Daddy's gone

“You always miss your daddy when he’s gone. My daddy’s been gone 25 years now, and I miss him every day.”

That’s my 91-year-old dad consoling my wife, Lori, just the other day when we were visiting him in Lubbock, TX. Her dad died recently, and the pain left by his demise is still raw.

As Dad spoke, I flashbacked to that day several weeks ago when I was rushing Lori to the airport so she could see her dad once more before he died. “My daddy’s dying,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes, enunciating her words matter of factly, like a person who awakens in the morning to find the lights were left on all night, acknowledging the obvious with surprise, “The lights are on.”

“My daddy’s dying.”

And that night, a few hours after her arrival, he was gone.

Father’s Day is a day to celebrate dads, but for many, the joy is tinged with the pain of a daddy that’s gone.

“It’s hard to say goodbye to your dad, especially when you’ve had a good one,” Lori whispered to herself as much as to me as I kissed her good-bye just before she stepped into the security line at the airport.

“What do you miss most about granddad?” I questioned Dad after he tried to comfort Lori.

His eyes moistened and his voice cracked: “I just didn’t let him know how much I appreciated him for the sacrifices he made.”

Dad gave a for instance:  His dad (my granddad) sent Mom and Dad $50 a month the entire time Dad was in dental school.

I didn’t take Dad’s remorse to mean he had had a failure of etiquette; it wasn’t that Dad had forgotten to send thank you notes or neglected to verbalize his appreciation. No, I believe it went deeper than that.

I believe Dad wished he had gazed deeply into his daddy’s life more often, taking in their lives together in ways neither Dad nor Granddad would allow at the time. Life got intense. Dad worked his way through dental school, set up a new dental practice, labored diligently to be successful, providing for his growing family’s needs. And Granddad lived a full life too.

What likely happened is what happens to many a father and son: I think my dad shook his dad’s hand, maybe at graduation, then waved good-bye as Dad raced to fulfill his role as a dentist with new patients and a father with responsibilities. Now at 91, he’s thinking back more and more to what really matters. And what really matters is the legacy of love we leave those who come behind us. Dad sees how his dad did that, and Dad wishes he had returned the love more often, sharing more meaningful moments with his dad.

For me, knowing my dad’s time won’t go on forever (and the thought of losing your dad, especially when you’ve had a good one, is painful, so we tend to dismiss it) makes me realize that I feel the same way about him as he does his dad, my granddad.

It’s easy to think about the times when we missed it rather than celebrate the moments when we had it.

A man reflected on his relationship with his father. As a child he looked up to his dad as the kind of man who put life’s disasters into perspective, whether it was a broken leg or a broken heart. As an adult, this man went through a series of personal crises that left him devastated. Feeling overwhelmed and helpless, he spent his last $300 on a trip to visit his father in Florida. 

On the last night of his stay, with his personal problems still unresolved and awaiting him, he and his dad stood at the end of a jetty, watching the sun setting into the Gulf of Mexico. In frustration, he turned to his dad and blurted, “You know Dad, if we could take all of the great moments we’ve experienced together in our lifetimes and put them back to back, they wouldn’t last 20 minutes.”

His dad responded with a simple, “Yup.”

It stunned the son. He looked back at the red glow of the sun disappearing on the horizon.

And then the father turned to him, and looking squarely into his son’s eyes, said, “Precious, aren’t they?”

All we can do is take in those daddy moments, precious as each one is, and embrace them, and once those moments have passed into eternity, continue to live them, for they carry within them the legacy daddy left--- and as long as we live the legacy of love in the best way we can---even though daddy’s gone, he’s still here.

What’s your excuse?

George Washington Carver, the botanist and inventor---who as a black man in the Reconstruction era of nineteenth century America had reason upon reason for not succeeding---once observed, “Ninety-nine percent of failures come from people who have the habit of making excuses.”

Carver made a conscious decision not to allow his disadvantages keep him from making positive contributions to life.

I admit, I have to stand guard over myself lest I fall into the excuse-making syndrome. Last week I had some time with my oldest daughter, Mary, while waiting at the airport for her brother to arrive. I was sharing with her some of the things I “needed” to do in a certain area of my life but hadn’t done yet. “Dad, you’ve been talking about that forever,” she said. “You just need to take the advice you’ve given us (her brothers and sister) all these years, set your goals, make plans to achieve them, and then just do it.”

