Brenda A. Smith
Provided by CN Building Adult Ministries Resource Center
I TOOK A 4,000-MILE JOURNEY DOWN MEMORY LANE AFTER DAD DIED … AND IT FELT LIKE HE WAS RIDING SHOTGUN.
It was going to be the road trip of a lifetime: three weeks, 4,000 miles, and 16 states. And just me, all alone, in my bright blue PT Cruiser.
Well, not quite alone. In some ways, my dad would be taking this trip down memory lane with me. Dad’s own earthly journey had ended just a month before at Medical City Hospital, 92 years—and countless memories—after it had begun.
My trip began with a prayer and three daily goals:
• Stay off the Interstate
• Meet an interesting person or have an interesting experience
• Introduce spiritual ideas into a conversation—what I call “saying a word for Jesus.”
Dad had only viewed the PT Cruiser in a brochure from his hospital bed, saying, “I’ll see it when I get home.” But he went home to heaven, not Parkchester Drive in Dallas. Still, as I hit the road it almost felt as if Dad were riding shotgun, my memories of him traveling with me mile after mile.
I WONDER AS I WANDER
By the time I was in first grade, Dad recognized my eagerness to accompany him on his business speaking engagements—and Mom urged me to share these experiences. A little gray suit with black patent leather Mary Janes—hey, this was the ’50s—became my “working clothes.” Seatbelt laws were decades away, so, snuggled next to Dad in the front seat, I began a lifetime of exploration.
President Eisenhower’s dream of an Interstate highway system still hadn’t materialized, so Dad and I traveled the great national roads, marked by service station towers visible for miles and motor inns shaped like teepees. He taught me to wonder as we wandered. “See that airplane? We’ll drive two days to get where it will be in five hours.” How could that be? “Never lose your imagination,” he counseled. “Never lose your awe of life.”
Fast forward to 2007. Somewhere in Wisconsin, I popped in a Pavarotti cd, thinking of Dad. “You never even consider he’d miss a note, do you? He hits the note directly in the center. The sign of genius is how easy it looks to others. Remember, your unique abilities can be discovered by seeing what you enjoy working on, like Pavarotti enjoys vocalizing.”
Many dads took their children camping; mine took me to the encampments of culture. He introduced me to gypsy music in Washington, D.C., opera in Cincinnati, symphonies at Carnegie Hall in New York, and Dixieland in New Orleans. Each time, he taught me to hear what the musician was “saying,” to discern the nuances of the performance. Dad thoroughly enjoyed musicians who “played the cracks.” He wanted me to see beyond the obvious.
“Take the gift that God has given you, and use it, and you will stand before great men.” Dad’s paraphrase of Proverbs 18:16 became his life verse, and his resolve to “stretch others” determined the direction of his life. He looked at each experience as opportunity for growth and productivity. He embraced hard times with even greater relish than the easy ones.
COACH ON THE SIDELINES
As I drove, I laughed as I thought of Dad’s intense desire for me to discipline my spirit. The Bible calls it self-control; Dad called it “getting hold of yourself.” His desire for me to grow tougher skin often resulted in little girl tears and a quick change of conversational topic.
Driving through Michigan, I remembered the 1980s and the end of my 20-year marriage. At the time, I sat for days on the couch—till Dad, impatient with my inertia, phoned to “check on my progress.” A short, handwritten note shook me out of my despondency: “Better is the person who controls his spirit than the one who controls a city.” Just like that, I was back in the car, listening to those mental discipline lessons!
About mile 1,200 on my recent trip, these memories flooded back, and I realized the great gift Dad gave me: confidence to get moving. After my divorce, Dad and I met weekly for breakfast. He’d say, “I can’t play the game for you, but I am a good coach on the sidelines.”
I tried to evoke sympathy by telling him sad stories. He saw right through my avoidance techniques with a favorite phrase: “Show me the baby, don’t tell me about the labor pains.” Those words prodded me into productivity and a fulfilling career. He chose to be a father whose guidance, grit, and gumption prepared me not only for hard times, but for success.
