For Dad

I wanted to say a few words to honor my dad. Truth be told, I've been thinking about what I’d say at dad’s funeral for a while now, knowing I’d want to take this chance to say something. So I’ve been practicing, picking the right words, trying to imagine what this moment would be like. I’d practice during my morning walks around Story City, IA. I’d practice on my drive to and from work, I’d practice while I was lying awake at 3am on a Tuesday morning. And wouldn’t you know it? I can’t remember a word. Not one. And it’s really too bad because some of the words I came up with and practiced were really good but they are gone so I'm going to start again.

When I think about words about dad or about all the precious words I have heard at other funerals I’ve had the privilege of attending, what I know for sure is - words tell a story. Their story. Their life story, and I know I’m only guessing, but I imagine each of us wants to live a good story. We want a life that testifies to something pleasing, something enduring, something faithful and loving. We want our lives to be good news to someone. We might never say it out loud to anyone else or even to ourselves, but I think in our own way we long to be the hero, or the beauty, or maybe the quiet yet cunning one who calmly, and seemingly out of nowhere, saves the day.

Back in 2019 when dad was first diagnosed with prostate cancer, I was able to take Family Medical Leave time away from work. I spent about a week per month at home in Wellesley during the months of August-December. During that time I’d walk to mom and dad’s from Brenda’s house, notebook and pen in hand, and dad and I would sit at their small kitchen table while I tried to come up with questions to get him talking. He did! He talked, I wrote.

He talked about the farmer’s market and selling rabbits and eggs. He told me how the egg grading station got its start, stopped, and then started again. If I got it right. I think he told me how his family was involved - I believe maybe Uncle Allan gave him some money to help. He talked about the years of the grading station in Wellesley and then the years in New Hamburg working with Merv. He told me many things and I was glad to have the time to sit there with him, watch his delight in the telling, and try to get every bit of it down as accurately as possible, just like he wanted me to. Turns out as much as I wanted the details and to write them all down to please dad, I wasn’t overly interested in them. It’s not that I don’t love his story, it’s simply that where and when something exactly happened doesn’t really matter to me. It matters to Del, so if you want a written account, Del has it. He wrote up something from my notes and he’d be happy to send it to you.

But why wasn’t I interested?

There are probably several reasons. I’m neither a business woman nor an entrepreneur. I gathered lots of eggs for lots of years and never once did I gather up any interest in chickens, eggs, farming, or business. This might surprise you but even wading through the rows of chicken manure didn’t endear me to any of it. But probably the biggest reason for my disregard of the details was my longing to understand the bigger question of why.

Why was dad so driven?

Why did he never give up?

Why did he care so deeply for so many people?

Why did he decide, apparently after a few drive-bys, to drive down mom’s driveway that night back in 1971? I think he knew that the ride down that driveway led to nothing easy, but why did he do it anyway?

In my opinion, that’s where the real story is. The why.

During my teenage years I’m quite certain I drove dad nuts with all my why questions.

Why do I have to wear a dress to that?

Why do I have to go to the Erb reunion?

Why do the Mennonites believe that?

Why do we have to do it this way or that way?

Why can’t I do that on a Sunday?

Why not ask why?

I wanted answers. I was trying to figure all this out and decide if this was something for me. I didn’t want a shrug or a “I don’t know”, I wanted something concrete, something I could look up, something I could grab a hold of and shake, something I could finally understand and get behind, but all I ever got from dad was, “that’s just the way we do.”

“That’s just the way we do.”

I think it is safe to say dad and I disagreed on the worthiness of that answer.

But I’m not a teenager anymore and as I sit surrounded with everything I know about dad I want to try and string some words together about all the things he did based on his philosophy of, “that’s just the way we do.’ I think we’ll find a story there and not only a story but I think we’ll find some Good News because I think dad’s story, my story, your story, are part of something bigger. We are part of something bigger, and I am convinced each of us has the potential to live Good News. Just like dad did.

So. Here are some of the things I know:

• Dad loved and respected Grandma, Pop, Arnold, Marjorie, Helen, Jean-Ann, each of his nieces and nephews, his many cousins, and then when they came along, his grandkids and his great-grandkids. He loved them all. Fiercely and faithfully.

It’s just the way we do.

• Dad did indeed turn down mom’s driveway and chose the more difficult way. He courted mom and the two of them took what they could find out of that tragedy and heartbreak, and built a life together. They worked together to care for, support, and love the four of us, and each other until the very end. Together. So sweetly and tenderly to the end.

It’s just the way we do.

• Dad lived a life of faith. He believed in God, obeyed, loved and trusted in God. His wasn’t a loud faith but a quiet one. It didn’t need many words but instead arms, legs, hands and feet. HIs was a faith lived and not so much talked about. His was a light on a hill and not a banging gong, or clanging cymbal. It’s just the way we do. Dad loved life. I think every bit of it. From farming to hockey, auction sales to golf games wherever he could play but especially Chesley Lake, from Ford pick-up trucks to Massey Ferguson tractors, from Wellesley to Sarasota Florida, to family dinners, family reunions, and every type of family potluck, to his way of charming every baby ever presented to him, from crokinole to wizard, from splitting wood back in the bush, to milking cows, gathering eggs, baling hay, combining corn, and plowing, to maple syrup drizzled over pumpkin pie, to drowning apple crisp in milk, to his beginnings at the Waterloo Farmer’s Market to Conestoga Brand eggs and butter. He loved all of it.

It’s just the way we do.

I’m certain there is so much more. I know you are sitting there with your own stories about dad I know nothing about, but here is what I know for sure: Dad’s life told a story. In my eyes his story was a hero’s story. He rescued me. In his steady and solid way, he rescued mom and all four of us. It wasn’t always easy or even pretty but I’ll tell all the stories I have of him to anyone who will listen. Maybe you will too. Because it’s a good story isn’t it? It’s not a fancy story, it’s not a glamorous story or an exotic one. It’s a story about a humble man who loved his family, his wife, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. It’s about a man who loved to farm and didn’t travel very far from Wellesley township. It’s about all the quiet things in life, the ordinary things that become extraordinary. Why? Because all those little things point to something bigger. Good News. 

Dad lived a good story that is Good News to anyone willing to listen.

I want to do the same. 

Thanks Dad. 

Thank you for your story. 

Thank you for being my hero, even if I had to be older to realize it.

I pray for the strength and humility to follow your example because the world needs more heroes -  everyday, ordinary heroes, who are living a bigger story, living Good News.

Oh and I guess you were right. 

“It’s just the way we do.”

Well-done good and faithful servant.

I’ll love you forever.