Sometimes we need reminders because it’s easy to drift into a morass of mediocrity in certain areas of our lives.

Mary’s conversation reminded me of something my wife told me me several years ago. “You’ve been talking about writing a book since we’ve been married. I’m going to stay after you until you do it, and I’m not to let up.” (I like living, and her “publish or perish” mandate scared me so much that I published three books, and just to stay on her good side, I’m working on a fourth.)

While I wasn’t as creative in my excuse making as W.C. Fields, who advised, “Always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and furthermore always carry a small snake,” I found that the generalization, “I’ve got so much to do, I don’t have time,” worked just as well.

Recently, Harriet Thompson of Charlotte, NC, became at age 92, the oldest woman to finish a marathon. I looked her up. Thompson has acres of room for excuses not to run, beginning with her age, a 92-year-old woman running 26.2 miles. It took her 7 hours, 7 minutes, and 42 seconds to do it, but by golly she did it. 

She had other reasons not to show up for the race: She is a two-time cancer survivor.

But there’s more: She missed out on training in late 2014 and early 2015 because her husband of 67 years died in January after battling cancer.

That’s not all: While training for this race, she contracted a staph infection in her legs. (She wore white tights under her running shorts to cover open wounds on her legs and had only recently stopped taking morphine and hydrocodone to manage the pain.)

One of the keys to overcoming the excuse-making habit is to have reasons for accomplishing the goal that are stronger than the excuses. Not only has Thompson fought cancer herself, but she also has several friends and family who have battled blood cancers. Since 1999, she has raised about $100,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. On May 31, 2015, the day she set the record as the oldest woman to finish a marathon, she raised $8,000.

“I never try to compete,” she told race organizers. “I just try and make money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.”

So, what’s keeping you from achieving that goal you’ve had on your mind all these years? Start now. Time is on your side if you will only take the first step in the direction of your dream.

Coach Lou Holtz tells about a man who had been thinking about taking up the saxophone. All his life he had yearned to play in a jazz band. But just as he was about to purchase the instrument and take lessons, he balked. When his wife asked him why, he replied, “I’m forty-five. I just realized it will take five years of intense practice before I’m ready to play in public. I’ll be fifty by then.”

You’ve got to love the response his wife gave him: “And how old will you be in five years if you don’t study the saxophone?”

He got the message, bought the sax, and within four years was gigging every weekend in local jazz clubs.

I get the message, too.

And I’m sure you do as well.

Hurry up and wait

I was praying something like this: “Lord, I’m afraid I’m going to be late, and you know, Lord, it’s embarrassing for the preacher to be late for a wedding rehearsal, especially when the preacher’s son is the best man, and he’s waiting on his dad to get there, so Lord, have mercy, and as I drive faster than is legally permissible, would you kindly remove these pesky, slow drivers from my path, and please, please, PLEASE have mercy and don’t let me get stopped by the law, for you know, Lord, I do not have the time or money for a speeding ticket.”

It’s a lame prayer, I admit, certainly not one I’m particularly proud of or likely to submit to “An Anthology of the World’s Most Meaningful Prayers.”

But I was desperate.

Having been gone five days in Oklahoma, where I had presided at the funeral for my father-in-law, I was physically and emotionally drained by the time I arrived back home late the night before I was to be in northern Kentucky the next day for a wedding rehearsal.

Somehow, the day of the rehearsal had gotten away from me. My “to-do” list was shot to pieces before noon. I had too little time for too many chores, and so I had a late start getting on the road.  About a third of the way to the venue for the wedding, with Friday afternoon traffic clogging the two lane, often farm to market roads I was traveling, I realized I was in trouble.

That was when I asked the good Lord to remove all obstacles and just get me to the church, get me to the church on time.

Some days slip away from us.  The unexpected happens, you try to stay on course, but then another curve surprises you, distracting you even more. You do things like forget where you placed your car keys, or wallet, or cell phone. Then you look at the clock, and oh my goodness, you’re an hour behind.

