese flew into a glowing sunset. It was "To a Waterfowl" in every sense of the poem. I framed a copy of the poem that had formed a bond between us and sent it with the plaques to their temporary home in southern Utah. My gift was not the poem, not the pictures, it was the message of hope and love.

"He, who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright."

About mid-morning on Christmas Day, the phone rang. As I heard my mother's voice on the other end, my heart sank. Surely Dad could not have made it this far to leave us now. She let us know immediately he was okay. "He opened the package from you," she said. "He could hardly talk, but I could understand that he loves the pictures and poem. He wanted me to call you right now to say thank you." She hesitated, "He just can't seem to quit crying."

I hung up with a thankful heart. He had understood. Dad would live only another three months, but I will always remember his final Christmas, when heart spoke to heart through the beauty of a poem.