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(Originally written September 2, 2003)
It was a year ago on August 28, that my uncle Gene died unexpectedly from a brain aneurism. Over the weekend, my aunt Nancy spread his ashes atop a mountain at Elk Run Ranch, where he was the ranch manager for several years, after a long career at the helm at Saddle Mountain Ranch (both of which are just outside of Steamboat Springs, Colorado). Joining her were my mom and dad, my grandma Marge, and several members of Nancy’s family. My aunt Marcella was unable to attend because she is still recovering from the West Nile Virus, and my uncle Loyd was also unable to be there.
I’ve been praying that this will bring some closure to Nancy, in what had to be the most difficult year of her life. I don’t have a memory of my uncle Gene that does not include Nancy. They really were a very special couple. Gene, as I may have mentioned a time or two, is easily the closest person I’ve ever lost. Many times a week, I’ll find myself thinking of him. Whether it be a joke he told (and there were many), hearing a story that he had retold 800 times (as is habitual in our family, especially legends of the hunt), or sometimes even the way I’ll notice something that he would have appreciated.
Watching my uncle die was difficult because it was the first time easily-taken-for-granted expectations of his presence suddenly taken away from me. And the reasons for which I mourn have little to do with me any more. I cherish those precious memories that remain. The warmth of his laughter can still bring a smile to my face, and venture it will for all my days to come. But I mourn for my father, in losing his brother and best friend. I mourn for my grandmother, in having to witness the death of her son. I mourn for my aunt, whose entire world must be recreated. I mourn for my children, who will never know first-hand the joy of spending time with Gene. I fear that even my oldest daughter Kaylyn will possess but hazy recollections of a man who was so very special to so very many people.
I had the honor and privelege to be with my uncle in his final moments of his life. After the doctors failed in their effort to repair the aneurism, he suffered several debilitating strokes. He was unable to speak or acknowledge us. Yet, each time I prayed for him and each time I read the Scriptures in his presence, tears flowed freely from his eyes. My fervent prayer was that the Holy Spirit would communicate with him and he would be able to respond. My uncle Gene would never be confused for a religious man, so I wouldn’t want to mislead anyone with that type of representation. But on that final day, I received the most tremendous peace that the Lord had answered my prayer.
Gene, like many of us in the McAnally clan, was known most popularly as “Mac.” To some, he was “The Marlboro Man.” To others, he was the living definition of a cowboy. But to those of us who were closest to him, he was a husband, a brother, a son, an uncle, and a friend. And our lives are better for having been for a time connected to his.
Our cousin Jay wrote a song commemorating Gene. While the theology isn’t real solid, the sentiment is sincere and sweet:
Mac’s Song
I’ll be here in Colorado