That feeling of being overwhelmed causes your stress level to mount. Your heart rate increases, your breathing quickens, and your muscles tighten.  If allowed to continue for prolonged periods of time, stress can have devastating effects on your health, even if you pray that God will allow you to be an exception to the laws of physiology or the highway.

I was weaving in and out of traffic like Mario Andretti.

Then everything changed, in an instant.

It occurred somewhere in Henry County, Kentucky.

I passed one car, thought I had a stretch of open road to accelerate even more when I careened around a curve and saw a long, flat bed truck hauling hay, one more irksome obstacle on my racetrack to the finish line. I groaned and peered around the truck, looking for a break in the traffic.  

Just before putting on my left turn signal to pass the slow moving albatross in front of me, I saw her.

She was a Hispanic lady, probably in her mid 20s, sitting on top of the hay in the bed of the truck, up close to the cab, her arms crossed, resting on her chest, a couple of friends or co-workers to her side. She was facing me, staring right at me. She cocked her head to the side, like she was curious about something, and then she threw a carefree, siesta smile right in my direction, as if she were saying, “Why are you so intense, sir? Why the grimace on your face? Why that furrowed brow? You look so funny, caught up in whatever it is that’s causing you to rush like a maniac.”

Before I could process it, I had zoomed around the truck.

And then I realized what I had just seen.

Suddenly, I started laughing at my prayer, my dilemma, my crazy driving, my inflated perception of my role in a wedding rehearsal.

Then I stepped off the accelerator, rolled down my car window, breathed in the country fresh air, and shouted, “Take in this moment.”

And it was a beautiful moment.

I noticed the dark, rich soil where tender, young tobacco plants waved at me from the rolling hills that stretched into the clear blue sky above.  And every little town I passed through seemed to invite me to stop and stay awhile, or at least promise to come back and snooze on one of its benches along the town square and let the birds serenade me with their afternoon love songs.

I wanted to turn around, drive back to the flat bed truck and thank the smiling lady.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I took my time, drinking in all that the road offered me, arriving at the rehearsal with plenty of time to spare.

Humorist Will Rogers once observed, “Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life to save.”

“You’re good, Dad, no one around here is in much of a hurry,” Dave said as he hugged me.

“That’s good, Dave, because neither am I,” I responded.

“Not anymore.”

Bloom like an amaryllis

My wife, Lori, and I are not good with houseplants. When she brings home a new plant, I shake my head, knowing the plant’s likely demise. I want to pull it aside and whisper, “I’m so sorry she bought you. I promise I’ll pray for you.”

If plants could muster a police force, they would charge Lori and me with negligent homicide.

So last year, when some well meaning friends gave us an amaryllis for Christmas, I thanked them kindly.

And as soon as they left, I knelt by their gift and offered last rites for it.

Much to my surprise, Lori faithfully watered and cared for the amaryllis. And even more to my surprise, in due time, it blossomed bright red bulbs, a true wonder of nature.

And then we placed it in the garage.

I forgot about it.

Days turned into weeks.

Then, it happened. One day as I was carrying my laptop and books into the house for some evening work, the amaryllis shocked me. I well nigh dropped my armful of work.

That plant had blossomed.

“How did that happen?” I asked myself.

No water; an inconspicuous corner of the garage; no Miracle Grow. But there they were: scarlet red bulbs, grinning at me as if to say, “You can’t keep me down. If you don’t take care of me, I’ll show you and blossom anyway.”

“This amaryllis is the perfect companion to Houseplants for Dummies,” I told Lori.

It had bloomed in an unlikely place.

My amaryllis reminds me of people I know who have been cast into the dark corners of life’s garages and blossomed anyway.

Like Thelma, who is almost 90 years old. She’s been blooming for years, long before I met her. I carefully observed her week after week as she dutifully cared for her husband in the long-term care facility where he spent the last years of his life. Always wearing a smile, she wanted to know about my day and how I was doing.

After her husband’s death, she managed quite well living home alone, until she took a hard fall. Then she was in the same long-term care facility where she had once cared for her husband. Every time I visited her, the same smile was there. “Tell me how you are doing?” she would cheerily ask.

I knew she was in pain.

