The Story Behind This Photo

Late Sunday afternoon on April 21, 2013 my father passed away. He was surrounded by family. My brothers, sister, his father, brother, sister-in-law and a few others were there. I was sitting in a chair to his left — trying my best to stay composed. I failed miserably when I witnessed my grandpa begin to cry, the tears from the pain of losing his youngest son no longer contained.

My dad had been battling health issues for years, so although it pained us to watch him take his final breath, in some ways it was a relief to know he was no longer suffering in this world.

The nurse was called in and she navigated her way through the mourning family members and walked over to his bedside. She checked his pulse, checked her watch, and nodded (if my memory serves me correct — she said something too, but I don’t recall what). The next few days were filled with making plans for the funeral, discussing fond memories, and all those other things families do when a loved one passes away.

When I needed to escape and get inside my mind a little — I turned to what I knew. I took photos and I wrote.

The weather was unseasonably cool for late April in Missouri, and it was rainy much of the week. This set the mood of the week in a lot of ways, and it made for some good photo opportunities.

The day of his funeral quickly approached and on that Friday morning, I didn’t feel like taking any photos. I also felt in some ways that it would be in poor taste if I did. So I made a mental note. There would be no photos on this day.

“This is a funeral of a good man.”

Of all the things I recall from dad’s funeral service, this one is always one of the first things that stands out in my mind. My great-uncle Paul Nichols was preaching the funeral. He opened with this quote, repeating what the funeral home director had said when he arrived that morning. Incidentally, the funeral home director had known my dad since childhood.

The funeral drew to a close and as we gathered in the cars provided by the funeral home behind the hearse, my mind was making mental notes of what I saw, who I saw, and what was being said. I didn’t want to forget a thing. I saw my nephew, my dad’s only grandchild, who was still so young I thought that it sad he’d probably never remember him. I saw old faces that I had not seen in years. I didn’t see my mother — and was thinking erroneously, that she hadn’t come. I took note of the weather, which was in keeping with the rest of the week, unseasonably cool. There was a cool, almost cold, drizzling rain softly falling. I noted there were umbrellas everywhere.

As the caravan of cars descended upon the cemetery, approaching the grave where my father would be formally laid to rest I thought about that rule I had set for myself that morning. NO photos today. I was waffling. I was thinking that I didn’t care much about what others thought about me taking a photo. I told myself I should get a photo of something. Just one thing that would capture the mood of the day. Selfishly, I wanted it for myself as something that would serve as a kind of visual reminder of the day.

The rain and wind seemed cooler than at the funeral home. We walked on a makeshift walkway meant to keep our feet from getting muddy. The pallbearers steadied dad’s coffin underneath the tent and we were guided to chairs sitting in the front.

I still wasn’t sure if I would take a photo though.

As people continued to gather around, many trying to fit underneath the tent and many more standing in the rain — umbrellas shielding them — Paul stepped up, opened his Bible, and paused to allow people to get as close as possible. It was a long pause. Cecil Smith, who had a part in the service as well stood to his left looking on. Behind Paul you could see people getting closer, umbrellas in hand. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about a photo, but I was going to do it anyway.

I reached into my suit pocket and took my phone out as discreetly as I possibly could — I pointed it toward the scene in front of us — and snapped a photo without even looking at the screen on my phone. The phone quickly went back into my pocket and I went back to taking mental notes of the things going on around me.

Three Years Later

It’s amazing how fast time seems to go by. It has now been three years, almost to the day, since that drizzly and cold day in Missouri. When things happen in life, or some event that’s important for our family overall is approaching, I still wish I had my dad to turn to for advice, or to use as a soundboard. Even when he was in poor health and was slower to speak because of a stroke — he was still capable of offering up good advice and telling good stories. And he was always great at listening.

Dad has been on my mind a lot this past week for obvious reasons. I wasn’t sure what to write, or if I should write anything at all. I thought about sharing old, fond memories and stories. I thought I could share some of the good things I learned from him — but I’d already done that in the past.

That’s when I went back to this photo. This photo that almost didn’t happen.

I’m glad I broke my self-imposed rule that day.