Father

When my father died in 1982, I returned from Kenya for the funeral. We lived in an area of upstate New York which was mostly small towns and villages. My father was tall blond and handsome, a very popular man. He sang bass. He had sung with Glen Miller's band at the Aragon in Chicago, recorded with Kate Smith, and enjoyed the bass roles in local theater musicals. He was mostly known for his singing in the church. First in Grace Church Cathedral boys choir as a soprano, with his three brothers, and later as the bass soloist in every concert, and in the big Presbyterian church..
The night before I left for Kenya, two years earlier, my mother, father, , one of my brothers and I went to a fancy restaurant where big band era hits were playing live. That was my last time spent with my father. We danced while he sang along with the band, and did not let the pain causing trembling in his left arm, nor my gentle protests that we sit down, interrupt his dancing with me. When I left the next day, I knew this was the last time we would be together.
It isn't that I had such a great relationship with my father. Yes, he was the nurturing one of both parents. He was also an alcoholic and our lives did revolve around his ups and downs and his life as the musician. He kept tight reins on my comings and goings. My boyfriends either feared or idolized him, neither of which helped in my developing the ability to form good healthy relationships with them. But, father is a powerful symbol, nonetheless. My father, because of his ability to bring the Great Mystery into the presence of all who listened to him singing, was a particularly powerful symbol.
The memories of many Christmastime concerts rode with me to Little Falls for the annual singing of Handel's Messiah.. That my father would not be singing the bass parts, did not go unnoticed in my anticipation - and dread - of the evening. The soloists were all young and talented performers. As well, the choir was fully angelic. My father was particularly famous for his ability to resound loudly on the lowest of notes. I was remembering those moments when my heart got caught in my throat. When the bass began to sing, "Who shall stand when He appeareth?", my heart stopped. The bass was talented and well trained and obviously loved what he was singing. But, when it came to the low low notes, there was no sound. He could not hit those low low notes. I began to cry uncontrollably. Although I was embarrassed, the tears refused to cease. This was a moment of pure and simple clarity. My father was really gone from this earth. To have to have this "aha" experience in this way, was cruel and unjustified. At the same time it was a letting go, a relief.
I was left alone with the memory of that archetype, who was also really my father, which occasions the presence of the Great Mystery.
There were times after that, when my father would make contact with me. Whether this is an actual fact, or a metaphor for life-like memories, they nevertheless brought with them that presence of the power of the Great Mystery.

How does the power of the Great Mystery present itself to you?