This article is a part of "The Amish Cook Column", a weekly series of featuring a story & recipe from Gloria Yoder, Amish widow & mother of six from Flat Rock, Illinois
I glanced around the circle of friends and family gathered inside the white fence. There were many I knew, and many I did not. We had all come on behalf of Uncle Marcus who, after two and a half years of battle with leukemia, went on to his home in heaven. Our hearts were especially tender toward his sweet wife, their eight children, and eleven grandchildren. The sun shone soothingly on that February afternoon in Pennsylvania.
As we sang that first song of heaven, I heard someone whisper, "There's an eagle!" I glanced up into the brilliant blue sky and caught my breath — it was real. Overhead, a large bald eagle circled around and around. No other bird in the universe grips my attention like this majestic species. In those rare opportunities of watching them, my heart is stirred to mount up, to rise above the storms of life and, like the eagle, keep soaring higher as predators flock in.
More songs of heaven were sung as family and friends tenderly covered the grave of a dear person whose quiet kindness had touched many lives. At fourteen years old, I had visited their family in Haiti, where they served for five years — a trip that left a deep impression on my young mind.
A number of years later, we asked Marcus to preach at our wedding. Now I pondered how he is safe with our Maker, with perfect understanding of all the mysteries of Christ and the depth of His holiness.
There was a closing prayer and a final song. I was touched as Marcus' grandchildren and some of the children placed white carnations, roses, and lilies onto the grave. Marcus' youngest son especially touched deep chords in me, as he is close to my oldest son Austin's age. I felt for him from the bottom of my heart — and then I thought of how God has been a father to Austin in a very real way. Yes, He would be that for all others who carry that missing space in their lives and trust in Him as their Father.
Afterward, I was chatting with Cousin Bethany, who had done all she could to research what might be done for her father's leukemia. I loved listening to her and her sisters and in-laws as they shared bits of their journey through those final days and years.
I was all ears as Anita, the oldest daughter — who had a two-and-a-half-week-old baby — told the story of a song that had spoken to their hearts at the very beginning of her dad's cancer journey. On those first trips to Pittsburgh to see the doctor, their driver would play a CD with the song "The Holy Hills of Heaven Call Me." She shared how much that song had meant to them, how they had wanted to learn it as a family, but had never been able to find a copy of the words.
Then today, a young minister rose to his feet to offer encouragement and share the good news of Jesus with the 675 people attending the funeral. Imagine how the family felt when he proceeded to read aloud the words to that very song — not knowing how they had treasured it throughout their painful journey.
"And that chorus," Anita exclaimed softly, "it says, I'll take my flight like a mighty eagle."
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