Father, Son on the Road of Life
“I’ve walked this road with you before, Dad.” I caught myself talking aloud as I walked this morning, turning onto the same street that Dad and I had walked down a few times on his early morning walks near his retirement home. Then, of course, I realized that I was telling him, and myself, more than just one walk, one road, one time. I’ve walked this road with you before, Dad.
Dad died this week at age 93, so yes, it is a time of reflection for many of us. And, of course, Mom will do more reflecting than any of us. This week would have been their 73rd anniversary. We did not know when we took Dad to the hospital Friday that he was as seriously ill as he was. Those 15 hours with him in the hospital were hours of high distress, anxiety, tears, all kinds of emotions, and coming to grips with the reality of Dad fading away from us. As we accepted what was inevitable, I watched as Mom tenderly comforted Dad, stroked his face, held his hand, told him how much she loved him, reminded him that they had had 73 wonderful years they shared together.
I have never been with someone as they were dying. I’m sure everyone is different, but Dad was trying to hold on, wanted to get up and go home with us. The most distressing thing for me was that Dad tried to talk with us, communicate with us, and the words would not come out right. I am reminded, then, that we all owe each other those moments of thankfulness, tenderness, love—now.
I walked those roads with Dad, even if we rarely expressed the love and appreciation and respect we had for each other. Today I got to hold a two-week-old baby and it reminded me of Dad holding babies over the years. Today I watched another little tyke on his rocking horse and tractor, remembering that back on the farm Dad pushed me across the grass on my first bicycle ride, with training wheels. I remember walking the road with Dad as we steered the herd of cattle from one farm to our new one. I remember dressing in clip-on tie and coat each Sunday and going to church with Dad in his coat and tie, each of us with a Bible in hand. I remember Dad and Mom at my high school graduation, my college graduations.
Each of us has his or her own memories, reflections, of Dad, and together those memories can be woven into a tapestry. But at least one thing that will be common in those threads is that Dad stayed connected with family throughout his life. He and Mom came to visit each of the six of us, in New York, Texas, Oklahoma, Colorado, New Mexico, Nebraska, wherever we were. And then there were the Sunday afternoon phone calls. To his brothers, sisters, to us. Dad was born exactly 10 years after his brother David, on the same day, December 24, so they had that bond and talked frequently. As his older brothers and sisters died over the years Dad became even more determined to initiate regular contact with the others, sometimes even with his cousins, nephews and nieces.
Over and over Dad (and Mom) would say when they talked with me how blessed our family has been to have good health, good jobs, good lives. Sure, we have our aches and pains, our ups and downs, but we look around and we have each other. Dad’s road was long, from the farm roads of southern Missouri to the streets of Kansas City; from the highways he drove across the United States to the driveways of each of our homes. His road was long from a Depression-era childhood on the farm to the challenges of raising his own large family; from a busy life of jobs and marriage and children’s schooling and churches and relocations to a still ever-active life in retirement, across an even larger map of life.
Dad’s road took him 93 years, through all this. He lived to see even his children start transitioning into retirement. So now, here in the beginning of my retirement time, I know that I don’t know how long I have; I know Dad did not know how long he would have, when and how he would draw his last breaths, whether he would feel like he was ready to go or whether he still wanted to experience more of life. But I have his well-trod steps in front of me, showing me the way down this road of life.