My dad was in his late seventies when my mother died. He lived to be 92. My parents were members of a local church but hadn’t been active in thirty or forty years. My dad lived in Texas and we lived in Kansas at the time of my mother’s death, then a few months later my husband’s job led us to Maryland. Two years after that, same job, we moved into Delaware. Because my dad was alone, and because the love of God moved through compassionate people, every Saturday night someone from the Sunday School class would call him. “Harry, we hope to see you in Sunday School tomorrow.” He went. Every month the Sunday School class had what my dad called an “eating meeting.” My dad loved to eat. He went. He ate. He baked Betty Crocker cakes to take along with him.
He never missed a meeting. Most of the time he drove himself. Sometimes someone would come and pick him up. Sometimes couples from his class would come by to visit and would bring him something to eat. Gumbo. Rum cake. Stewed chicken with rice and gravy. Oatmeal cookies. Fried catfish. Sometimes someone would invite him to go with them when they went out to eat.
I don’t know if my dad was the class “project,” or if God had just brought a group of sixty-seventy-eighty-year-old people together who were unusually kind and sensitive, but those people saved my dad’s life. They loved him when he was in the depth of despair. They gave him something to do, something to look forward to. They offered him their friendship and their time, and in later years, rides to doctor’s appointments. They visited when he was hospitalized. They visited him in rehab. Though he didn’t want to leave his house or those friends who had become family to him, and he certainly didn’t want to leave Texas—“God’s country” —they convinced him that he really did need to move to Delaware to be close to our family since we couldn’t move to Texas to be with him.
When people talk about us, when we are part of “those people,” may we be associated with those who are moved by compassion, by those who put the love of God into action, who will pick up a phone and call a lonely old man, who will invite him along to join them. My dad confessed that he had considered suicide. He had even talked to his pastor about it. If he could just get God’s approval, he would end the pain, but he wasn’t quite sure God would okay his decision. My parents were married 52 years. They had no social life, no outside activities, no friendships, only each other.
When my dad moved to Delaware for his last five years, his friends from his Sunday School class kept in touch. They sent cards, letters, pages of jokes, care packages, recipes, DVDs. They called him. They had so much love.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. Happy Father’s Day, God—and thanks for all those people who pour forth Your love.
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