March 12, 2021
It’s taken me a breath to digest Swad’s landing on that shore. Paul Swadley was my pastor, my friend. Those who knew him have their own Swad in their hearts and minds, as he was precious to all. I have no corner on the market where our beloved Swad was concerned. Nonetheless, this is the Swad I knew.
When the news came that Swad had died on Sunday morning, my first reaction was to be happy for him. Gone was his dementia and the other shackles of this world. After my momentary selflessness, my selfish grief took over. A flood of memories of life with Swad gripped me, and with them, a flood of unstoppable tears.
I thought of how he stood next to my father as Dad told us Mom was gone. I would eat Jello then, in the hospital, and Swad called me “Miss Jello” for years, making me feel special for something otherwise horrific. I thought of how he was among the first to see each of my newborn children. I saw him officiating at wedding after wedding, including my own; and preaching the funerals of so many I loved. I remembered the Sunday lunches and dips in the Swadley pool as a kid. I remembered how he embraced the youth of the church and how we sat front and center to hear him preach. I remembered the brilliant sermons and the laughter; the faith and the joy.
The last time I saw him was last December. I was making a video for Dad’s 80th. I woke him and asked if he would say happy birthday to Pops, not sure if he knew who I was. “Happy Birthday, Bill!” He said, without skipping a beat. He knew.
Swad’s service was beautiful and uplifting, gut-wrenching and aimed toward heaven. I was surrounded by people who love God and loved Swad. It felt like home. The joy of Swad’s life and death in that service helped stitch the wounds left behind. I felt myself heal as we sang. And I know I’m not alone.
My children sat between Dad and me, with Nyds to my right. They got to experience the South Haven of my youth, and the Swad of my life. Drew scarcely remembers him, but he knows what he was to us all. Gracie does remember the bit she got to know as a child.
When we got home, Gracie—who cries little and exhibits sentiment even less (that is no criticism)—stood with me in the kitchen and said this: “I would have been okay, but I can’t bear to hear Papa cry.” I had watched her weep, holding his hand. She went on to say, “I don’t envy much of your childhood, Mom, but I envy what you had at church.” I agreed. It was idyllic, my young life at South Haven, with Swad at the reins. When all else crumbled, it was truly my safe haven. And I mourn for that time in that place as I mourn for Swad. But I thank God my kids had a glimpse on that day, and that the five of us experienced it together.
That was one of Swad’s great gifts: bringing people together.
He made me feel loved unconditionally, and personally. I know I am not alone.
I’m grateful for the Swad I knew. I’m grateful for the church I call home. I’m grateful for a God who is bigger than all grief, and for the promise of, one day, landing on that shore.
