My earliest memories of my father are all interlaced with warm memories of church and God. My father’s father, a descendant of Dutch immigrants, had worked his way up to vice president of Exxon by the time Dad came into the world in 1917. Dad, the second youngest of nine, grew up in a boisterous, no frills but full of laughter, salt of the earth household, and after prestigious degrees from Dartmouth, Yale and Cambridge leading him towards a profession in law, World War II entered the picture. His experiences during the war in the South Pacific, changed his life path forever. By the time I arrived on the scene, Dad had just finished getting his degree at Chicago Theological Seminary. After associate pasturing in Oak Park, Illinois, we moved to Concord, New Hampshire when I was almost four, where Dad served as the minister of his first church.
During this age on the planet I have encountered vehement positioning around Christianity and organized religion. My roots and my hearts’ knowing is that what the media shares and the ‘out there’ examples that are held up as proof that the church is flawed and wrong, reflects a facet of extreme, that all major religions give birth to. Those whose faith and humanity is heart-soul-integrity based, under the umbrella of the church, are light bearers in the truest sense.
My sister and I used to play in the church, during the week when Dad was in his office, off the sanctuary. We would count the holes in the offering plates and pretend to sip out of the little cups while soft hued light filtered through the stained glass windows and we were happy being allowed in this part of his world. I would wait for Dad after his Sunday service, watching him, in his black robe with red velvet draped around his neck, shake hands with everyone, watching the love in their eyes as he gently greeted them and I was proud of him. My dad was humble and never tooted his own horn, what a gift to be witness to who he was in his work and how it was his center while including us, so young. After dinner, every night, our family, and yes, the black labrador retriever, would sit in a circle on the floor of the living room and have ‘family worship’, which was comprised of a short poem or story, a prayer, tickling and snuggling with Daddy. Two girls, one for each arm.
These years, before we set sail for India, were my foundation, Dad. Gold star for being who you were and are forever. Thank you.
