A pike man of the English Civil War Society stands over the scene of battle. Along with his comrades, he has just tried to make real for us the struggle, the fear, the life and death of conflict.
Where others fell, he somehow survived.
Maybe he will be greeted amongst survivors of his regiment. Stories will be told of his courage in the face of fearful odds. Some will speak of his quiet, gentle nature when not called upon to do battle, and how others took heart in his ability to take the higher road. Those about him will ask themselves if they would be able to walk his way; would they be able to carry themselves in such a dignified and honourable manner in the face of death.
Only days ago, the pike man, my brother, Gordon Hardy stepped up to the real challenge of a life and death struggle and passed into his glorious reward. I for one have marvelled at his steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds. At every meeting with him on this last part of his journey, I have been left wondering how he could carry on in the way he has, and have been challenged as to how I would stand in my day of battle. I can only pray for the grace he knew, for the heart-strength he lived in, the honesty and integrity that were his hallmarks, and his gentleness of spirit.
Two days before he lay down his arms, I was with him in the spirit. It was in the mist of an early autumn morning. We talked together and decided to walk together homeward after many years of battles faced and all survived. I helped him dress for the last time in the kit of battle. His shirt and breeches, his stockings and boots. Afterwards the breastplate and helmet, the belt and sword. He hefted his pike and I told him "No, at the trail will do, no more fighting. This is the march for home."
Together we walked into a brightening sunrise, clouds clearing and mist lifting. We talked of all the years together. Childhood to manhood, war and peace, heartaches and joys were all touched upon and all covered by the last words we spoke together face to face - "I love you."
The time came on the track when I knew that I would have to let him go. There was no parting of the ways, merely a knowledge that this last part of the journey was for him and him alone. He simply walked ahead.
As I write I fill with the same remarkable sense of loss and certainty - my loss, our loss, his certain future in the Son-rise.
A day later, Gordon died, but just before (and with no knowledge of the latest situation) I was again with him in the spirit. We lay together. We took heart in the certain knowledge that Jesus was with us.
"He's safe," I said. "His arms are under us now," and there was a sense of falling through the bed, both of us held secure, but in that child in a dad's arms way.
This is not re-enactment, not some show for the public. This is the real thing. It has all the noise and clamour of battle, all the unsettling quiet that falls across the field when the final shot has been fired and the last moans and cries have faded away.
In all the madness of loss there is the sanity of certainty.
If you knew him, you would salute him:
Where others fell, he somehow survived.
Maybe he will be greeted amongst survivors of his regiment. Stories will be told of his courage in the face of fearful odds. Some will speak of his quiet, gentle nature when not called upon to do battle, and how others took heart in his ability to take the higher road. Those about him will ask themselves if they would be able to walk his way; would they be able to carry themselves in such a dignified and honourable manner in the face of death.
Only days ago, the pike man, my brother, Gordon Hardy stepped up to the real challenge of a life and death struggle and passed into his glorious reward. I for one have marvelled at his steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds. At every meeting with him on this last part of his journey, I have been left wondering how he could carry on in the way he has, and have been challenged as to how I would stand in my day of battle. I can only pray for the grace he knew, for the heart-strength he lived in, the honesty and integrity that were his hallmarks, and his gentleness of spirit.
Two days before he lay down his arms, I was with him in the spirit. It was in the mist of an early autumn morning. We talked together and decided to walk together homeward after many years of battles faced and all survived. I helped him dress for the last time in the kit of battle. His shirt and breeches, his stockings and boots. Afterwards the breastplate and helmet, the belt and sword. He hefted his pike and I told him "No, at the trail will do, no more fighting. This is the march for home."
Together we walked into a brightening sunrise, clouds clearing and mist lifting. We talked of all the years together. Childhood to manhood, war and peace, heartaches and joys were all touched upon and all covered by the last words we spoke together face to face - "I love you."
The time came on the track when I knew that I would have to let him go. There was no parting of the ways, merely a knowledge that this last part of the journey was for him and him alone. He simply walked ahead.
As I write I fill with the same remarkable sense of loss and certainty - my loss, our loss, his certain future in the Son-rise.
A day later, Gordon died, but just before (and with no knowledge of the latest situation) I was again with him in the spirit. We lay together. We took heart in the certain knowledge that Jesus was with us.
"He's safe," I said. "His arms are under us now," and there was a sense of falling through the bed, both of us held secure, but in that child in a dad's arms way.
This is not re-enactment, not some show for the public. This is the real thing. It has all the noise and clamour of battle, all the unsettling quiet that falls across the field when the final shot has been fired and the last moans and cries have faded away.
In all the madness of loss there is the sanity of certainty.
If you knew him, you would salute him:
Gordon Hardy, January 24, 1956 - October 14 2009
1 comment:
Post a Comment