Mackenzie's Grandpa, my Dad has always been bigger than life to me. There is no one living whose approval I have coveted more, or whose opinion I've valued more highly.
My earliest memories of Dad were of him reading to me. I’d pull a book off the shelf and crawl up in his lap after supper, and he would read until I fell asleep or until I grew tired of it, and wanted to wrestle. To this day I love reading, though I have never been a fast reader, I attribute my love for literature to those early nights on my fathers lap listening to him read me to sleep.
Growing up I never remember a time when I wasn’t proud of dad. In 1967, I was in first grade and we lived in Richardson, Texas. Dad was a project manager at Texas Instruments for a research and design team. Nelson Tubbs, a boy I remember as being irritating, lived across the street from us. Nelson derived a great amount of pleasure from standing on the sidewalk in front of his home, yelling across the street at me, “My daddy works at T.I.!”
To which I’d reply, “Well, my daddy works at T.I. too, and he’s your daddy’s boss!”
A statement that to this day I’m not sure was true, but I wanted it to be.
In my senior year at Russellville High School, I wrote a poem about “the plain man” who was my hero, I was still amazed and in awe of him, he made everything he did look so simple. He lived a consistently circumspect life that won the admiration and respect of all who knew him. He lived for his God by living for his fellow man, whether it was a student, or a widowed neighbor, a colleague or a hitch-hiker. He blessed others and was blessed himself. He balanced frugality and generosity with nimble dexterity, and never forgot that all gifts come from our Heavenly Father. He lived a life that was filled with Joy regardless of the circumstances. He understood the value of work. When I was a teenager, a man from the church needed his peas picked and offered dad half of all the peas we could pick. I remember dad “letting” us kids pick purple hull peas in “Uncle” Sam Cochran’s pea patch near Hickytown, Arkansas to help this man out, and reduce the cost of feeding the three of us. Dad kept a garden and always planted lots of weeds so we’d have something to do when we were bored in the summer. There was no sympathy where work was concerned, it was a gift and being able to work was a privilege.
Once, after I was grown and on my own, I called and told him, “Pop, they have me working six 12 hour days in a row before I get a day off!”
“Last time I checked,” he answered drolly, “twelve hours is only a half a day.”
Then he chuckled and told me to be thankful for work.
He remained interested in my welfare through the years, never missing a chance to inquire as to how I was doing when we talked on the phone. When I would begin to answer, he'd interrupt and say, "That’s nice, but how are you doing 'spiritually'?"
During a period of national recession around 1990, I spent the greater part of a year unemployed, and looking for work. I’d used all my savings to keep my mortgage paid and then slowly maxed out each of my credit cards trying to float till I could find work. It seemed I was either under or over qualified for everything. I called Dad one day just to unload, and secretly hoping that he might offer a handout to tide me over till I was solvent. “Pop, I’m not sure what I am going to do,” I told him, “I have sold everything that I can afford to do without, but the bills don’t stop.”
“Son,” my dad said knowingly to me, “it’s instinctive for a father to want to help his son, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to write you out a check and help you out of this mess, but son, I’ve been praying for you. I’ve been praying that whatever it takes for God to get through to you, whatever it takes for you to get closer to Him, that whatever it takes, He’d do it. So as much as I’d like to help you out, I’m afraid that if I did, I might be getting in God’s way on something I asked Him to do. You’ll get through this, and you’ll be stronger, just remember that your source isn’t money, or a job, or your old dad. Jesus is your source, and He’s waiting for you.”
I did come through that episode stronger, and with a renewed realization of God’s power. Ever after that time, whenever things have been the least bit rough I’ve called dad to jokingly remind him that it’s OK; I know Jesus is my source, so he can stop praying.
When Michelle and I were married Dad was thrilled. He had told me after I’d introduced them that he liked her. “She’s beautiful, AND a conservative! You’d better hold onto her!” he’d advised. And it was Dad, who first advised four years ago, after our daughter Mackenzie went to heaven, “Comfort Michelle, love her like Christ loved the church, find a reason to rejoice, don’t let your loss defeat you.” Over the past four years God’s been teaching me what Dad meant. Joy is a choice. Because there is Jesus, there is always a reason to rejoice. I miss you Pop, but I am rejoicing that you’ve got your reward, I am rejoicing that you are with Christ, reunited with your Dad and Mom, together with my sister, Willena, and your grand-daughter Mackenzie. Thanks dad, for never compromising, for always being an example, and for never giving up on us. Look back here Pop, over your shoulder. We’re running to meet you, and in a little while, in a blink,- we will be together again,- forever.
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