1149 The Father's Day Card

On May 18, 2002 I was at the Columbus Museum of Art waiting for an exhibit guide, and selected a Father's Day card for my Dad at the gift shop. When I got home that afternoon, I learned he'd died about the time I was selecting it. Here's part of the essay I wrote about that, and the pastor included it in his memorial service.

"Picking out appropriate cards for a no nonsense, tough old bird like my Dad was never easy--he didn't golf, or fish, was never gushy or lovey dovey, didn't do any of the stuff that Hallmark Dads did year after year in muted masculine colors. But this card, without giving credit, superimposed a Bible passage over a newspaper stock report, "spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge." I recognize that this passage refers to the Spirit of the Lord resting on the shoot from the stem of Jesse in Isaiah 11 because it is repeated in baptism in the Lutheran service. Still, it seemed to fit--particularly since I saw him many times pouring over the newspaper business section or working cross word puzzles. The words and art. I thought, I'll take it along to Illinois and slip it into the casket.

Most of us are "adult children" of our parents for many more years than we are "minor children," therefore it is never too late to be a good parent, or a grateful child. As a child I yearned for a dad that would give me a hug or attend my school functions or praise me for good grades (although I don't think I knew any fathers like that). Although I noticed he worked 12 hour days, visited his parents every Sunday, never missed church, and treated my mother with respect and love, it doesn't mean a whole lot when you are a typical, self-centered, moody adolescent. As an adult, it gives you strength and comfort.

It never occurred to me in the 1950s that he probably didn't enjoy driving a car-load of screaming teen-age girls to the White Pines roller rink on his only day off, or that he didn't have to let me pasture a horse in our back yard (which he personally road home from the farm where I purchased him to be sure he was safe). And having my mother be the primary parent means I still remember the occasional ice cream treats he'd bring home, or that he would drive us 40 miles to see a movie in Rockford once in awhile.

But the memory that brings the tears is Dad with my sister Carol: first, carrying her out of our quarantined house to be admitted to the hospital for polio 53 years ago, and then standing beside her hospital bed to support her own children as the life support was removed after a stroke many years later.

No, it is never too late to be a good parent or a grateful child.