Frederick Buechner wrote about the loss of his father to suicide in his book, “The Sacred Journey.” He tells of how it was that moment that changed his life forever. He writes:
“For Adam and Eve, time started with their expulsion from the garden. For me, it started with the opening of a door. For all the sons and daughters of Eve, it starts at whatever moment it is at which the unthinking and timeless innocence of childhood ends, which may be either a dramatic moment, as it was for me, or a moment or series of moments so subtle and undramatic that we scarcely recognize them.”
Next month, it will be the 20th anniversary of the day my life changed.
I was not a child then unless you count 37 as the new 10. But, certainly, the death of my father changed my life forever.
Before December 2006, life seemed innocent somehow…hopeful. It’s not that I had not felt heartache or pain, but it was just that his presence always seemed to ground me. He was an anchor that enabled me to weather every storm I had faced, including the ones I, myself, caused.
My memories of my father are now both vivid and hazy.
My earliest memories involve early morning wrestling, where I would pretend to be asleep and he would rub his scruffy face against mine and call it “the woolybooger.” For a child who always felt a little like a misfit, these moments of feeling special and treasured were like a balm for my soul. I would giggle. He would laugh. And the day would begin.
I remember sitting next to my father in the living room and, randomly, he would reach his hand towards me.
“Buddies?” he would ask in invitation.
I would place my hand in his and answer, “Buddies” and there was a finality to it that all true covenants have.
My dad would tuck me in at night and tell me “Little Harry” stories about his years growing up during the Great Depression on Hackney Ridge.
There were adventures of him and his dog, Teddy, and how my dad would run everywhere and how Teddy was the best listener he ever knew. Tales of being sprayed by a skunk and getting sent home from the one-room schoolhouse because of the aroma.
As I grew older, his presence was even more pronounced. My mornings began with his steady voice. He would take me to breakfast and pretend his standard shift Subaru was a race car, making the noises of a revving engine as he shifted gears.
Throughout my life, it was my father who was always there. When I felt welcome nowhere else, he let me know I was welcome with him. Entering his office was always met with a “Hey, big man!” and a big grin that opened the door for laughter and connection.
And I don’t think this was limited to me. This is how he made most people feel, as if they were the most important person in the room when they were with him.
I felt like a king when going places with him, like the local hardware store or car dealership, as it seemed like everyone in southeastern Ohio knew my dad and, by extension, knew me.
During my childhood, my dad was my rock. The strong, steady presence all kids need, whether they know it or not. He was the foundation from which my own character and faith was born.
After I left home, my dad became a safety net; the place I knew I could always go back to, no matter what life brought me. This brings me both joy and shame, as I know how much I took advantage of that in all the wrong ways.
But in the midst of all of it; the awkward childhood, the teen years, the rebellious and shameful times in young adulthood followed by the redemption that came from learning to receive the gift of grace…..through all of it, my father stayed. Not just physically, but with a “presence” that made everything seem okay.
And then it wasn’t.
I remember a family meeting at the doctor’s office. All of us were there and listened to the oncologist describe the details of the battle my dad was now facing. I can recall listening intently, but not fully understanding what she was telling us. So much so that, afterwards, I innocently asked her what my dad’s prognosis was. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise and she paused…..incredulous.
And when she spoke, my universe trembled. I only remember one phrase; “He has stage four cancer.”
From there, everything is a little blurry.
I was living in Florida then, a thousand miles from my dad. For me, the sporadic trips meant that his decline seemed increasingly pronounced every time I visited. It is almost indescribable to explain what it was like for me to watch him wither. To see him go from a 5’8” giant to a whisper of himself was an agony that leaves a scar to this very day. I know I felt deeply sad, maddeningly helpless, and even a little angry, all at the same time.
I watched as this larger-than-life man struggled to offer himself the way he always had. It was taxing for him to cook us dinner, though he tried. I grieved to watch him struggle to find the joy that had always come so effortlessly. And I remember feeling a mix of frustration that he was not himself while also knowing I was powerless to rescue him.
Losing him felt like losing myself.
But then, at the very end, my hero returned.
He was in a nursing home, under the pretense of preparing to go home. It was my last day in Ohio before I was to return to Florida and I sat at the foot of his bed, my toddler son playing on the floor at my feet. My dad and I talked of things that had been and things to come. There was still hope there….still the sense that he would be home soon and all would be well. We spoke of family, and love, and faith.
I don’t know why, but I suddenly blurted out, “Dad, do you think you’re dying?”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t look surprised by the question (even though I was). He smiled that same smile that had awakened me every morning, the same grin that welcomed me into his office, and said, “Well, I have mixed feelings about that.” And as his grin widened he added, “But, if I am…..I believe everything I’ve ever preached is true.”
And those are the last words I remember hearing from my dad.
Within a week, my rock…..my buddy….my safety net……was gone.
And life has never quite been the same.
Though I was almost forty, Buechner was right. This was the moment “at which the unthinking and timeless innocence of childhood ends….”
After that….heaven seemed more real while life seemed a bit harder.
It has almost been twenty years, but I still hear his voice.
When ministry has gotten difficult, I hear him assure me that “at least they haven’t crucified you yet.”
When I feel lonely or sad, I remember the covenant and sometimes ask aloud, “Buddies?”
And when my faith falters under the weight of life, I rest in the last words my father ever spoke to me.
It’s true that twenty years later, life is different without him around. I wish my wife and kids could have known him longer, that my daughter would have known him at all. I wish he were here so I could pick up the phone when life gets hard.
I long to talk to him about becoming a grandfather, and what that was like for him. I regret that the “little Harry” stories are fading from my memory. What I wouldn’t give to know his thoughts on the man I’ve become.
But although he is gone, his presence in my heart is as strong as it ever was.
And as I approach my sixth decade on this planet, I think more and more about what it will be like to see him again…..what it will feel like to walk through those gates and to see that grin, and to hear those words, “Hey, big man” and know that I’m home.
