Judging a Father by His Shadow

Dad, can you believe it? It doesn’t seem like it’s been 26 years since you went away. I remember it like it was yesterday. In fact, it will be 26 years exactly on June 18. We had your celebration service on the day before Father’s Day, June 18, 1994. June 18 would also have been your 81st birthday. It was an awesome service. There was a lot of singing and laughter, just like you would have wanted. David (the son you and mom always liked best) and I told some Ray Babb stories and the people loved them. They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So they did both. Sometimes they laughed so hard they cried. I think they missed you as much as we did.

We had three preachers on the program and two at the graveside service. I’m sure having that many long-winded Baptist preachers on the program probably scared a few people but, thank goodness, this time they were all short . . . and they didn’t speak very long either. With you being a veteran of World War II one of the preachers  played “TAPS” on his trumpet at the graveside. That was especially moving. You would have loved it. Mom did okay over the next few years. You know how strong she was. She thought of you every day until she died in January of 2000.

It is Father’s Day, 2020. I still think of you. How could I not? We had some great times together. I can remember the vacations to Colorado in the summertime to visit mom’s family. Colorado is still my favorite place. I remember mom taking pictures of everything. The pictures of you coming out of every bathroom between Little Rock, Arkansas and Denver, Colorado were always my favorites.

I also remember an incident at Little League baseball practice. You were coaching third base and I hit a line drive foul down the third baseline. You caught it barehanded. That was impressive. But then you and your generation spent a lifetime catching the hard drives life sent your way. You survived the Great Depression, World War II, two pesky boys, and several surgeries. The last one finally got the best of you.

After you left, mom put together a scrapbook, three binder notebooks full, of stuff from my birth to your celebration service. (She also did one for your other son but I’m sure mine is better.) It is phenomenal. It’s not just pictures. It’s clippings from several newspapers, and anything with my name on it from birth all the way to my last church. It even has school work and letters I wrote all those years growing up.

She kept a diary on many of the days during that time. Here is an entry she wrote to me, dated September 15, 1952, two days after I was born:

You and I have received a lot of plants and flowers, but today the most special of all came – it was from your Daddy. There was one red rose in the bouquet – the most beautiful rose I have ever seen. He wrote on the card, “Thanks for a job well done. I love you.” I will save that card along with all the others that are coming in to put in your baby book. I hope I can save the rose and maybe dry it so I can keep it. Some day when you are a grown man, you may enjoy seeing it, and it will remind you of what a great, loving, and thoughtful father you have. I am so fortunate to have him as my very own, and because of him I now have two precious little boys that I hope will turn out to be just like their Daddy.

Well, Dad. I found that rose in my scrapbook. The petals are faded and cracked, but not the memory of what it represents. It reminds me that you loved your family very much and you