My dad was
larger than life, to me. He was five foot and eleven inches, had a broad chest,
jet-black hair, bushy eyebrows, was handsome, and had a presence that filled
any room he walked into, without saying a word. He was two parts St Paul, one
part John Wayne: he knew the Truth of
God in Holy Writ and, pilgrim, you had better listen up. For a little over 35 years,
he was my supporter and cheerleader, my sparring partner and coach, and my
greatest hero.
I have no
memories of ever needing my dad and him not being there for me. (The same goes
for my mother.) I remember him calling me late one night while I was lying in
my dorm room at Samford University, sick with what the doctor referred to as
walking pneumonia. “Your sister just called and told me you were ill. I’ll be
up there tomorrow to check on you.” The next day he and my brother Richard
drove from St. Petersburg to Birmingham to hang out with me for 3 days. That
was my father. Whether it was a crisis, a decision with which I was struggling,
or a victory I was celebrating, he was right there with me and for me.
As a coach,
dad was formidable. Arguing and intellectually sparring with him was like
arguing with a man who had completely mastered Socratic thinking, memorized the
Encyclopedia Britannica, and was actually alive during the times of the Old and
New Testaments. You’d think I would shy away from any and all arguments with
him but hope sprang eternal that I could best him. And I was young, which is to
say, arrogant.
I remember
one time during my 9th grade year coming home from school and proudly announcing
that I had wiped the floor with a classmate with whom I had debated Evolution v
Creation. Reading the notes I had used, my dad kept burrowing his bushy
eyebrows until he finally threw my notes down and announced he would not only
have destroyed my arguments in favor of Creation, but also, had he been the
teacher, he would have failed me. Dad believed in Creation. “Your science is
outdated, your logic is faulty, and you didn’t engage the best arguments from
the best minds in support of evolution. I have no doubt that you out talked the
guy but that doesn’t mean you won the debate. I don’t want you ever to speak of
this subject again until you actually know what you are talking about.” (Cue Dad walking away peeved with me.)
As I
reflect on dad’s life, there are many experiences that stand out as heroic to
me, but, as I am now 60, one stands out in particular. As I grew into
adulthood, many of our beliefs, well, let’s just say they diverged. Our
arguments were epic. When he was in his 30s and 40s, one of dad’s greatest
faults was that all his convictions
were written in capital letters and, if you differed from The Truth, as he
perceived it, you were excommunicated from his circle of friends. Consequently, he was a very lonely man.
By the time he was in his 50s, however, dad had made major character changes, whereby, virtue had become as important as Truth to him. Do you know how
few people over 40 years old are willing to make such massive shifts in
character? Very few. To this day, I pray that I would be able to follow in his
footsteps remaining malleable until the day I die.
Dad died
February 16th, 1988, at the age of 61. Due to failing kidneys
(diabetes) and an inner-ear neuropathy, he was pretty much bed ridden for 4
years. The last years of his life were purgatorial. Given his mood swings
during this time and the fact that we all knew he wasn’t long for this world,
it was also purgatorial for mom and the children. Two days before he died, while
sitting on his bed talking with him, he asked me what was troubling me. “You
are dying dad. It’s not important.” He replied, “You are agonizing
over something, son. Talk to me.” After pouring out my heart, he shared with me
the wisdom of a man who had spent his adult life seeking the Holy Grail of
loving God with all of his heart, soul, and strength, and loving others as he
loved himself. One last time, dad was there for me, coaching me, and
challenging me with his heroic faith, all while slipping into eternity.
Copyright, Monte E Wilson, 2013
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