Ode to Lord & Lady Chatterfield
End Of An Era, Entry Into Eternity
I originally wrote this just for myself. Because I needed to. Frequently having to step back and press on through tears. I shared it with my parents. My deceptively emotional (stoic) dad was moved beyond words. He pressed me to share it. They both gave me their permission. So, as they are in a state of cognitive decline, I’m getting it out there before they change their minds, or perhaps, so they can enjoy it again.
"There is no place where God is not, and wherever He is, He is present as love."
— St. Bernard of Clairvaux
Fresh from the rhythm of a morning run, I turned the corner and paused beneath the sign that crowns Chatterfield Drive. It struck a chord in the deepest chambers of my soul. For the circumstances here, unlike the decades that came before, are no longer merely about stepping into that sanctuary under the sheltered, tender, humorous, and ever-watchful fold of my parents’ arms.
For generations, that address was our center—a threshold where an expanding tribe of children and grandchildren, now numbering in the sixties, gathered to belong. But this morning, as the low autumn sun casts its first amber glow across the pavement, and leaves already turning seem to know their impending destination, I am arrested by a sobering, sacred truth: the purpose of this homecoming is to witness one light dimming so that another may burn bright.
We carry the tender, impossible longing to bring them under our own roofs, yet the reality of a care facility has become our shared mercy. Both are slipping away—physically, cognitively, rapidly—yet navigating this twilight as complementary warriors who have spent a lifetime shielding us and countless others. They move through this storm with vastly different dispositions, bound in a constant, raw state of friction that, on more tempestuous afternoons, might have branded them less as Lord and Lady Chatterfield and more affectionately as “the Bickerlies.”
My father holds his interior close—a man of deep, contemplative stillness, yet alive with an impish rascality and a profound, innate regard for people. He always seems to hear private, beautiful music, and his lifelong delight is to draw everyone around him into the song. Yet he does not go quietly. He clings stubbornly to his beloved porch—that sacred sanctuary where he spends hours every morning pouring over scripture, meditating, contemplating, absorbing… his words, his life’s blood. He clings to his ritual walks through the neighborhood, pausing to connect with souls whose names now elude his memory, though their essence remains fully known to him. His resistance is a primal, beautiful wrestling match with mortality itself—he is clinging to life.
My mother, by contrast, carries the fiery spirit of a survivor. Fixated on the underlying reasons for every shift, her eyes are cast forward, anticipating and already imagining the possibilities of what comes next. Yet her sharp intuition and forward momentum can turn impatient, even abrasive when she senses others aren’t keeping pace with where her soul has already arrived.
Standing between these two forces, I often feel as though I am wearing a referee’s shirt, whistle in hand, trying to mediate a clash between two holy, stubborn wills. Yet none of us walk this tightrope alone, nor am I leading this brigade. Our sister Rachael and Phil, right here in Dublin, have been the steadfast ringleaders—attending to my parents day in and day out with a devotion beyond what any of us could imagine. Surrounding them, my extraordinary siblings and their spouses have poured in with ever-greater frequency, carving out time over recent weeks, months, and years to be as present as humanly possible. This trip marks our third visit in three weeks—the one that seals this definitive exchange. We are a family forged for this, shaped by a lifetime of our parents’ daily prayers, and guided by the unseen, enduring presence of our beloved, saintly sister Ann Marie, who lived but a few days on earth, yet whose heavenly counsel and quiet intercession continue to anchor us all.
Even amidst the sparks, my parents continuously radiate the grace of God, verbalizing through heavy tears the incredible difficulty of this surrender, yet consciously availing themselves to His hand. In the end, the referee’s whistle stays in my pocket. I am reminded that our shared calling is not to regulate their passage, but simply to accompany them—to weep with them, to hold them, to journey alongside them through the mystery.
Slowly, surely—through tears, endless patience, and a deluge of prayers—the rays of light are breaking through the friction. Something greater is being illuminated within them, and within us. We feel it; we know it. This struggle takes every truth we have ever professed and places it squarely before us, stripping away pious rhetoric and making it extraordinarily, breathlessly real. None of us have a rulebook for this. We have never been here before. Recently, I wrote and dedicated a book for them called Ride of a Lifetime (get it on Amazon), using an amusement park as a metaphor for the ups and downs, the twists and the round-and-rounds of our shared days. Yet as we navigate through the passing years, we all eventually find ourselves stepping onto the most profound ride of all—the one that carries us from here into eternity. Even with the wisdom of good books and the counsel of faithful friends, we are all walking blindly into the same unknown, facing the exact same horizon.
