How do you say good-bye?
How do you say good-bye to the man who taught you to throw a baseball, catch a fish, shoot a gun, turn a mechanics wrench, and most importantly, laugh at yourself? How do you say good-bye to the person who was always there for you when you needed a hand up or needed to be told to sit down? How do you say good-bye to the one who taught you the basic values of being a man in the best sense of that word and gave you the freedom and support to shape that understanding in your own way? How does an eldest son say good-bye to his father?
For nearly twenty years now I have been involved pretty significantly in doing ministry with men. I have sat up long nights at men’s retreats offering a listening ear to men who were struggling with the death of their own fathers. I have heard tales of hard fathers and absentee fathers. I have heard tales of fathers who were heroic in the eyes of their sons. I know that regardless of the kind of father any son has the death of his father leaves a void that seems to take for ever to fill, if indeed it ever does.
Now, I stand at that same crossroad.
Since my journey in men’s ministry began those many years ago I have had the privilege of reflecting a lot on my relationship with my dad. He was a great father to me and my two siblings. We never had any excess, really, when it came to the material things in life, but we always had all that we needed. My father was not into organized sports so he was never the one to push me to excel in baseball or basketball but he was always there to support my efforts and interest. He and I never connected around those common themes between fathers and sons.
What my dad did love to do was fish, collect and target shoot guns, and work with his hands, especially when it came to fixing/rebuilding something mechanical. My father always created ample time for me, especially when it came to being part of his interests and activities. My brother and I went fishing with my dad a lot. He and I have wonderful memories around those adventures. I still love to fish and taught my children that same love. We went target shooting a lot. Many Sunday mornings in the winter months we were up and gone before daylight to shoot at a variety of targets with the latest new rifle he had acquired by trade. That was an interest I never carried on. When it came to his mechanical interests I remember helping him in a number of projects especially rebuilding an old army jeep that he bought to restore. And, when I bought my first car at the age of seventeen, a 1961 Ford Falcon, he helped me rebuild the head on the engine. Unfortunately, that old car required so much more than that. It was in doing that kind of work that I learned the art form of using “colorful metaphors” to express myself.
I never remember a time of being unappreciated or ignored by my dad. I remember being taught a lot of practical application to life. I remember a lot of love, a lot of laughter and a lot of freedom to discover my way in the world. I was never handed a script, only the rules of engagement for living life with integrity. Honesty, hard work, treating every person with dignity, the ability to laugh at oneself, and love of family were the primary virtues that my dad gave me. I could not say, like some, that my dad was my hero. I can say that he was exactly the kind of father I needed, a father who blessed my life beyond measure and filled his role in my life the very best he knew how. His presence in the world gave me a sense of security, a willingness to take risk, the courage to face the unknown just because I knew he was there. Now he is not.
My world, my personal approach to the world, today feels a lot less secure than it did several days ago. That’s the void in me that my father’s death has left. That is my crossroad. That is my unknown territory.
Dad, you blessed my life for 57 years and you will continue to bless it all my days but in new and undiscovered ways. Thanks for being the best dad this son could ever have.
James M. Alexander
7.20.1932 to 6.25.2010
