This Fathers' Day has a particular poignancy as it is the first since the death of my father. It felt odd not getting a card to send. (I did hear from my children, not to mention my wife and my mother-in-law. After my April heart attack, I'm actually grateful to be here for Fathers' Day!)
Here's an extra prayer we said in church for Fathers' Day:
Loving God, whom we also call Father, we pray for our own Fathers and all those who are father figures to us. We thank you for their wisdom and care for us. We bless you for their strength and patience. Bless them with peace and joy as we honour them all the days of their life. May they, like the men in the scriptures and Joseph, the foster father of Jesus, be just and true. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Monday, June 16, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
A long week...
If anyone is reading this, I hope they understand my absence since the day my father died. (That's still hard to type...)
On Friday, I began the long trip from Perry to Springfield, Illinois, where my father lived. My wife had to drive me 15 miles to Warner Robins to catch the 7:30 a.m. shuttle bus to the Atlanta airport. After a change of buses in Macon, I arrived in Atlanta after a two-hour ride. Next came a 33-seat American Connection flight to St. Louis for another two hours. Finally, I had to rent a car to go the remaining 100.6 (according to AAA) miles to Springfield. I drove up to the house I last lived in during the '70s about 4:30 p.m. Central time. Late February afternoons in central Illinois have one particular characteristic: COLD! (Especially when you've avoided them for about 30 years.) Adding to the poignancy of this trip was that this day would have been my father's 87th birthday. In fact, the birthday card I had put in the mail the day before he died was sitting on my stepmother's desk.
The house seemed strange without my father. I could think of only a short period in 1977 when my parents and sister (Aimee) were out of town for a bit when he hadn't been there. Some people came by, a friend of my stepmother, a high school friend of my sister... At one point I might have thought being alone at such a time was a good idea, but they provided comfort and friendship. My stepmother was unfamiliar with some of the items for my dad's uniform, since she had never seen him wear it. My sister and looked everywhere and while I could find his navigator wings and missile badge, his ribbons were nowhere to be found. Shirley suggested that I could put the wings and badge on his uniform at the church, but that was a bit too much and I said I'd let the funeral home people do it. And so to bed in a house much altered from when I lived in it and in a room that had been my sister's. (My old room was now Shirley's dressing room.)
Saturday morning dawned clear and cold, but not unbearably so. I rode with Shirley to her church, Central Baptist Church in downtown Springfield, across from the Governor's Mansion. The church was well arranged with my father's casket flanked by flowers from family and friends, airports in Illinois that he had worked with in his State job, and even from St. Christopher's in Perry (!). There was a display of his honors along with pictures of Dad and Shirley at their wedding in 1987, of a young Lt Davison from the '40s, and a painting of the church in Podington, England, near his WWII base.
The most difficult part for me was the open casket. I'm not a fan of open caskets. The technicians had done their job well and he looked better than when I saw him last summer, but he didn't look alive. Some spark was missing and I found it hard to look at what was left of the man who had been such a vital part of the first 52 years of my life.
Receiving friends, former co-workers, family members was emotionally easier but physically harder. Standing in place for two hours is difficult and by the end, my back and legs were very painful. I knew almost none of the people I was introduced to, in large part because of my 30-year absence from Springfield. I knew Aimee's friend Kim (the high-school friend mentioned above), who also had attended her husband's aunt's wedding. Coming here too showed how much she cares for my sister and I appreciated at least one familiar face. Many of Aimee's in-laws were there, but I had seen few of them since her wedding in 1991. I was struck by the near-reverence in which his former co-workers held him, one young woman even was saddened that she had only the chance to work for him for two weeks before his illness struck him down.
The service was well done. Although I missed some of the structure and ritual of the Episcopal Burial Office, the theology of the minister's message was well-expressed in a way that expressed his caring for our family. (In fact, all that Dr. Mills and his church did was tremendously helpful.) The eulogy was given by a retired Federal judge who had been one of Dad's friends. He discussed my father's WWII service, even reading Dad's description of one of his bombing missions. He described the many admirable qualities of my Dad's character and closed by saluting the flag-draped casket.
