A Day Late

I have been planning (and dreading) this blog for a long time. I even had a date picked out to publish it - October 16th. Well, October 16th almost came and went without me giving it a second thought, until shortly before midnight. I was actually typing the date into a document, at precisely 11:53pm, when I realized what day it was. My dad's birthday. I also knew it was too late to sit down and blog coherently at that time on my dad. So here I am, a day late, but hopefully no less honoring of my father's memory. He would have been 77 years old yesterday. When I say "would have been", you can see how this blog will go.

He has been gone now for over 22 years, taken at the young age of 54 by cancer. But I wish not to write so much about his death - though he faced it bravely, resting securely in the everlasting arms of his heavenly Father right to the end - rather I would like to talk about his life.

My dad was born Robert Edward Wilson on October 16th, 1929, and grew up in Cambridge, MN, just off the main drag of Highway 61, about an hour north of the Twin Cities. In fact, if you drive through Cambridge today and stop at the Dairy Queen, you are stepping in my dad's vegetable garden. I don't think he minds. In fact if you had stepped in it 70 years ago, I don't think he would have minded either. He probably would have asked you if you wanted a tomato. Just guessing, as I didn't know him then, obviously. Maybe someone more "seasoned" than I can corroborate.

My dad was a Boy Scout in Cambridge, attaining the rank of Eagle Scout, and his father, Edward, and his father's twin brother Edgar, were scout leaders. This leads me to my next story. My dad always kept a picture in his office at home of the Boy Scout troop of his childhood, with his dad and Uncle Edgar right there in the front row. Coming home from taking that picture, as they pulled into the driveway, Edward suffered a heart attack. Edgar got him out of the car and up to the house, where he also suffered a heart attack. Edward and Edgar, having been born within 5 minutes of each other, also died within 5 minutes of each other, there on that day. My father was 12 years old at the time. Now you know why that picture was so special to him. It was the last picture of his father and uncle alive.

The main reason I share that story is to say that I have always marveled at the fact that if my dad lost his father at age 12, where did he learn to be such a great father himself? My grandpa Edward, whom I never knew, must have packed a lot of character and upbringing into that boy in 12 years (and yes, I'm sure my grandma Olga had a little bit to do with it). I can only share a few memories to illustrate.

The first memory goes back to the days when we lived in Richfield, at 6444 12th Ave. South. The fact that we lived there tells me that this story dates to my kindergarten days or before. One day I went down to the corner drug store at 12th & 66th with my friend Steve Nygren. We both picked out a package of Lik'M'Aid (a fancy name for a packet of sugar), which at the time cost a nickel. My friend Steve gave the clerk his nickel. Now understand, this was about 18 years before I attained my B.A. in Economics, and I was not real clear on the ways of commerce. I figured if Steve's nickel was good enough for his Lik'M'Aid, it was good enough for mine too. Honest. Stealing did not even cross my mind. I think I even said something like "That's for mine too". So either the clerk did not hear me, or thought I was cute, because I was allowed to walk out of the store with my Lik'M'Aid without giving up a nickel of my own. Well, you can guess what happened. On the way home, I met my dad on the sidewalk, and he asked me where I got the Lik'M'Aid, knowing that I did not have a nickel. I told him the same story I just told you, innocent as can be, and my dad set me straight. Not in an angry way, but he explained to me that I had taken it without paying, and he walked me back to the drug store and made me return the Lik'M'Aid and apologize to the shopkeeper.

The next story is similar, only fast forward about ten years. Remember the Minnesota Kicks? I do. They were the local professional soccer team that played at Met Stadium (now sadly, Mall of America) in the mid-70s(?) and I went to many a game. One night after the game, as I was coming out, I bought a miniature soccer ball from one of the vendors, and he gave me back the wrong change, several dollars to my favor. I thought I had hit the jackpot. You think I would have known better by this time, but evidently not, because I was even dumb enough to mention it to my dad when I got home. This time his reaction was a little more, shall we say, animated, than in the story above, because supposedly I was old enough to know better. I guess the right thing to do was to acknowledge the error to the vendor and give him back the money. Because now he will be short at the end of the night because of me, and it will come out of his pocket, and that isn't right.

As you can see from the above stories, my dad was a strong believer in "doing the right thing", long before Spike Lee ever coined the phrase. And this deep sense of doing right did not spring from nowhere, but from a deeply rooted belief in the God of the Bible, and in his son Jesus Christ, whom he spent his life serving, and desired more than anything the same for his children.

