04/21/2024
Today would have been dad's 92nd birthday. This is one of my favorite pictures of him, just 7 months before he passed away, at his 87th birthday party.
I took a long walk this morning reminiscing about my father, taking frequent "swigs" from my own morning coffee mug as I walked. So many memories - funny, I don't really remember anything "bad". They are all good memories, even the ones where he had to get after me for some infraction. He was the consummate pastor. His preaching style was not an academic exegesis, but as an ultimate story teller, who could pull you into the biblical story as though you could imagine yourself standing there, in person, not just witnessing the event, but as a participant. After you were sucked into the story, immersed in all the visual, auditory, and sensory stimuli, at just the right moment it seemed, he would spring the real message. The story for him was just the hook (Elijah was his favorite character). He took time to develop it, build it brick by brick, carefully engaging your every sense. Then when you least expected it you were faced with a decision - now, what will you do with One we call Jesus? As pastor he took seriously his call to lead and shepherd. Tuesday nights was "calling night". I was not exempt from having to tag along with he and mom as they made their rounds to the local congregants. Here again his style was not that of the stuff-shirted preacher. It often led to his getting his hands dirty helping a farmer finish fixing a gate, working on the tractor, even finish milking cows. Then it was coffee and a roll at the kitchen table, listening to the family trials and tribulations (no rain, too much rain, too hot, a late freeze, an errant adult child, health problems, etc), and while he occasionally had advice, generally the visit would just end with "Well, let's pray about it now!" His evangelism style was that of making friends first. He had a knack for not having to force the issue, but waiting for the other person to ask first.
He was the consummate "jack-of-all-trades". Builder, contractor, electrician, plumber, carpenter, cabinet maker, mechanic and engineer, and all with a flare for the perfect fit, every time (and I do mean absolutely perfect). While I didn't catch the mechanic-bug from him, I hope he saw how it translated into my work. His lessons in making a joint fit right, in putting a tool to work correctly, did translate into my job. I think I was pretty good at intubating a tiny premie, starting lines like UAC's and UVC's, arterial lines, central lines, spinal taps, and starting difficult IV's, closing lacerations, in large part because of his lessons as much as those of my medical mentors. ("There is no body cavity that a strong enough arm and a long enough needle cannot reach" was a medical school adage that I always took to heart. Whether a ventricular tap, paracentesis, thoracentesis, joint aspiration, I was always game to do what needed to be done.)
His greatest legacy is perhaps that of integrity. A perceived misunderstanding, even if totally innocent, would weigh on his conscience until he would confront the other person and do everything within his power to make things right. I often saw it at what I considered being unfair to him. He would bear the cost and the brunt of any ill-will rather than risk them having their feelings hurt.
A last story. After Parkinson's ripped away the last vestige of his independence, abilities, and even some of his mental capacity, there remained within him a burning flicker of his lifelong commitment to shepherd and disciple those around him. He often couldn't sleep at night and would wander around the nursing home halls in his wheelchair. One night one of the residents was dying. He sensed something was wrong and the nurses sought him out, asking if he would pray. They say that dad struggled up out his chair to stand (no small feat at that stage of the game), straightened into his tallest posture, and in his best "preacher's voice" led all those who were within hearing in a fitting pastoral prayer for the one dying, family, and those caring for them in the facility. It was as though he hadn't missed a beat. Having heard dad do this same thing multiple times I can imagine his prayer in my own head, I can even hear his voice as he committed all those to the loving care of his Heavenly Father.
He'd be happy, I think, that I'm teaching now (really it's just a hobby). He'd be thankful for a loving daughter-in-law that cares so deeply for mom. He'd be proud of his grand-daughters and their husbands for their continued commitment to their family and church. He'd beam at the great grand kids accomplishments. Weston (9) helping his dad build fence and his lego building. Harlee (8) and her story telling and art. Brookie (7) and her vibrant enjoyment and love of life and horses and boundless energy. Regan (5) and her tender heart and quiet demeanor. Casen (4) with his mischievous ways and laugh. And Silas's (2) quiet intrigue with little things. He'd sit and listen to each of them just as he was listening to Weston in this picture, with his full attention.
I miss dad today, but glad that he is no longer encased in the stiffness and unwilling muscular rigidity of his Parkinson's. I'm always careful to not anthropomorphize what heaven may be like, but there is comfort in thinking that he might be having coffee this morning with grandpa and grandma, and other family, friends like Harold and Ronny, and maybe some surprises of those whose lives he touched without his even knowing it. I'm thankful for the legacy he left me and my family. Someday, if indeed there is coffee in heaven, we'll share another cup together and laugh about that time we pitch-poled the sail boat when I took him sailing the first time.