I escorted Shirley behind the casket as it was taken down the aisle to the "vestibule" (we would call it the "narthex") where the military honors would be rendered. I have seen them before and even assisted in a burial office at my church, but this was different. This was my father. The honors were performed movingly by an inter-service group of volunteers made up of veterans from the Springfield area. I stood at attention, even though I wore a suit, during the folding of the flag, the rifle volley and placed my hand over my heart during Taps. And then it was done.
A few thoughts at this point... I wore my suit because my uniform had mildewed and was not suitable for wear at such a ceremony. I would have felt my father's disappointment in me. But as I stood at the head of his casket, I did wish that I had been able to wear it that final time.
Also, while I can't fault the veterans' honor guard in any way, I was deeply disappointed that an Air Force honor guard from Scott AFB near St. Louis wasn't available. In fact, I was disappointed in the apparent lack of interest from the Casualty Affairs office at Scott when I contacted them. I plan to find out from my base's office whether this is now SOP for the death of retirees. If it is, while I understand the strain war and budget cuts have caused, something is horribly wrong if we place a low priority on honoring those who served before us. I may pursue that for a bit.
Finally, there were few truly dry eyes after the honors were completed, even among the younger people. My sister told me later that one of them expressed amazement at all my father had done. That is a reason why honoring them should be such a high priority and if we forget that, we are the losers, not those we should be honoring.
At the house, a catering had set out food for a gathering of family and close friends and neighbors. Again, I knew few of the people there, but it was a pleasant opportunity to unwind a bit from the emotions of the day.
Sunday morning dawned cold, gray, and very windy--10 degrees with a wind chill of -16. I had packed the night before so I could start the 100.6 mile trip to the St. Louis airport by 8, which I did. There was little traffic and I made good time. By the time I got to the St. Louis airport, the clouds had blown away, but the cold was still bone-chilling. That flight to Atlanta passed very quickly, the 1 hour 50 minute flight shortened to an hour and 15 minutes by the strong NW winds. We surprised the ground crew at Atlanta, who had to get someone to come operate the ramp so we could get off the plane. The temperature was in the 60s with a cooling wind, a relief after the midwest's reminder of why I moved south after high school. The bus ride to Warner Robins was uneventful and I was back home a mere 60 hours after I had left.
I told Shirley Saturday night that our parting from Dad was a grief we would always feel. When you first feel it, the pain is sharp and poignant and you wonder how you can go on. You do, though, because you must, and over time you become more accustomed to the loss and pain and you realize that the story of your life is not over yet. I do believe the parting caused by death is only temporary and in God's good time we will be reunited in a way and place we can't truly imagine.
Au revoir, Dad... We'll meet again someday.
On Friday, I began the long trip from Perry to Springfield, Illinois, where my father lived. My wife had to drive me 15 miles to Warner Robins to catch the 7:30 a.m. shuttle bus to the Atlanta airport. After a change of buses in Macon, I arrived in Atlanta after a two-hour ride. Next came a 33-seat American Connection flight to St. Louis for another two hours. Finally, I had to rent a car to go the remaining 100.6 (according to AAA) miles to Springfield. I drove up to the house I last lived in during the '70s about 4:30 p.m. Central time. Late February afternoons in central Illinois have one particular characteristic: COLD! (Especially when you've avoided them for about 30 years.) Adding to the poignancy of this trip was that this day would have been my father's 87th birthday. In fact, the birthday card I had put in the mail the day before he died was sitting on my stepmother's desk.
The house seemed strange without my father. I could think of only a short period in 1977 when my parents and sister (Aimee) were out of town for a bit when he hadn't been there. Some people came by, a friend of my stepmother, a high school friend of my sister... At one point I might have thought being alone at such a time was a good idea, but they provided comfort and friendship. My stepmother was unfamiliar with some of the items for my dad's uniform, since she had never seen him wear it. My sister and looked everywhere and while I could find his navigator wings and missile badge, his ribbons were nowhere to be found. Shirley suggested that I could put the wings and badge on his uniform at the church, but that was a bit too much and I said I'd let the funeral home people do it. And so to bed in a house much altered from when I lived in it and in a room that had been my sister's. (My old room was now Shirley's dressing room.)
