“(The Spirit) will glorify me, because
(she) will take what is mine and declare it to you.” (John 16:14)
I paged through the sheaves of old
documents, some yellowed with age. They were on flimsy paper, the type of which
I was unfamiliar. Rice paper, maybe? There was an embossed letter of
commendation and thanks for military service with the signature of Harry Truman
at the bottom. I’m surprised my dad kept it, good Republican that he was. He hated Harry Truman. I guess he just
loved being a veteran. There were glossy “negative” Photostats of his DD-214
army discharge papers. And then there was this frail sheet, all folded up,
declaring he was to be awarded the Bronze Star.
Say what..? The Bronze Star? Isn’t that a
pretty prestigious decoration? What did the Old Man do to win the Bronze Star?
And why had he never claimed the medal?[i]
I was looking through this old stuff he’d
kept in preparation for preaching his eulogy. I found I had a lot of questions
I’d never thought to ask him. Now I would never have the chance.
I guess that’s always the way with
fathers. We may see them every day, but do we really know them? My dad was this
guy who went to work every day, came home, took a nap until dinner time, read
his Louis L’Amour western novels, hung out with a bunch of other old guys at
the Bob’s Big Boy Coffee Shop, drank coffee, watched sports, and sang in the
church choir. He read his Bible, made up goofy songs, argued with my mother,
and made Welshcakes at Christmastime.
I can say I know things about my dad, but I wonder if I ever
really knew him. Does anyone ever
really know anyone else? Yet now, after he’s been gone over a quarter of a
century, I feel at times that I’m turning into him. I catch myself saying
things he would’ve said. I get irritated by the things that irritated him. I
enjoy the things he enjoyed. And, on Sundays, I sometimes sing a hymn I
remember him singing, and I hear his wonderful tenor voice once again.
My dad is absent. Yet he is also
present—in a way, more present—than
when he was with me. People complain about absent fathers, but I think every
dad has to be just a little bit absent. Yes, there are those male progenitors
who abandon their young and all responsibility they have toward them. In fact,
I’m currently preparing the funeral for a thirty-two-year-old man who was
abandoned by his deadbeat dad. The son just died of a heroin overdose. But I
also consider my own father, who never knew his dad at all. My grandfather died
in the Great Influenza epidemic in 1918 when my dad was only two months old. Nevertheless,
my grandfather’s culture was a deep part of my father’s personality. The absent
father was, in a way, present.
I consider, also, how much of my dad’s
life was spent going out into the world. After I graduated from college, he
invited me to accompany him on a day at his job. I’m not sure what he really
wanted me to see or learn from the experience, but now I realize how much of
his life was lived outside the home, absent, away. Dads have to be gone at
least part of the time in order to be who they are.
On the Feast of the Holy Trinity, we hear
Jesus’ “farewell discourse” from John’s Gospel. He’s explaining why he must
leave his beloved family of disciples. In verse 6 he declares that sorrow has
filled their hearts at the thought of his departure. And yet, he tells them he
must go for their own good. He must go so that he can come again through the
Holy Spirit so that he will be with them just as the Father is with him.
And they don’t understand. He says as
much: “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. (v. 12)”
And it’s alright if they’re confused and bewildered at the moment. It’s okay
that they don’t understand the mystery of God. None of us do.
But, as with my own dad, I recognize now
that understanding is not always necessary. Love is there regardless.
God’s peace be with you this week. Please
come again.
[i]
Many years later I would discover that this decoration was devised during World War II to honor infantrymen
for bravery or success in dangerous missions. Because of the severe weather and
combat conditions in the European campaign in the late winter of 1944,
President Truman declared that all who served in combat and qualified for the
Combat Infantry Badge in that theater of operations would receive this special
decoration. My father had already been discharged by the time the presidential order was given. Like my
father-in-law (who parachuted into the Bulge) and many, many others who served in WW II, Dad never
asked to receive the medal. He just wanted to put the war behind him, believing
that the true heroes were still in Europe, lying beneath wooden crosses. They
didn’t call these guys The Greatest Generation for nothing.
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