Pictures of my father

My father died last night,  after ninety years of life.  I will miss him,  but I will always carry pieces of him deep inside me.  It was not until his death,  that I realized what some of those pieces were. 

Five months ago on his ninetieth birthday,  my sister sent me a computer file of pictures of my father to incorporate into a slide show.  A few months later  I realized I had missed several folders of those files,  including pictures of his college and army years. 

It was an eye-opener. Dad was thirty when I was born.  Mostly I remembered him as a grey-haired and serious; world-weary and strong; honest, quiet, and upright.  I never saw him young until I looked through those pictures. 

They revealed a different side of my father--a goofy looking kid standing next to his uncle in worn, sepia photo, polishing a college car with his schoolmates,  and making hee-haw faces.  slouching outside a tent in World-War II next to his mess mates, looking young and small next to his bigger buddies,  looking like he had just stepped off the tractor--which he had.

There was one picture that particularly caught my eye. He was in his uniform,  arm on his knee, staring off into the distance, smiling confidently.  There was something arresting about his smile. He looked as though he was getting ready to take over the world--a strong, confident smile on his lips,  his low-lidded eyes staring off into the distance like a mariner about to sail around the world, full of hopes and dreams.  It was then I realized how much like my father I was s at that age, loaded with dreams, curiosity, and hope.

Dad served in the war, but he never saw combat.  He was training troops in Europe as a prelude to D-Day when he stepped on a stray bazooka shell, leaving him with shrapnel in his legs for the rest of his life, and two years  of his life spent in a hospital in England.  At one point they wanted to cut off his legs, but he fought back and went on to live a full, non-handicapped life. 

Dad came home to Hartwell Georgia, where he won the heart of the prettiest girl in town, his wife of sixty-three years.  They had two children, Debbie, and of course myself, Junior.  He gave us a stable home, paying our way through college, and providing us with  the best life we could ever want,  with great effort and expense.   Then,  when we got married and had children,  he lived in committed passion for his wife, his children, and his grandchildren. He was happiest when he was with us. He was saddest when any one of us had the least bit of trouble.  He lived his life for us, and we loved him for it. 

But these old pictures revealed something more,  particularly in that picture of him staring off into the distance. 

All his life, I believe Dad  wanted more.  He had the mind of a thinker, the heart of an explorer, the passion of a painter, and the soul of a hero.  He was a quiet,  powerful man, living an unnoticed life of quiet bravery.  But he wanted something more, for himself and his family.

Dad was a sharecroppers son, the first of his family to  go to college.  He  become a textile engineer.  Then,  taking an opportunity for advancement, he left Hartwell for a succession of better jobs--first in Williamston SC, then in Knoxville, Nashville,  Memphis, Birmingham, and Atlanta.  He went into the insurance business, then into sales, and finally in sales management. 

We hated moving. Being uprooted hurts, but it made us, in many ways. It helped us to see that following our dreams meant sacrificing our comfort for something else.  He taught us not to settle for the ordinary, but to look higher and better. He taught us by showing us.   

Dad was not a teacher. We learned by watching him and what he did.  He did not teach us much about God, but he lived for God.  He did not teach us to work hard, he just worked hard in front of us, and we learned to follow him.

I do not think that Dad achieved all he dreamed of in his youth (no one does), but  for a good reason. He gave himself so we could be who we are. 

Dad was not a teacher--but his daughter and granddaughters are.  He was not a preacher, but I am. I preach because of what he taught.  He was not a writer, but his son and grandchildren write books. He was not scientist, but his grandson is studying for it. 

Dad got to visit many parts of the world, but thanks to him, his children and grandchildren have stood upon every continent on earth.  He achieved a good life for himself and mother,  but his example and their sacrifice opened the door for their children to do more, be better, and rise higher than he did.  In the end,  I know that this is what Dad the proudest.

So how do we remember a man like Dad?  If we want to remember our father,  we don't do it by looking back at him, but by looking out into the distance,  looking forward.  My father never wanted to be an idol to be worshiped, but a foundation stone for all our lives.

We come from our parents--but we live for God. We come from our past--but we live for the future.  We remember my father  by living out his dreams, the way he lived out his,  in the choices we make, In the ideals we follow, and in the dreams which carry us on.