Ben Camino's Non-Ironic Funeral Meditation #1:
A Farmer's Farmer
I went to two funerals last week. One in person, one by distance. One of a farmer, one of a Catholic priest. One was born in 1932, the other was born in 1931. One lived in the same county his entire life, got married at the ripe old age of 17, became a dairy farmer, and, after he dedicated his life to Jesus Christ in 1954, was a lay leader in his beloved Christian & Missionary Alliance Church until the day of his passing. The other spent most of his life in his hometown of New Orleans and his adopted home of San Antonio (a rather limited field of operation, as the memorial homilist said, for a priest in a missionary order), was deeply committed to his church families throughout his life, and fulfilled his lifelong desire of being "a priest of God."
Because of the strange coincidence of the two funerals of these two men I admire greatly occurring in the same week, I intended to write one meditation about them both. But the more I think about them, and the sheer magnitude of their lives and their influence, I realized that doing so wouldn't be fair to either man. So, here follows my reflections on Roger G. Thompson, "a farmer's farmer" as one speaker called him. And yet he was a man after God's own heart just as surely as any man who ever took ordination vows or wore a clerical collar.
I know Roger because he is the father of a dear friend. But, come to think of it, I usually don't know the parents of most of my friends. Roger and his bride, Doris, however, had a big farm house off the Warren Road outside of the city of Huntington, Indiana (you're gonna miss it mister, if you don't go slow, I wrote in the song I composed about them). And, when I was invited to share Thanksgiving (and then again Easter) with them a few years ago when I was alone and had nowhere else to go, nobody else to be with, they just welcomed me into the family circle and made me feel like I belonged.
I got the picture pretty quickly that this family was built pretty strong because it was built pretty deep. And it was pretty pretty too (the girls got that from Doris, if you want to know the truth). Dairy farmers are up working by 3.30, I'm told (glad I don't know from experience), and they don't get time off during "growing season." They work hard. And, with the right farmer, it's a labor of love.
He loved his cows. He loved his work. He loved his church. And most of all, he loved his family and his Lord. Whether praying the Thanksgiving blessing or sitting in his recliner chair with a great-grandchild in his lap watching the Cubs game, it was clear that he was blessed. And he was a blessing.
From the pastor to the family to farmer friends to church friends, the speakers at the funeral all had a common theme. He lived like he farmed. He sowed love, and goodness, and mercy (and sometimes a strong sense of justice, even righteous anger as well). And the harvest was great. Children, grandchildren, great-children -- I lost count but was impressed by how many were named by name. But not only his immediate family. A "young man" of 60 spoke of Roger as his father figure, making sure we knew that they didn't always see eye to eye but that Roger never let a difference of opinion come between them in the end.
The service was perfect, not because it went off without a hitch. It didn't. We were masked, after all. I was standing in the back against the wall because nowhere else looked like it was going to be six feet away from another mourner. The sound system didn't work, or at least the electric keyboard didn't, when it came time to sing the first hymn. Even when it did, our rendition of Roger's favorite song, "Victory in Jesus," would not have reminded anyone of that Utah choir you used to see on television. It was perfect, though, because it was in Roger's home church, with people who loved him, with people he had loved, and with people who "got" him and who knew that he was a saint.
He was a saint not because he lived above and apart from the everyday and mundane. But because he brought the same love and commitment to his family life, to his farming, to his friendships, that he did to his religion or what he would call his personal relationship with Jesus Christ. He was sowing the seed, taking care of the field of concern his Lord had given him, no matter what he was doing. Work was important. But so was church. And so, especially, was family. His grandson, choking back tears, promised to keep the farm alive in his honor. When things got pretty bad near the end, he came home to the farm, and passed into eternity surrounded by his dear ones.
Speaker after speaker mentioned his legacy. Without saying it exactly this way, they suggested that they learned what it was to follow Jesus, at least in part, by watching Roger. And following in his big footsteps. Come to think of it, I think somebody did say that almost exactly. His grandson Aaron.
His grand-daughter Sarah Hofstetter tried to make sense of the beauty of a life she knew that she would now miss for the rest of her life. And wow did she ever do it beautifully. Her words are way better than mine, so I leave you, dear reader, with her tribute to Roger G. Thompson.
My Grandfather
Where his imprint lies as carved in stone.
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Thank you Lord for the promise of eternal life now experienced by your child, Roger Thompson. May perpetual light shine upon him, and may he rest in peace.
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