My father is gone, but he lives on

I did not expect my father to go so soon. Even now I don’t know how to describe my feelings.
Though my family and acquaintances perceive me as being strong, I am deeply wounded inside. Being unable to name grieving emotions does not mean all is well. Now I know the feeling of shock and disbelief, the sharp pain and deep sadness that the death of a parent brings. I also know that life has a way, sooner or later, of breaking people; but I also believe that the wounded often end up stronger in the broken places, when time and distance work their healing magic. My father Lesiba is dearly missed. I met him only 40 years ago. My mother, Mmane, got married to him 60 years ago. I was looking forward to his 80th birthday in March 2009, but God had other plans. With my siblings I knew that Papa was never the same since the death of my sister in 2006. After Mokgaetsi passed on to eternity, he lost his appetite for food and went to her grave almost every day.
The day before he joined the realm of the ancestors, we were all there, including his two remaining sisters. On that Sunday afternoon he professed the Creed for the first time. Then his parish priest, Fr Ambrose Maqebo, baptised him in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Fortified with the sacred oil of healing, he received Holy Communion for the first time. At that moment his smile and joy of being a follower of the Way hid his pain and fragility. Fr Robert Mphiwe asked about Papa’s journey of faith. I had no clear answer; I don’t think I ever will. If I remember, I will ask him when we meet in heaven. His mother, Ramokone, was the first Catholic of my paternal relatives. He encouraged my mother Mmane and all my siblings to be baptised. In fact, he sternly made sure we were up for Sunday Masses. His matrimony with Mmane was witnessed by the Fr Reginald Webber OMI. Though he was never formally schooled, he taught himself to read with a hymn book and a bible. Indeed, he was an avid Bible reader. The holy book which looked relatively new 40 years ago, is now full of wrinkles, marks and comments.
It was not easy for him to bless my readiness to serve God as a priest. Perhaps he had thought I was not perfect enough. He would have been right. It was just before my ordination when he allowed me to approach the altar of sacrifice. He did not want me to become a priest because he thought parishioners wantonly persecuted priests. He used to engage with most of my parish priests and some shared the difficulties of ministering at St Peter Claver in Mamelodi.
His was the first funeral I had to arrange from beginning to end. And it was quite an experience. As a priest I appreciate what many families have to go through preparing the send-off of their beloved relatives. All of us wanted the best because Papa had given us his best. As siblings we could not always agree on what is best: coffin type, menu, costs, speakers, and so on. But the meetings were very intimate. From his silent state, Papa taught us that consensus is a virtue to strive for. The family meetings helped us to rely on each other.
The support we received from friends and relatives was phenomenal. Countless people offered their time and resources in support. One is never alone. It was at the Requiem Mass that I realised that Papa is not dead. At the of the funeral rites, when Archbishop George Daniel, prayed “may his soul rest in peace”, I knew that no sickness and pain will affect him again. And I know with certainty that one day I will be with him. For now I feel his strong presence, though I do wish it was physical. How grateful we were to have had him for so long. Now he will live on in my siblings and me.