An Ordinary Man

The nightmare began on a Sunday afternoon in early September. After arriving home from celebrating Thomas' first birthday at our home in Chicago, my parents received a frantic answering machine message from my father's older brother and only sibling. Robbers had broken into his home and money had been stolen from his wallet. Anxiously, my parents departed for Uncle Russ' house. Thirty minutes later, to their horror, they discovered that no crime had been committed. Rather, the alleged occurrence was the result of my uncle's imagination. Desperate for an answer to this atypical behavior, a fateful doctor appointment was scheduled. Consequently, per the doctor's advice, it was determined that Uncle Russ be admitted into a local hospital and then later transferred to a restorative care facility. The unimaginable prospect that Russ' deterioating health and lucidity might terminate his ability to live independently became a haunting reality in our minds. The active, vibrant man of my youth had transformed into the nearly blind, stumbling, elderly man of my adulthood - a mere shadow of what he once was.

Uncle Russ was a constant presence in our lives. Since he was my father's only sibling, and best friend, and he had suffered the loss of his wife, my Aunt Margaret, in 1979, and only son, David, at birth, we were his only family. Indeed, it is difficult to remember a time when Uncle Russ did not share both significant and mundane events with us. We celebrated birthdays and holidays with him, as well as vacations and Sunday dinners to Bishop's Buffet (dad and Uncle Russ relished the "All You Can Eat Buffet" and the multiple desserts it awarded them). And after any Cub game - victory or defeat - our phone, without delay, would be ringing: Uncle Russ.

The nightmare ended in the late hours of an October evening. For several days, my father, mother, and I had spent every waking hour at the hospital with Uncle Russ. On that last day, Russ had already commenced his journey from this life to the next. As he lay in his bed, eyes closed to the world, our modest sized family gathered around his bedside and kept vigil with him. In his solitary room, we held his hands, prayed silently, and read aloud prayers and psalms to comfort him as he walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and to comfort ourselves as we already felt his absence from our lives. And then death came, and Russell departed this life without us to join the wife and son who had left him so long ago. Let all mortal flesh keep silent.

There are so many commendable things I could attribute to my uncle. He was a simple man, never showy or ostentatious, kind, generous, quick to laugh, responsible, and faithful, to his family, friends, church, and God. He was an ordinary man and like most ordinary men will probably be forgotten by the world. Yet what I have discovered to be the most extraordinary thing about him was that despite all the adversities he encountered throughout his life - the poverty of his youth that forced him (like many of his time) to acquire employment at age fourteen, his enrollment in the army which took him to Europe during World War II, the premature death of his beloved wife, the heartbreak of losing a child and then suffering childlessness, and finally the affliction which caused him to lose his sight and independence -he never despaired, became bitter, complained, or rejected his Lord.

In typical Uncle Russ fashion, on a paper contained in a safe desposit box under my father's care, he had mapped out the details of his funeral. One request was that the hymn, "Children of the Heavenly Father," be sung. Now I am not sure if this particular hymn, like the addition of cream of mushroom soup to any entree, is analogous to being of Swedish descent, but I have yet to meet a Swede who does not know and love this hymn. (I can even sing the first stanza in the mother tongue.) Its words, though simple, are profound and typify the life of the man, my uncle, Russell Swanson.

Children of the heavenly Father
Safely in his bosom gather;
Nestling bird nor star in heaven
Such a refuge e'er was given.

God his own doth tend and nourish,

In his holy courts they flourish.

From all evil things he spares them,
In his mightly arms he bears them.

Neither life nor death shall ever
From the Lord his children sever;

Unto them his grace he showeth,

And their sorrows all he knoweth.

Though he giveth or he taketh,

God his children, ne'er forsaketh,

His the loving purpose solely
To preserve them pure and holy.

Russell George Swanson
February 15, 1922-October 27, 2005
Memory Eternal!