A READING FROM the Gospel According to John:
[To the disciples, Jesus said], “I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid. You heard me say to you, ‘I am going away, and I am coming to you.’ If you loved me, you would rejoice that I am going to the Father, because the Father is greater than I. And now I have told you this before it occurs, so that when it does occur, you may believe.” — John 14:23-29
Above you’ll find part of the reading for this coming Sunday, the Sixth Sunday of Easter. It’s one of the times we read from the Gospel of John (Christmas is the other), which is unlike what are called the synoptic Gospels, the accounts of Good News that, literally, “look alike.” The other Gospels (Matthew, Mark and Luke) share lots in common, but John is just different. It doesn’t include the same narratives (well, sometimes, it does) as do the Synoptics, but it also has stories not seen in other others and a more mystical account of Christ, focusing on Christ as the High Priest of the entire Church.
It’s also the Gospel that I want to share with you — that you are beloved of God — as I both mourn and celebrate my father’s life and death.
I wasn’t close to him the way I was close to my mom, but we loved each other deeply, even as we realized we had little in common and often found it difficult to talk with another. I know many of you are in the same situation with one or another parent at the time of their deaths. I know, too, it’s never easy, and when my mom died (I’ve both preached and published on this before) at the moment of her death, I was driving to the airport in New Orleans to fly to Indiana to see her before she died.
I didn’t make it, but here’s what I know. The moment she died, the car was full of a sense of her presence and great joy, and I started laughing aloud remembering her.
My phone rang right after that and I knew it would be my sister telling me about her passing.
Those angels and all were great, but definitely not for my dad. At around 4 in the morning — 7 in the morning my brother’s time, who has never been able to figure out niceties like time zones and that 7 a.m. is a.) 4 a.m. my time and b.) way too early to call me under any circumstances regardless of time zones. My husband and I are late sleepers; the rest of my family is not. I get revenge by calling my brother at 9 p.m., too late for him already, and midnight his time. Fair’s fair!
So at 4 a.m., I get a text from my brother and it told me that my dad had died. It wasn’t unexpected at all. My dad was having both cognitive and mobility issues, but the real issue was that he was 92 years old and it was time.
I missed talking to him on the phone. He’d developed several bad habits my sister, his caretaker, had to stop. He would order stuff, lots of stuff, off of various vendors. When my sister cleared out the house my dad and mom lived in, she was furious at the amount of stuff they left behind, “Who needs 17 packages of toilet paper?”
Apparently, my dad did. He was the kind of guy who would see a half-empty gas tank warning on the car’s dashboard and immediately demand (not ask, demand) that we stop and fill it.
I’m not that way. I’m the kind of person who says “oh, heck, there’s always another 30 miles when the gas light goes on,” which has mostly been true. I’d keep driving and by the end he’d basically be yelling, “Stop, stop, we have to stop!” in a deep panic.
He also turned out not to be the person who could teach me to drive.
If he saw a car seven stoplights ahead, he’d start muttering “brake, there’s a car ahead, brake, you have stop, STOP, YOU HAVE TO BRAKE.”
Our driving lessons ended when I braked hard, jammed to a stop and got out, making him take over, saying, “I will never take lessons from you again. Ever.”
But I did. Not driving lessons. I needed my hubbie for that years later. But other lessons? Yeah, all the time.
My dad was one of the last romantics. He loved my mom, and he loved all three of his kids, and though it felt like he neither understood us or her, he loved without ceasing. And all that yelling came from concern.
The toilet paper was his response to growing up in the Great Depression but also a sign that he had taken care of his own, he had met his responsibilities as a husband and father.
His favorite joke was pure Dad joke: “Know why I’m the UN of lovers? Because I have Rush-ing Hands and Rome-ing Fingers.” To which my mother grabbed his hand, pretending to push it away, but actually so she could hold it.
My dad was quiet and we didn’t talk much, but when we did it went deep, like the time after my mother died and we were talking about her and how much he missed her.
They were both models of Christ, though in very different ways, and they loved us kids and each other, but my dad, he really knew how to love, just like Christ loves all of us: without exception.
Rest in peace, Dad.
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Issues of Faith is a rotating column by religious leaders on the North Olympic Peninsula. The Rev. Dr. Keith Dorwick is a deacon resident in the Episcopal Diocese of Olympia.
