When my dad was a kid, he said his parents would take to Sunday school every week at First Presbyterian Galveston. I guess that was fitting since his grandfather was a Presbyterian minister in Canada. We actually drove by that church recently and he showed me where it was and talked about everything he learned there. I never perceived my Dad to have a super religious background or upbringing. But I’ve come to see how God works through so many unassuming ways to seek us out.
The Apostle Paul said to Timothy before he died, “fan into flame the faith that first lived in your mother.” That’s where my story of faith began, August 2nd 1972, Saint John the Divine, Houston, TX. I don’t remember that day. But I know God does. I know my mom does. She brought me to her favorite pastor. They lit that baptismal candle as water was poured over me.
Many years later my sister Jenni challenged my dad to read the Bible. I have heard him recall that story dozens of times. I can see him in his honest scientist way remarking, “Ok God, let’s see what You have to say about the universe!?!!” Jenni’s challenge set a spark that lit into a flame. Or perhaps a wildfire at times. 🙂 I went through Dad’s office recently and found not one, not two, not three, but four Bibles. And I’m sure if I kept looking I’d find more. Of course he marked in them when he got them and put his name on the first page.
My prompting came about the same time playing soccer in Richardson. My Catholic soccer buddies were going through the sacrament of confirmation. I was probably playing basketball at All Saints with Nick Peffley or Joe Roy when my little brain thought, “Hey, what’s up with God and the church?” I didn’t go to church. I didn’t know much about Jesus. But I knew where to go with that question: My mom. “Hey mom, can we go to church?” Sure! And off we went to Christ Episcopal Plano, a little church plant that met at Carpenter Middle School. Mass was informal and brief. I thought, “ok, this is cool, what’s next?”
For Dad he clearly kept reading and taking to people. He joined a Bible study near where he worked at Cornell. I thumbed through his personal NIV Study Bible from that time. There’s fingerprints and highlighted, color coded passages from end-to-end and a binding that is barely holding on. How amazing is it that I was reading it for the first time as a freshman at TCU at the same time as Dad and I didn’t even know it. The Holy Spirit had a lot of work to do on me and my relationship with Dad at the time.
Perhaps Dad are both late bloomers in some respects. After watching my buddies in Junior High it took me over three decades to finally come forward to seek out the sacrament of confirmation at Saint Francis Assisi in Grapevine, TX. Guess who I called first about that? Yep, my dad. We read, we talked, we walked. Dad is a great storyteller. And He knows he got it from the Ultimate Storyteller. God is the Author and Hero and Narrator of the greatest story ever told as He save souls, broadcasts His glory, and of course, defeats the Devil and death itself. There was no end to the time and attention my dad gave me. He went with me to the meetings. He read every word I wrote and listened to every question I had. His eyes would light up as we talked through the catechism and all the references to the scriptures and church fathers. When I was confirmed November 24, 2018 at Saint Francis guess who was in the front row smiling as I affirmed my own faith in the words of the Apostles Creed? My dad! We went out for a special meal afterwards with my buddy Daniel.
A little while later my son Sam and I took him to Galveston for a bucket list trip. We went to the house he grew up in. We went to his high school, the Ball High Tornadoes! The coach had a picture of my dad’s team on his desk. We went to the house he grew up in. We went to his dad’s personal library collected at UTMB. I miked him up and he told stories from our arrival Houston Hobby airport and back. He laughed as Sam and his cousin Sarah drove our Mini Cooper rental illegally on the beach. He smiled as my sister Lydia and I took pictures on the boardwalk. As the trip was coming to a close he gave me a blessing that I’ll never forget. He looked at me and tilted his head and said, “boy, pal…you got a lots of chutzpah!” I, of course, had to look it up. It means, “bold, assertive, or daring, saying what you think without worrying about consequences.” I know I got that character quality from my mom. And I was so proud to bless my dad in that way.
We planned our next bucket list trip to Franklin Indiana where his father served at Camp Atterbury at the Wakeman Hospital during World War II. We saw the museum and the amazing work my grandfather did to save the lives of so many soldiers. And he talked the ears off of everyone there. We went to the Notre Dame. He talked about all the Rice football games he went to with his Dad. And then it hit me…my dad’s legacy is his love for his dad and his mom. Thats the love of the Father that has come down to us. And that love was conveyed through his stories!
The last book I read with Dad as he lay in the hospital was the latest version of the book of Common Prayer. It says, “The burial of a Christian is an occasion of both sorrow and joy—our sorrow in the face of death, and our joy in Jesus’ promise of the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. As the liturgy proclaims, ‘life is changed, not ended; and when our mortal body lies in death, there is prepared for us a dwelling place eternal in the heavens.’ The Christian burial liturgy looks forward to eternal life rather than backward to past events. It does not primarily focus on the achievements or failures of the deceased; rather, it calls us to proclaim the Good News of Jesus and his triumph over death, even as we celebrate the life and witness of the deceased.”
My dad signed his copy of that book and I’ll gift that to my kids. I can only hope to pass on the flame of the faith that lived first in my mother. I can only hope to “fan into flame” a faith that has never burned brighter than when I’ve been with my dad.
When I first read his obituary I wanted what my dad always wanted, a little spice on top. I wanted to fan it into flame. I asked my wife Shawna to join me and we drove to the coffee shop and I tapped out on my phone the first words that came to mind: “the son of a war hero and pioneer in healthcare.” My dad was so proud of his dad and mom. My Dad is a great storyteller and a great story deserves a great opening line.
My dad taught me that “you can’t change people but people do change.” I didn’t always have a great relationship with my dad. And God knows I was not a great son to him for many years. But God wasn’t done with my story, his story, or our story. Better late than never.
I wasn’t ready for my dad’s departure, not even close. One of my oldest memories with him was at Half Moon Bay in California riding horseback on the beach, eating pizza at a restaurant along with coastal highway and a chance meeting with Joe DiMaggio. My last memory was with him was as he lay asleep in the hope of the resurrection before they came to take him away at the hospital. As I knelt by his bedside I said to him a blessing that he and I learned together during my confirmation.
Go forth, Christian soul, from this world
in the name of God the almighty Father,
who created you, in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, who suffered for you, in the name of the Holy Spirit, who was poured out upon you, go forth, faithful Christian.
May you live in peace this day, may your home be with God in Zion, with Mary, the Virgin Mother of God, with Joseph, and all the Angels and Saints.
Thank you Dad. I love you Dad. I miss you! I will see you soon!