Saturday morning dawned clear and cold, but not unbearably so. I rode with Shirley to her church, Central Baptist Church in downtown Springfield, across from the Governor's Mansion. The church was well arranged with my father's casket flanked by flowers from family and friends, airports in Illinois that he had worked with in his State job, and even from St. Christopher's in Perry (!). There was a display of his honors along with pictures of Dad and Shirley at their wedding in 1987, of a young Lt Davison from the '40s, and a painting of the church in Podington, England, near his WWII base.
The most difficult part for me was the open casket. I'm not a fan of open caskets. The technicians had done their job well and he looked better than when I saw him last summer, but he didn't look alive. Some spark was missing and I found it hard to look at what was left of the man who had been such a vital part of the first 52 years of my life.
Receiving friends, former co-workers, family members was emotionally easier but physically harder. Standing in place for two hours is difficult and by the end, my back and legs were very painful. I knew almost none of the people I was introduced to, in large part because of my 30-year absence from Springfield. I knew Aimee's friend Kim (the high-school friend mentioned above), who also had attended her husband's aunt's wedding. Coming here too showed how much she cares for my sister and I appreciated at least one familiar face. Many of Aimee's in-laws were there, but I had seen few of them since her wedding in 1991. I was struck by the near-reverence in which his former co-workers held him, one young woman even was saddened that she had only the chance to work for him for two weeks before his illness struck him down.
The service was well done. Although I missed some of the structure and ritual of the Episcopal Burial Office, the theology of the minister's message was well-expressed in a way that expressed his caring for our family. (In fact, all that Dr. Mills and his church did was tremendously helpful.) The eulogy was given by a retired Federal judge who had been one of Dad's friends. He discussed my father's WWII service, even reading Dad's description of one of his bombing missions. He described the many admirable qualities of my Dad's character and closed by saluting the flag-draped casket.
I escorted Shirley behind the casket as it was taken down the aisle to the "vestibule" (we would call it the "narthex") where the military honors would be rendered. I have seen them before and even assisted in a burial office at my church, but this was different. This was my father. The honors were performed movingly by an inter-service group of volunteers made up of veterans from the Springfield area. I stood at attention, even though I wore a suit, during the folding of the flag, the rifle volley and placed my hand over my heart during Taps. And then it was done.
A few thoughts at this point... I wore my suit because my uniform had mildewed and was not suitable for wear at such a ceremony. I would have felt my father's disappointment in me. But as I stood at the head of his casket, I did wish that I had been able to wear it that final time.
Also, while I can't fault the veterans' honor guard in any way, I was deeply disappointed that an Air Force honor guard from Scott AFB near St. Louis wasn't available. In fact, I was disappointed in the apparent lack of interest from the Casualty Affairs office at Scott when I contacted them. I plan to find out from my base's office whether this is now SOP for the death of retirees. If it is, while I understand the strain war and budget cuts have caused, something is horribly wrong if we place a low priority on honoring those who served before us. I may pursue that for a bit.
Finally, there were few truly dry eyes after the honors were completed, even among the younger people. My sister told me later that one of them expressed amazement at all my father had done. That is a reason why honoring them should be such a high priority and if we forget that, we are the losers, not those we should be honoring.
At the house, a catering had set out food for a gathering of family and close friends and neighbors. Again, I knew few of the people there, but it was a pleasant opportunity to unwind a bit from the emotions of the day.
Sunday morning dawned cold, gray, and very windy--10 degrees with a wind chill of -16. I had packed the night before so I could start the 100.6 mile trip to the St. Louis airport by 8, which I did. There was little traffic and I made good time. By the time I got to the St. Louis airport, the clouds had blown away, but the cold was still bone-chilling. That flight to Atlanta passed very quickly, the 1 hour 50 minute flight shortened to an hour and 15 minutes by the strong NW winds. We surprised the ground crew at Atlanta, who had to get someone to come operate the ramp so we could get off the plane. The temperature was in the 60s with a cooling wind, a relief after the midwest's reminder of why I moved south after high school. The bus ride to Warner Robins was uneventful and I was back home a mere 60 hours after I had left.
I told Shirley Saturday night that our parting from Dad was a grief we would always feel. When you first feel it, the pain is sharp and poignant and you wonder how you can go on. You do, though, because you must, and over time you become more accustomed to the loss and pain and you realize that the story of your life is not over yet. I do believe the parting caused by death is only temporary and in God's good time we will be reunited in a way and place we can't truly imagine.
