Last March I wrote a blog post called, "My Uncle." I'd called it that because my grandfather had just died and I had watched the men in my family rise to their full stature, the way they always do in every small and large crisis. I wrote:
My uncle is brave. My uncle is kind. My uncle is patient and long-suffering. My uncle is steady, faithful, and honest. My uncle is wise. My uncle is dignified. My uncle is graceful and noble.
The evening before my grandparents' viewing, my Tío Emiro shared with us how he came to know our family. He had endured great suffering in Columbia's violence in much the same way my grandfather and his siblings had. He'd been orphaned, his parents murdered. He told us how he went down to the river to play with other neighborhood children and heard the story of a Man who, being fully God, died on the cross for the sins of the world. He told us how he believed. He told us how God provided for him, a poor orphan boy in a poor country in a time of crisis, first to be welcomed into a new home as a son, then to come to America with his young bride--my aunt, my grandfather's sister--and make a life that smelled sweetly of the aroma of Christ. "I've never been a rich man," he would say, "but I've always lived richly."
My Tío Emiro died today. I sat at the kitchen table with his children this afternoon as they recounted the faithfulness of their father. His dying breaths were "gospel, gospel." They told us how intensely he loved the people around him, how he won them over--and I watched neighbor after neighbor come by and share their grief.
My uncle, my Tío Emiro, was brave and kind and patient and long-suffering. He was steady, faithful, honest, and wise. He was dignified, graceful, and noble. And now he has gone to be with the Lord.
