Dad’s birthday

My father was born on June 11, 1925. He passed away in July of 2000. I miss him more now than ever. As I delve into deeper theology and go behind him studying the same things that he studied, I long to talk to him, ask him questions, sit as his feet learning about the Kingdom of God.

When Dad’s health first began to decline, I wrote a poetic essay about him. I think it must have been around 1990. I was in my early 30s at the time. So here is a glimpse into our history.

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The angels whispered

Well-meaning family members suggest we, my husband and I, get out from under the burden of caring for our large home and 25 acres. Sometimes I think that we should sell our place, move into to town and lead a “normal” life.  I could spend my free time pursuing a career and in the evenings we could “do the town.”  But such thoughts occur during the climes of January, that demoralizing, heartless month that only knows the color grey.  Don’t we all tend to lose our minds at that time?

The very moment spring breaks, all insanity vanishes.  I touch and smell the earth once more and feel content.  Trekking through the woods and fields, I celebrate the reappearing of the wild roses and the blackberry blossoms.  I observe as the honeysuckle, heavy with nectar, tips its bloom to pour the drink for the bees who have joined her for afternoon tea.  Each month, each week, brings a new feast for the senses as different wild flowers emerge.  Though I didn’t plant these, I consider them part of my garden, as much mine as the vegetables, flow­ers, and herbs that I cultivate each year.  Once, my young daughter ac­companied me on one of my walks picking up rocks for her collection.  When I wouldn’t allow her to take them all (there were hundreds, big ones, too), she resolved the problem by reasoning, “This whole place will be my rock collection!”  Well, this whole place is my garden!

Gardening is a passion that comes from somewhere deep inside.  How can you explain that to someone who lacks that passion?  I could sell the house – it’s just a house (even though we did build it ourselves, and it is almost a part of us).  But I couldn’t sell the land; it’s alive – it’s my friend.

As I hoe and plant, the horses stand by curiously watching.  They playfully shake the dirt off a clump of weeds that I happen to toss over the fence.  Every morning with coffee cup in hand and dog tripping along beside, I make my rounds inspecting each new seedling that breaks through the soil and each new blossom that has opened.  Later in the season there are apples to pick for my breakfast.  Then I take baskets and harvest the reds, the greens, the yellows, the purples, and the oranges of the vegetable garden.  No artist could paint a lovelier picture.  And finally, overcome with a peaceful fatigue, my husband and I sit on the porch, lulled by the creak of the swing and intoxicated by the fragrance of the four-o’clocks, the moonflowers, and the nicotiana as it wafts on the humid night air.

 Last spring seemed to be especially lovely.  One particular day while carrying on daily gardening chores, I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the day.  As I looked up and gazed about me I noticed that every­thing was more brilliant than I’d ever seen – the sky was more blue, the clouds more billowy, the breeze more balmy, and the colors more vi­brant.

To appreciate the day more fully, I took a break from hoeing and strolled down the lane to collect the mail.  On my re­turn up the lane I was again struck with the beauty before me.  The hay fields on either side of me were gently waving in the breeze.  The lime-green of the blades contrasted superbly with the blue of the sky and the white of the clouds which were absolutely luminous.  And there, a few yards ahead, for accent, was a dash of red from a quaint bird-feeder.  Could this be what the next world will be like, I wondered?  If not this “earthy,” at least characterized by this feeling.  And oh what feeling!  I had the overwhelming sensation that I could fly!

As if by impulse I spread my arms, lifted my head and looked straight up into the heavens.  Oh the vastness of it!  I know that I caught a glimpse of eternity.  I told God right then and there that I would make it to heaven, no matter what the cost.  If this was a fore­taste of things to come I wanted more.  Eternity was planted in my heart that day and with it a determination to make the journey back into “the Garden of Eden.”  I had seen enough beauty that day even if I never saw another moment of loveliness, or if a tornado flattened our home tomorrow, or whatever may be – the memory of that one day alone would spur me on.  (Of course I never did really fly, but my mind soared).

My father visited me often that spring and summer.  Two significant things had taken place in his life that year:  he had completed his au­tobiography and his health had declined.  He was having spells periodi­cally which rendered him semi-conscious for a few seconds.  The doctor called them mini-strokes.  For a few weeks, whether a result of the mini-strokes or not we don’t know, my father was in a state of eupho­ria, often describing his prevailing emotion as one of contentment.  “Everything looks so beautiful,” he’d tell me, “as if I’m looking at things for the first time.”  The most beautiful spring and summer he could remember seeing, rivaling the blissful days of his boyhood, he would continue saying.  “Oh, I know we need rain and there is disease and decay dispersed throughout the landscape,”  he’d say, “but all I see is the loveliness.  It is as if I have one foot in another world.  I feel like I could fly.”

Quickly I wrote Dad a note (he had lost his hearing sometime back), “Dad, I have the same feelings exactly.”  But to elaborate I couldn’t.  It was too personal and defied description.  (Perhaps that is why I feel the need to put it in words now).

Dad would make the rounds with me admiring each flower and each vegetable.  When we came upon the bed of cockscomb (they had huge, brilliant red flower heads which I grew to cut and dry but hadn’t the heart to cut them; they had nearly all gone to seed when I finally did), he would say “Oh, aren’t those just lovely?  My mom used to grow those.  You know, she really had an artistic eye.”  My thoughts would immediately jump ahead to a time when Dad would no longer be with us.  Who would share my love of flowers then?  No one understands as in­tensely as Dad.  I couldn’t bear the thought.

Dad said more than once he believed that would be his last sum­mer.  Can people know those things?  They say that many people are more peaceful just before death.  I do know that something had taken place in his being, a result of the mini-strokes I suppose, an emotional brain surgery, if you will, erasing not the unpleasant memories them­selves but severing from them the hurt and anger that had so plagued him throughout his lifetime.  And perhaps the writing of his autobiography was a kind of therapy allowing Dad to sort out his feelings and finalize his thoughts.

Could it be that Dad and I had had similar feelings in experiencing the beauty of nature because heaven actually was nearer?  Perhaps the angels were descending to the earth preparing to harvest one of their own, one that had been pruned often and hard over the years and ten­derly nurtured; one who had blossomed and was at last bearing a bumper crop of fruit just on the verge of ripening.

It was a bitter-sweet message whispered by angels and borne on the breezes that summer.  Nothing could shield my heart from the wind that echoed the refrain.  It showed no mercy as it blew through the crevices of my mind till finally the reality of it penetrated deep within – where it hurts.

For my sake I hope they will leave Dad here a little longer.  But I know where he is going.  I’m going, too – I am resolved.

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These are for you Dad (though I know these cannot compare to heaven’s beauty)
Spring of 2023