Au revoir, Dad... We'll meet again someday.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Ralph S. Davison (Feb. 8, 1921-Feb. 5, 2008)
Today, a little after lunch, I got one of those phone calls that you never want to get. My stepmother called in tears to tell that my father had just collapsed at home and that the paramedics were there and said he had no heart activity.
Until about 2 years ago, I thought my dad would outlive me. At 85, he worked full time for the State of Illinois and wasn't that interested in retiring. He and my stepmother traveled a bit and he sounded quite vigorous. Then, in March, 2006, a tornado struck their part of Springfield, Illinois. While their house wasn't damaged, they were without power for several days and the basement got flooded. After several days in a cold, wet, powerless house, he developed pneumonia and he never could shake it. He would come in and out of the hospital and lost a lot of weight, down to about 130 pounds.
Last summer, I drove up to Illinois for the first time in 16 years (they had seen us in Texas and Georgia, where we lived) because I felt that I needed to get up there. While I was shocked by the frailty of his appearance, he was in fact stronger than I expected, doing things around the house. Throughout, his mind was clear. I really didn't get the feeling when I left that I wouldn't see him again.
But, he seemed to steadily decline, going back in the hospital and finally came home a couple of weeks ago. I talked to him last Thursday evening. He didn't really want to talk because he said he was so tired. Although he sounded very weak, I didn't really think this was the last time I would speak to him. Yesterday, I even mailed him a birthday card.
I have a mixture of emotions. I'm sad for several reasons. Since my mother died 23 years ago, the last link to my first years is gone. Although we got together rarely, we had frequently spoken frequently. He was proud that his grandson was interested in attending his alma mater, Georgia Tech. He was concerned as his granddaughter adjusted to married life. He was disappointed not to be able to attend my retirement from the Air Force Reserve last year, but enjoyed seeing the pictures I brought him. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.
I feel relief that his suffering and sickness are over and I am reminded that healing can mean release and not always curing. He now can be reunited with those who went before him, his parents, his sisters, my mother, and many more... and he now waits patiently for my stepmother and eventually my sister and me.
I now have a painful (final?) trip to Illinois in the next few days. I guess you could say that the sombreness of my mood matches Lent, which begins tomorrow.
Until about 2 years ago, I thought my dad would outlive me. At 85, he worked full time for the State of Illinois and wasn't that interested in retiring. He and my stepmother traveled a bit and he sounded quite vigorous. Then, in March, 2006, a tornado struck their part of Springfield, Illinois. While their house wasn't damaged, they were without power for several days and the basement got flooded. After several days in a cold, wet, powerless house, he developed pneumonia and he never could shake it. He would come in and out of the hospital and lost a lot of weight, down to about 130 pounds.
Last summer, I drove up to Illinois for the first time in 16 years (they had seen us in Texas and Georgia, where we lived) because I felt that I needed to get up there. While I was shocked by the frailty of his appearance, he was in fact stronger than I expected, doing things around the house. Throughout, his mind was clear. I really didn't get the feeling when I left that I wouldn't see him again.
But, he seemed to steadily decline, going back in the hospital and finally came home a couple of weeks ago. I talked to him last Thursday evening. He didn't really want to talk because he said he was so tired. Although he sounded very weak, I didn't really think this was the last time I would speak to him. Yesterday, I even mailed him a birthday card.
I have a mixture of emotions. I'm sad for several reasons. Since my mother died 23 years ago, the last link to my first years is gone. Although we got together rarely, we had frequently spoken frequently. He was proud that his grandson was interested in attending his alma mater, Georgia Tech. He was concerned as his granddaughter adjusted to married life. He was disappointed not to be able to attend my retirement from the Air Force Reserve last year, but enjoyed seeing the pictures I brought him. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.
I feel relief that his suffering and sickness are over and I am reminded that healing can mean release and not always curing. He now can be reunited with those who went before him, his parents, his sisters, my mother, and many more... and he now waits patiently for my stepmother and eventually my sister and me.
I now have a painful (final?) trip to Illinois in the next few days. I guess you could say that the sombreness of my mood matches Lent, which begins tomorrow.
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