Remembering Dad

A fun day when I was about two, and one of the few
photos I have of my dad from childhood.

Today would have been my Dad's 98th birthday. I write in honor of him.

I came to the living room that morning to find my dad already in his favorite recliner, an open book in his lap. “What are you reading?” I asked.  "I’m crying with Job,” he replied.  He didn’t need to say any more. I knew the book wrestled with why good people suffer. He hadn’t experienced the catastrophic losses of Job, but his heart was deeply wounded.  He’d been let go of his long-time job just short of retirement.  Then his bride of more than three decades lost a long, savings-depleting battle with cancer. Both his daughters had grown and left home. Then I, the still-single one, returned briefly when his grief of losing his wife was the freshest. I’m glad I had that memory to tuck away in my heart, because six months later he died of a heart attack, age 63.

That memory is one reason why I read Job with different eyes. Unlike the Old Testament's Job, my dad wasn't what our culture would call wealthy. He worked in a paper mill and scrimped to pay off a three-bedroom house. He helped his two daughters finish college debt-free. Later, he and my mother took some no-frills dream vacations overseas. But back home, he did his own yard work and home repair. They made sure church and missions giving were part of their budget. Quietly, they served others, particularly widows needing a helping hand.

But there were gaps in that hedge of protection of humble living. They included Mom’s severe asthma and a pile of other health problems, ending with cancer.  Dad’s heart attacks, starting in his fifties. My “down times” with rheumatic fever. Closer to his heart, his own siblings who wanted no part of his faith. Though he didn’t have the answers to hardship, he lived out Job’s perspective: “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” (Job 2:10).

I’m sad that he died alone in a hospital. I was halfway across the nation at graduate school.  My sister was on the other side of the state. Yet, knowing his faith in Christ, I believe he met death with the hope that Job expressed: “I know that my Redeemer lives…After my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God…How my heart yearns within me!” (Job 19:25-27).

Especially on his birthday and Father’s Day, I think of Dad. I have now lived longer than he did.  But on those “remembering” days, I am a little girl again, sitting in his lap as we rocked together in his favorite platform rocker.  He’d open the book I’d brought him and read to me. I’d lean into his chest, feeling secure and loved. Sometimes he’d complain, “Hey, those elbows are sharp.  You need some meat on your bones.”

Years later, as a young adult elbowing her way through job and roommate challenges, I wasn’t above complaining to Dad. But in the process, I learned something better: praying for those who I felt didn’t treat me right.  That’s exactly what Job did (42:8, 10).

 

Unlike Job, my dad didn’t live to see four generations, just two grandchildren through my sister. But I still live with the legacy of a man who sought after God’s heart.  When life was hard, he weathered it—as Job did--with trust in God’s inscrutable ways. Those are the memories worth treasuring, and learning from.