The mentor I missed...

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled,

but a fire to be kindled.”

– Plutarch

If I had his mind to explore, I would have unlimited questions. That is the burden of the son who matures too late to plumb the depths of a father’s mind.

I’ve been thinking about my dad lately. He doesn’t come to mind frequently, but when he does, his energy and drive come in full force with the thoughts. It is sometimes surprising that his image appears with crystalline clarity. While he died in his early 70s, succumbing to the rigors Parkinson’s Disease, and in the end, pneumonia – the ‘old man’s friend’ – I generally see him as a robust man in his 50s.

His early years in Toronto, Canada, were challenging, but he was a tough, resilient kid who believed in two life-advancing principles.

The first was education. No one in his family had gone to university. To him, learning was the great equalizer and pathway of escape from the life into which he had been born. He attended and graduated from McMaster University. 

The second was embodied in the words of Winston Churchill he often quoted:

“Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never ­ in nothing great or small, large or petty – never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense.”

– The Best of Winston Churchill’s Speeches

These words were a foundation that guided his life. Other than the Biblical Scriptures upon which his ministry was based, and the seductress of his life, Churchill’s words provided a guiding light for everything that he did. To my father, it was pretty simple. If you start it, finish it. If you do it, do the best you can.

My early life, as a preacher’s kid, was, I suspect like a lot of other youngsters brought up under congregational scrutiny. Sunday school was a must, and attendance in services, mandatory. In those years, my place, along with my sisters, was in a pew next to my mother as the elements of a Sunday morning’s church service unfolded.

While I didn’t understand much of what my dad preached, nor for that matter reasons for coming to church in the first place, I had to admit he was dynamic in the pulpit. He prepared compulsively, tucking thoughts away throughout the week between hospital visits, deaths, births, weddings, potluck dinners, mid-week prayer services and church business meetings.

Saturday evenings, he would disappear into his study, pulling together thoughts for Sunday morning’s sermon. How he ever read the notes he made was a mystery, considering his hand writing made hen scratches look coherently understandable.

From his hieroglyphics, came his final draft on a manual typewriter, single-spaced. A child of the depression, he learned the importance of conservation, so there were no margins. Type began and ended at the edges of the sheet of paper.  There were nights, when not satisfied, he worked straight through until it was time to shave and get ready for church.

Everything he did was with focus and determination. I saw his example, but truth be told, had little idea of what he thought about or the way he processed things.

His work ethic was mind-numbing, but I was so busy with my own life, I did not…could not understand the passion that drove him. I was a bystander, a passenger, in the day-to-day vehicle of family life, oblivious and without an appreciation for the giant with whom I shared a home.

Several years after his death, my mother made the decision to sell her house in Ohio and come to Missouri to live with my sister Nancy.  The girls and I headed home to help Mom get the house ready.

As it turned out, my father had kept quite a few of his sermons in boxes in the basement.  I pulled some of them out to read, and was amazed. There they were, in all of their single-spaced glory, with notes scribbled between the lines as he rethought or added an idea.

It was, many years after his death that I met my father for the first time.  His writing was clear and in the fashion with which he spoke. I could hear his voice in my head as I read his words. In some ways gratifying, and in ways it was disappointing.

Reading his work, was like reading short essays on religious, social, and spiritual topics. That was the upside – getting to know my father better. The downside was not being able to have a dialogue with him to understand better the things that led to the shaping of his thoughts.

I am sure you have heard the question, “If you could pick anyone in history to have dinner with, who would it be?” Over the years, I have thought about who that person or those people might be. There is, however, someone I would prefer above all others…my father.

- ted