Remembering my dad - Editorial

I will always admire my dad. I still haven’t quite got over his death from stomach cancer in 1997. He was a class guy, always willing to help someone in need. A man of integrity, possessing a keen sense of justice, a good sense of humor, he always defended the little guy. I remember him being quite active in his labor union, eventually attaining the status of Shop Steward. He passionately believed that the union kept the company bigwigs in line. He was a tough negotiator, and always had his facts at hand.

Both he and my mom voted Democrat, so of course I became a Democrat. I remember in elementary school we had a mock presidential election, and I was the only one to vote for Democrat turned independent George Wallace. I was surprised that Wallace was so unpopular, because after all, my parents supported him. That Wallace was a racist didn’t even register with me. 

But people change. Wallace renounced his racism. My dad also changed over time. When a black man was hired at his shop, he never blinked an eye. He set about teaching him everything he knew. The “n” word disappeared from his vocabulary, as did “ch*nk” and “J*p.” I also remember that my parents became good friends with a couple who had emigrated from Thailand. 

Anyone can change. We do not have to keep hating. We do not have to remain victims of our pasts. Racists can change. Tokers, smokers and drinkers can change. Greedy CEOs can change. Gays, religionists, capitalists and communists can change. According to Jesus, sinners can change. We do not have to accept ourselves as we are, nor do we have to accept the excuses provided for us or the deceptions that captivate us. 

I have changed. I was a Democrat, then a Republican, but now I know that there are no answers in politics. I used to be selfish. And stubborn. Sometimes I still am, but I am changing. God wants me to change, and I must agree with God. 

When we learned of dad’s cancer, things changed again. My dad, the self-sufficient, determined, if-I-want-it-done-right-I’ll-do-it-myself kind of guy, became a mere shadow of himself. We used to crawl around underneath hotrods. We used to pull old wrecks out of farmers’ fields and trailer them to swap meets. We used to play a pretty rough game of one-on-one basketball. 

But no more. My dad had stomach bypass surgery and was declining fast. Our very last conversation was about eternal things. He hated religion because of growing up in a Catholic school, but we prayed together for the first time. Yes, he had changed. 

I wrote a song for him:
“The man who gave me life, and every precious thing 

The main who raised me up, gave me this song to sing 

After all the tears and fears, after all is said and done 

I am proud to be called my father’s son.” 

The night after he died I had a dream. I dreamed we were playing a rough and tumble game of one-on-one basketball. It was in the backyard of my childhood home, on our dirt driveway, shooting at a hoop my dad and I had put up together years ago. He could always outshoot me, and I could never get past his defense. In my dream this was still true. I shot and missed, and dad ran hard after the rebound, just like he usually did. 

“Dad,” I said, “shouldn’t you be taking it easy? You’re not well.” He paused, and a smile crossed his face. He looked at me with incredible compassion and love. 

“Son,” he said, “everything will be all right.” I knew at that moment that I had been visited by the God of all peace and comfort. My dad could now say, “It is well with my soul.” And he was changed.