“How do you keep such a positive attitude?” I asked her.

“You just have to keep on going, doing the best you can, since you can’t determine what happens to you.”

Then down the hall, there’s Mary June, stricken at the age of 49 with a mysterious disease that still has doctors scratching their heads. Confined to her bed, unable to see, she answers my question the same way each week.

“How are you today?”

“Great! I’m doing great.” And she is sincere, though I know she has her moments of doubt and confusion.

I leave humbled, for I am the one who seems to get ministered to when I visit.

There are many such amaryllises in different places. They aren’t hard to find: They stand out amidst the weeds of life, looking beyond themselves to brighten the lives of others, finding the best in whatever circumstance life has dealt them.

They are the ones who choose how they are going to respond to the ugliness of life or simply to the neglect of people who don’t know better. They refuse to let circumstances determine their destiny. They are thermostats, setting their own frame of mind, rather then thermometers, merely reflecting the attitudes and actions of those around them.

Victor Frankl, the neurologist, psychiatrist, and holocaust survivor, wondered why some victims of the concentration camps fought through as best they could while others simply gave up.  He chronicled his experience in the concentration camp in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning. The key to finding meaning in even the most brutal forms of existence might be summarized in his statement: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

People can choose to bloom where they are planted. Or they can choose to whither and die.

I tenderly move my amaryllis to a brighter spot and thank it for its blossoms.

A gardener’s dilemma: should I stay or should I go?

A friend and gardening mentor told me when I first ventured into this labor of love called gardening that this hobby should be relaxing. “If it’s stressful,” he told me, “you’re taking it too seriously.”

His words echo in my ears as I stare at the freshly plowed ground, that chore the courtesy of a friend kind enough to break up the soil for me.

It happens every year: “Can I do this? Do I really want to start with the planting, the cultivating, the weeding?”

You see, my garden can be more fickle than the junior high tease who can’t decide on a boyfriend.

One year I had the juiciest corn I had ever chomped my teeth into; the next year, nary a one was fit to eat. One year my lettuce was green and leafy; the next year it was wilted from the beginning. One year my tomatoes could have been models for seed catalogs; the next year you would have thought they were throwback maters from the Dust Bowl days.

And so I gaze upon my plot of unearthed earth and wonder, “How will she treat me this year?”

The words of the punk rock band, the Clash, ring in my mind:

“Darling you got to let me know

Should I stay or should I go?”

My gardening friends agree that the hardest part of gardening is weeding: It’s constant; it’s continual; it’s consuming.

And I agree with them, mostly.

But, for me the most difficult part is taking the leap of faith to do it, that step into the abyss that is a question mark of IF: If my garden will grow; if it will produce; if it will give back.

Planting requires a step of faith, for without faith, we would never start.

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).

But, the Scriptures also remind us that, “faith without works is dead” (James 2:17).

My friend is right: If gardening becomes stressful, something is out of balance. And some of the labor---like preparing the soil, tilling it, watering it, and weeding it---is evidence of faith in action and not a worrisome or unnerving affair.

So as I stand there at a distance, pondering, I step toward my garden, believing I hear her calling me. How she treats me this growing season has as much to do with me as her. The question of, “Will she produce?” is also a question of, “How much will I invest?”

It’s the law of sowing and reaping: “Whatever a man sows, that will he also reap” (Galatians 6:7)

Sowing and reaping aren’t easy. I’m on my knees when I plant, getting down and dirty, pulling and tugging at weeds as I talk ugly to them, sweating through the whole ordeal, and in the end, I plop down, exhausted.

And relieved of stress.

I saw a picture in a magazine of a middle-aged couple gardening. They are laughing as they kneel in the garden together, clothes apparently freshly laundered, no wrinkles, every hair in place, a perfect picture of pleasantness.

That’s not my experience. Gardening is a messy, dirty work for me. I strain, I sweat, I struggle.

But I also do that when I write a sermon or a column, or invest a part of my life in others.

Like gardening, it’s a messy, uncertain business.

But I cherish it.

For I as I work, I am hoping for something.

The harvest.

It’s there, hidden in the ground, waiting to come forth.

And so, I step into the dirt and begin.