SPIRITED DEBATE
Dad encouraged my faith by allowing me to freely express the doctrinal positions I held dearly—and he exercised his paternal privilege of disagreeing on many points. Those lively discussions drew us closer to the Lord and to each other. “How can I deprive you of the right to be fervently wrong?” he laughingly chided—but I think he secretly enjoyed the Calvinist leanings of his firstborn.
Some of our more spirited arguments came after Mom and Dad moved into my home in 2000, after his health began to deteriorate. Packing, remodeling, adjusting, and more adjusting soon followed. At night, I journaled about the journey, calling it “Musings and Amusings about Caregiving.” It didn’t take long to see that the musings far outweighed the amusings.
But it wasn’t long before I shifted my thinking by living out one of Dad’s cardinal principles: “The things you cry about today, you will laugh about tomorrow.” Fear, frailty, and finality seem to be strange material for comedy, but by taking the long view, we laughed. By taking himself less seriously, Dad taught me the healing value of humor.
Caregiving, like aging, isn’t for sissies. It was a constant struggle. Mom grew weak as she succumbed to the ravages of Parkinson’s disease. She died in 2004, after she and Dad had been married for 67 years.
DON’T DO A SARAH
Meanwhile, Dad was battling end stage renal disease and colon disorders. During one hospitalization shortly before his death, Dad blessed me without ceremony, ritual, or rite. He simply reminded me to trust in God and forego my natural tendency to accomplish in my own way.
After listening to one of my dilemmas, he looked up from his hospital bed and said, “Don’t do a Sarah, Brenda. You’ve prayed about this, you’re walking in faith. Don’t do a Sarah.” These were not just words for this particular situation; these were words for life: “Don’t jump ahead like Abraham’s wife, trying to fix what God apparently failed to do. Take the right steps and then trust God for the outcome.” That wisdom rode with me for nearly all 4,000 miles, and still guides me.
As I visited with friends up and down the middle of America, I considered Dad’s final years. Not many men in their late 80s have websites, host mentoring groups from their hospital beds (affectionately known as Fred in the Bed), or write weekly e-mail newsletters, but Dad did. The BreakfastWithFred.com website connected him, and his wisdom, with generations of leaders. “Redeem the time”—he walked and talked it. And when he could no longer walk, he still redeemed.
The work we shared in these projects created opportunities for talking. But that was nothing new: We had wondered, wandered, and talked throughout my life. The year before his death, I found a worn photo of Dad and me, leaning over a railing and intently staring at some unseen happening. The body language spoke of a 12-year-old girl leaning into—and gleaning from—her father. I framed the photo for Dad, adding the caption: “So much to talk about.”
During the last 18 months of his life, I read to him each morning. Sometimes he slept through much of the hour. But other mornings, we read, prayed, and talked. Our roles had changed, but the joy of the exchange never did.
DEPOSITS IN THE MEMORY BANK
Dad had looked forward to one more road trip with me, even knowing the impossibility. But he would have loved this trip. He would’ve enjoyed Charlie and his three barns of tractors; staying in the old house on Route 66; marveling at the acres of day lilies in Minnesota. And he would have had some pithy comment about the awe of God while fighting winds and rain on Lake Superior, or enjoying the bright hues of fall on the Natchez Trace.
The Cruiser and I ended our trek as it began—with prayers of thanksgiving and reflection. I safely traversed 4,000 miles of roads with little Interstate, many interesting people, and numerous openings for a word about Jesus. I commemorated and celebrated as I cruised.
“No one loves you as much as your Dad does,” a friend told me.
She’s right. And no one rides shotgun nearly so well, either.
To learn more about Fred Smith, go to www.BreakfastWithFred.com. To order his final book, Breakfast With Fred,click here. Brenda A. Smith is president of the Breakfast with Fred Project, Inc. She is the author of Divine Confinement: Facing Seasons of Limitation, and her next book, Divine Refinement, will soon. Copyright © 2008 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today’s Christian magazine. Click here for reprint information. May/June 2008, Vol. 46, No. 3, Page 30