November 9 — Byron Hoot I grieved and mourned you a long time before I could celebrate your life letting memory and desire and longing teach me how to dance to music only I could hear. I agreed with all that was said at your funeral: what a man you were, what a husband, father, preacher, friend but that loss did not get beyond the obvious to memories, moments no-one else could know. I mourned for nine years before the urge to dance to your life appeared and my heart smiled taking in that steeled patience of an ultimate trust that as things were so they were to be, the acceptance of, refusal to reject anything. The way you'd help Mom hold a piece of cloth to make a dress, the grin and mischief of God in your eyes, the kiss of greeting and good-bye on my neck, your voice, the measured beat of your preaching voice. . . Today, I will dance and sing and cry a little, hope that grin and those eyes are a family thing. And I will see into the nature of things far enough away to trust what I don't know, say, with your, "We'll see." as if we've just said, "Amen."