My Father Died Fifty Years Ago Today

             

[Edrei Arnold Erickson, 1911-1965]

                                                               

Fifty years ago today my Father died.  He had been battling cancer for nearly a year.  Typical of most 14 year-olds, I had no idea how to deal with his illness and what it was doing to him and to us.  I wanted to be with him, but it was so painful to see how the disease was ravaging his body.  How much do I live my life as normal, and how much do I adjust it to be with him?

Of course, those are the reflective thoughts of an adult, looking back all those years.  At the time I had little ability to reflect; I was just reacting to events the best I could.

I adored by Dad.  He was my hero.  He spent endless time with my younger brother and me.  We played baseball catch in the summer, football in the fall.  He taught me how to play golf.  He took us hunting each fall.  He attended nearly all of our baseball, football, and basketball games.

He took us to scouts.  To junior choir rehearsals.  And, with Mom, to church every Sunday.  During the summer we always left for church a bit earlier than usual.  Dad’s goal was to get a seat by one of the open windows in our non-air conditioned sanctuary in hopes of catching a bit of a breeze.

I didn’t talk much about religion or faith or church with my Dad.  He left those discussions to Mom, the daughter of a Methodist pastor.

That changed when he became ill.  He spent many long hours alone.  He read his Bible and devotional books.  He listened to his favorite hymns, sung by George Beverly Shea.  I think my older brother might even have gotten him a record of Elvis Presley singing gospel songs.  That took a bit of adjustment by Dad, but he was hungry for the Gospel wherever he could find it.

I had gone to Bible Camp the past two summers, and applied to be a Counselor in Training at that camp the summer after Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.  I can still remember the moment the Camp Director walked into my high school shop class, as I was building a ping pong table, to inform me that I had been accepted as a counselor.

This created a conflict at home.  My Mom wanted me to stay home that summer.  Dad thought it would be good for me to go and work at camp.  I ended up going to camp.

Early in August Mom called to tell me Dad was getting worse, and I needed to leave camp early and come home.  She picked me up in Dad’s pride and joy, his 1958 pink Buick Special.

When I got home I found that Dad could hardly eat anything and was restricted to bed. He called for me to come into his bedroom.  He then told me the story of his faith journey.

He said he had been quite serious about his faith growing up and especially when he was a student at Wheaton College in Chicago, where he had gone on a baseball scholarship.  He then explained that, over the years, church had become something to belong to and be involved in, but he had not focused much on his relationship to God.

That had changed in the past year.  Through Bible reading, listening to Christian music, having visits with our pastor, Elmo Anderson, and discussions with Mom his faith had deepened again, and he had realized what he had been missing the past several years.  He told me that is why he had wanted me to go to Bible camp that summer, because he felt it would be important to my own faith journey. 

I thanked Dad for letting me go to camp and told him of some of the deeply spiritual experiences I had had, and how I was beginning to think that maybe I should consider becoming a pastor.

Dad died on August 12, 1965.   I tried to be strong.  I tried to trust my faith.  I tried to let my family and friends console me.  But I was broken.  Totally broken.  And lost.  Like a good Norwegian boy, I tried to hide my pain.

Anne Lamott writes:  “When I die, the people to whom I am closest should grieve forever.  They should never quite get over me.  Otherwise I will seem dead to them, no matter how close I may secretly be.” [Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair, 40.]

Dad, I have never gotten over your death.   I never will.  And I don’t want to. 

Thanks for not only sharing your faith with me, but even more so, for the unconditional grace and love I always felt from you.  I don’t know how you did it, but there has never been a moment in my life when I did not feel loved by you.