My dad died yesterday evening. He was 84 years old, tired, broken and much in need of a new body.
He was a great man, not by the world's standards, but by how he lived his simple life with great care. He wasn't a sharp dresser and he absolutely wasn't a neat freak. He frustrated me with how he cared for his tools, and any project or repair I undertook while at his house was fraught with frustration as the search for any screwdriver, wrench or screw would take an eternity.
In spite of his flaws, he was a man capable of uncommon love. He loved my brother and I. He once told us that one of the accomplishments he was most proud of was how we turned out. He and my mother divorced after I was married, and some years afterward, he remarried. His wife was a woman I had known growing up as I had gone to school and to church with some of her kids. He adopted her family as his own and raised the kids remaining at home as he had his own two sons. My brother and I lived away from home and were living our own lives, so this adopted family in many ways became closer to him than we were.
When my stepbrother died an untimely death due to cancer and when his ex-wife proved to be an unfit mother for their two daughters, my dad and stepmom stepped in to give these girls a home and raise them.
When Dad remarried, I was able to see something that I hadn't often seen in my parents' broken marriage. He loved my stepmother and she loved him. For both of them, their broken marriages had given them their children, but marrying each other finally gave them unconditional love and acceptance. If for no other reason, I loved my stepmother because she loved my dad.
When my stepmother died nearly 4 years ago, I saw a side to my father that I had never seen with clarity before: loneliness. I don't know if I hadn't seen it before or if it never previously existed, but Dad became lonely and hungry for someone to talk to. I did my best to call him as often as possible, but it wasn't enough and should have been more often.
Dad was also silly and goofy. He had made up exclamations and names that he would always use, or would make up other silly sayings or names on the fly. His sense of humor was sometimes lost on me, but others found him funny. A friend of his, who was our former insurance agent, told me a story about Dad last night.
He was in the office, working out the details for a homeowner's policy. The office assistant was busy telling him that if he insured his house for $10,000 more, the premium would be less. Dad, in his normal dry-witted fashion said, "Well, let's go ahead and insure it for $1,000,000 and see how low that can go."
There are many times in my own selfishness and pride that I didn't pay him the respect he deserved. I hate myself in that memory, yet I know he didn't hold it against me. He wasn't that kind of man.
Dad came to faith as an adult--in his thirties. He didn't become a theologian, but was always fond of good, Bible-based preaching. In my years in funeral service, I heard a million times: "He was a man of quiet faith" or "His faith was very personal" or "He was a very spiritual man." Those descriptors are a way of describing someone whose faith wasn't important--descriptors that were likely never used for this person in life. When Dad got saved, he didn't become a missionary or surrender his life to vocational ministry, but it did change him.
As already mentioned, Dad and I spent most of my adult life at a distance from one another, so I suppose I'm not the authority on how he conducted himself in living out his life as a Christian. One of the things I received after he died was his Bible, which had been given to him years ago by his pastor. It was well marked up and showed signs of use, not abuse.
In having reflected on his passing after living what I consider to be a long life, I consider him to be a success. He weathered a lot of heartache and pain. He survived cancer twice, a broken back once and a myriad of other ailments and injuries too lengthy to recall. Ultimately, he succumbed to an injury that many senior adults succumb to: a fall, or more accurately, several falls. Two surgeries to repair brain bleeds couldn't fix him and when unplugged from the respirator, his body said, "Enough is enough."
It's a great blessing to know your father is in Heaven. This confidence is borne out of how his life changed when he finally met Jesus in his thirties. Granted, our opinion of who is or should be in God's Heaven always lacks certainty. God is the judge, and our opinions are tainted. Yet I find myself comforted. Ultimately, all we have available to help us judge the veracity of a person's faith is the fruit evident in the way they lived. That is what I use in making this judgement. I'm OK with that.
Enjoy your well-deserved rest, Dad. See you later.
