This is a tribute to
my father on his birthday. He would have been 93 today, February 26.
Children grow up seeking the approval of their parents. They
learn whatever it takes to please them. I was no different, except that my
father was very stingy with his praise. I suppose it had something to do with pride
and the Anabaptist concept of “Demut.” I am also sure it had something to do
with the way he was brought up.
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| One thing we had in common: Love for baseball and the Phillies |
In addition, my father was an orderly perfectionist and demanded
that everything be returned to its proper place. “Who’s been in my toolbox?” I
can hear him bellow when I misplaced a borrowed screwdriver by a few inches.
My father was a tradesman and he expected each of his four
sons to grow up learning a trade. He valued very much working with one’s hands.
He was not only a tradesman, but a craftsman. He took pride in the quality of
his work, spending extra time to make sure he got it right—if not perfect. He
began with plumbing, then moved to heating and air-conditioning and in the
process learned all the trades involved in building.
So after high school, I began working for my uncle in order
to learn the carpentry trade. To call the ability that I had with my hands a
disaster would have been a compliment. I was assigned all the jobs that required
little skill, and my brain couldn’t anticipate the next steps needed in the
building process.
My skills were in language, music and writing, none of which
were particularly esteemed in my family with the exception of music—if it was
four-part acapella hymns. I travelled the world learning several languages and
the cultures attached to them. I served nearly three years in Honduras as a conscientious
objector during the Vietnam War. I eventually
entered the world of academics and became a Spanish teacher.
My father was a Pennsylvanian through and through, and
rarely travelled unless it was to visit relatives, especially his children who
were scattered across the USA. Even that he did reluctantly, but agreed when my
mom insisted. He dragged his feet about attending my wedding in Switzerland,
but eventually acquiesced when my siblings paid their airfare and refused to
hear any of his excuses. The trip made a profound impact on him, and I’m proud
to say that he talked about it for months afterward.
Nevertheless, to say that we existed in separate worlds
would be an understatement. I remember when he and my mother came to visit me
in Hesston, Kansas. I was teaching Spanish at Hesston College. I wanted to give
them a campus tour and I could see his unease at the possibility. My parents
were always suspicious of higher education, and often told stories of relatives
who went to college and either lost their faith or became so high-minded that
they were no earthly good.
To dad’s surprise, a man who worked with him in Civilian
Public Service in Grottoes, Virginia, was the president of the college! And the
man, Laban Peachey, thanked him profusely for having taken him under his wings
and showed him the ropes when he first arrived at the camp. This broke the ice,
but we still lived in different worlds.
Several months before his death, I visited my father in his
apartment where he lived independently. It was one room with a kitchen, living
room and bedroom all in one area. He slept on his bed and I slept on his recliner.
I had just returned from leading a group of 18 students to Guatemala and Mexico
for their semester abroad program at Eastern Mennonite University. I was
enthusing about the experience and what we had learned together and how much I
appreciated my students.
At one point, my father turned to me with a twinkle in his
ice-blue eyes: “the experience you had in Honduras really changed your life,
didn’t it?” he said. Tears welled up in my eyes as I nodded my head, glowing in
his recognition of what had become my life’s calling. But I was not prepared
for what he said next. “I really admire you for passing on your passion to your
students and to others through your writing. Keep it up.” I was overcome by
emotion. Just days shy of my 62nd birthday I received my father’s
blessing for my life. It was the last time I saw him alive. But his blessing
lives on.