Now, the circle closes. We stand among the relics of a lifetime, quietly sorting through chairs and coats, deciding which belongings will go on to grace another home, and which—like solitary gold leaves clinging to an October bough—are meant to linger just a little longer. We escort them into a space that feels like a postage stamp compared to the wide, sunlit horizon of the house they are surrendering. Yet we know it is right. We know it because the true wealth they passed to us was never bound in brick or timber. Their inheritance is woven from the imperishable fabric of presence—earnest, empathetic, steadfast, and deep.
As I turn from the curb, having stood a moment longer in the quiet shadow of that street sign, I am struck by how fiercely we cling to earthly coordinates. Look through the eyes of the old, and the illusory landscape clears. You see what actually warrants our short time, our fierce protection, our sacred pursuit. It is infinitely more consequential than any sweeping estate overlooking an ocean or framed by grand oaks. Every earthly grandeur is but a fleeting shadow compared to the eternal edifice built within the quiet folds of attentive love. Beyond what the eye can see or the human heart imagine, an unshakeable inheritance awaits those who have known, cherished, and tended these bonds.
That, ultimately, is the mystery of a sign. Including an earthly home. Never the destination; a pointer. It is not meant to be held onto, but to orient the traveler’s heart toward the glory to which it points.
Long after the physical doors close, the brass of the Ohio State marching band will echo down the halls of our memory. Amidst the laughter, the shared bread at overflowing tables, the arcs of baseballs and soccer balls across green lawns, the resounding soundtrack of voices and instruments, and the click of euchre cards on worn tables, our lives merged into one. Kindred hearts were forged in the breath of the one Holy Spirit—the God who saw this entire tapestry from the beginning, supplied grace for every fragile frame, and invites us even now into His ever-deepening peace.
Though my mother carries the lineage of English royalty in her blood, the true nobility of Chatterfield Drive was never in noble titles or earthly crests. In this holy twilight, Lord and Lady Chatterfield are in sight of the finish line of this magnificent journey—marked by laying down their crowns at the feet of an eternal throne—getting ready at last to step off the ride of a lifetime and into the sovereign arms of the King.
Greg Schlueter is an author, speaker, and movement leader. In addition to leading his company, StoryForge, which brings world-class excellence to organizations seeking to dramatically expand their missions, he leads Image Trinity, a dynamic marriage and family movement. He and his wife, Stephanie, co-host IGNITE Radio Live and produce the popular daily Gospel reflection at LiveITToday.us. He is a music composer, producer and lyricist at his recording company, Scallywag (find Shatterglass Scallywags on all music platforms). His books, published through Squigglesprout.com, include The Magnificent Piglets of Pigletsville, Ride Of A Lifetime, Slaying Giants (SlayingGiants.us), and the Johnson Family Saga of Twelve Roses, 25 Days, and Primal Fire (Amazon). His personal blog is GregorianRant.us.
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🌹Twelve Roses—Anna’s life is unraveling. Alone, pregnant, and grappling with a broken heart. On December 12th, she awakes to the weight of decisions she can’t face. Until the roses begin to appear.
🐽The Magnificent Piglets of Pigletsville—our present-day plight wrapped in a fairytale, accurately foretelling in detail the most consequential events that have unfolded in recent years.
🎠 Ride of a Lifetime—a captivating children’s book set in an amusement park, honoring parents and grandparents who paved our rides on earth and into eternity. Listen to the story set to beautiful illustrations and the soundtrack.
🔥 Primal Fire—a cinematic novella inspired by Dante’s Divine Comedy, alongside a 15-track rock soundtrack (Primal Fire).
👑Help us share the story of Slaying Giants—learn more at SlayingGiants.us
"alive with an impish rascality"🥲 Thank you for sharing this Greg. It's the end of an era for many of us who know and love them.