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TO A DAD WHO’S GONE,
AND EVER MORE PRESENT
Journal of Healing – June 14, 2006
By Mary Koch

Being raised by a saint leaves you marred for life.

Dad would have blanched at being called a saint, but he fits the American Heritage Dictionary definition 1.b., “A person who has died and gone to heaven.” When he was alive, he qualified under definition 2, “an extremely virtuous person.”

When you spend the formative years of your life with an extremely virtuous person, and it happens to be your dad who you think is simply a dad like any dad, you end up with unreasonably high expectations for all human beings.

Often when I’m disgruntled by the inability of myself and/or others to meet those expectations, I ponder, “Where did these impossibly high standards come from, anyway?” Then I remember: Dear ol’ Dad, in league with dear ol’ Mom.

Dad’s saintliness had little if anything to do with his being a minister. God knows, virtue is not automatically bestowed with the donning of a clerical collar.

If the word “virtuous” teamed with “minister” sounds do-gooder dull or holier-than-everybody, I wish you’d met our dad. He was witty and tolerant, embracing both godliness and humanness.

He did not hang around exclusively with church-going folks. For one thing, he loved to shoot pool. In the little Minnesota town of my childhood, it wasn’t unusual to see Dad’s car parked outside the pool hall. I imagine that caused talk.

* * *

WHEN WE moved to a bigger city, he found himself a morning coffee klatch of good ‘ol boys who were pretty much non-church goers. If someone would say to him, “I don’t go to church because it’s just full of hypocrites,” he’d smile and agree. Then he’d offer the invitation: “And there’s always room for one more.”

I never would have described Dad as “hip,” but looking back, I realize his faith and integrity made him a quietly committed social activist. During the ‘60s, he advised his church council that he would be participating in a civil rights march. When a council member suggested they vote on it, Dad responded that it wasn’t a matter to be voted on. His moral convictions did not depend on majority rule.

He was good at what he did. His sermons were intelligent, concise, and well-delivered reminders of God’s grace. He welcomed newcomers, visited the sick, and comforted those who were troubled or bereft. More than once, I steered friends who were agonizing over life’s misadventures to my dad.

* * *

AS A FATHER, he set well-defined boundaries and that included being punctual. Usually a patient man, he had little patience for tardiness – which made certain events after his death all the more ironic.

Just as we were to drive to the cemetery, Mother received a phone call. There had been a bureaucratic problem with the death certificate and the mortuary could not proceed with the cremation. It was delayed a day, and Dad was late to his own funeral.

I can see him smiling at as I write that. His favorite jokes were the ones he told on himself.

Even though I no longer have someone to send a Father’s Day card to, even though we’re separated by death, I often feel closer to Dad than I did when we were separated by mere miles.

I can hear him now, reminding me that high standards are for striving toward, not judging by. So, OK. I wasn’t marred. You can say I was stretched, for life. I’ve been a lucky kid.

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