1000 Mansions in the Hills by Hap Squires
July 1, 2009
My father, Bill Squires, passed away May 17th. This is a good thing as he can now see and hear again, and he is with my mother, friends, and Jesus. There were two facets surrounding his death that I want to share with you.
For over 30 years he enjoyed playing the organ. As his eyesight deteriorated, he and Brad, his music instructor, utilized more and more elaborate devises to allow him to see the music. By the time he was legally blind, an overhead projector displayed about eight really big notes on the wall above the organ. Using a foot pedal, he could advance to the next eight notes. When he was confined to a rest home the last year, the organ was a bright spot in his life.
When death was imminent, we did not feel it was right to consign an instrument that had brought him such joy to Craigslist. We called Brad and asked him if he knew of any sight impaired person who could use the organ and visual set up. After a pause to regain his composure, Brad said that within the last two weeks a nine-year-old boy who had been born with glaucoma began hanging around the music store. The boy desperately wanted to play the piano, but his parents could not afford one. So Bill’s organ is home with that little boy today.
It would be possible to attribute this to a happy coincidence. But not when combined with what happened next.
When Dad passed on a Sunday, the Chaplain on call was an Anglican priest, Father Russ Sherman. Father Russ also performs twice monthly services at the care center. After leading us through some comforting prayers and anointing Dad with oil, he waited with us for the funeral home to pick up the body. The organ is sort of a commanding presence in the room so we told him the story of the organ and the young boy. Further, we said that Dad had other items such as a walker, special readers, and a wheelchair that we hoped to distribute as well. Father Russ gat very quiet and closed his eyes briefly and then told us the following.
Twenty minutes ago, while walking down the hall to my father’s room, he spotted one of his parishioners. He asked how he was doing, and the man told him “not very well.” He had fallen yesterday because his wheelchair was broken and would not hold still. Father Russ said, “Let’s go in your room and pray to the God with 1,000 mansions in the hills that he might find you one.” My brother and I immediately jumped up and asked Father Russ to lead us to the man. His name is Dennis Allen, and he had been hit by a speeding vehicle while stopped at a light on his Harley. He will never leave the care center. Pris had gotten in the habit of speaking to him every time we visited because he always wore a large crucifix. During our vigil with dad, Dennis had discovered that my brother and I rode motorcycles, and he visited us often showing us pictures of his old bike. We also had told him that our dad rode Harleys in his youth. Now Dennis rides our dad’s wheelchair.
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