And he walked the talk. One of the strongest memories of my father was of one night when he called me into his office. Though it is a strong memory, I do not recall exactly what age I was, probably around Jr. High age. And usually, when we got called into his office, it was not a good thing. I was really going to get it now. But instead, he wanted to sit me down in private and ask me to forgive him for wrongly punishing me in recent days for something that was not my fault. He had been mistaken, and said he was sorry, and asked me to forgive him. That floored me. I don't remember what I said if anything, but I do remember how I felt. For all the times I had made that man's life a trial, and never said "I'm sorry", and now he is saying "I'm sorry" to me? I was in awe of him. I still am.

I could go on forever, but I won't. You get the idea. Like I said, he has been gone 22 years now, and I can't say he comes to mind every day (I almost forgot his birthday, for goodness sake), but very often when I am trying to be a good father, and sometimes missing the mark, I find myself wondering "WWDD" - "What Would Dad Do?"

I love you, Dad, and I'll see you soon.

Trouble Is Relative

I know I have been a little lazy with my blogging lately, and as a result this story is a little dated, but rest assured, it has been blogged in my head for about a month.

August 20th, 2006 - a milestone in the Wilson family. It was on that date that Betsy bought a '96 Honda to take to school, and we became a 4-car family. Yes, a car for every driver and a driver for every car. Complete freedom. No more "dad, can I have the car tonight", and no more, "Kacie, can I have a ride to the bus stop?" If anyone needed to go anywhere, they would just get in their designated vehicle and go.

But anyone who knows my luck with cars knows how this story ends. Those heady days lasted exactly two weeks. Because my designated vehicle was a 1994 Ford Explorer, or as I called it the Exploder, and on Sunday afternoon, Sept. 3rd, it lived up to its name. As Marcia and I pulled into our parking space at Burnsville Center, we both smelled something not quite right. And when we got out of the car, there was a noticeable stream of fresh fluid following us all the way down the lane and into the parking spot. So I told Marcia to go on in, and I would try to make it home to pick up another member of our vast vehicle collection.

But I did not get very far, about two blocks. (I guess that's what we get for shopping on the Sabbath). By the time I pulled it over to the curb, barely moving, there was smoke billowing everywhere, and again, a sizeable streak of fluid trailing behind. I recognized these symptoms, because it happened to the same vehicle once before, almost two years to the day. Blown tranny.

I called the Allstate Motor Club (emergency roadside service is a must for me), and got the car towed to Goodyear. They were closed Sunday and Labor Day, so there was nothing to do but walk across the parking lot to the Starbucks to wait for a ride, while I drowned my sorrows in a Triple Grande Hazelnut Extra Hot Latte. Marcia called a friend to rescue her at Burnsville Center, and they came and picked me up.

By the time I got home, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, knowing that this was probably the end of the road for my beloved Exploder, and we were back to that horror of horrors that no human being should have to endure, that of juggling vehicles! Oh the humanity!

But then, as I was moping around the house, I happened to walk by Kacie's bedroom, and something hit me. So my car blew up. Big deal. Things could be worse. I got to thinking about what didn't happen to me on that day. I did not get a phone call from the hospital saying your daughter has been in an accident, and it doesn't look good. I did not get a phone call from the doctor's office, informing me that "the results are back, and the tumor is malignant". In the grand scheme of things, a blown tranny resulting in owning only three vehicles is probably pretty low on the tragedy scale.

Well, two days later, Goodyear confirmed my diagnosis, and at $2200 a tranny, I was not going to do it again. So I donated it to the American Diabetes Association, and two days later it was gone. So at least some good came out of it, they can take the $50 that car will fetch and put it towards finding a cure for diabetes.

Sorry, not done yet. I had another recent experience which reminded me that trouble is relative. I was discussing with a Christian friend of mine a recent item in the news, concerning a U.S. military chaplain who is being court marshalled for praying in the name of Jesus! We both agreed that this was a travesty, a violation of our First Amendment Freedom of Religion, and how things were really getting tough for us American Christians. Then the irony of the situation hit me full force, so much so that I mentioned it to my interlocutor, and he agreed.

You see, this conversation took place at the Fall Youth Group kickoff event, which was a swimming party at the home of a generous church family. So there we stood, poolside at a nice house in suburban Burnsville, lamenting the deplorable state of Christian life in America. I think there are probably some Christians in Sudan and North Korea who would beg to differ.

Point number three, and then I am done. Of course, as usually happens, whenever I am meditating on something in particular, my iPod seems to sense it, and joins in with something relevant to the conversation. Uncanny how it knows. So anyway, I recently came upon a new podcast (at least to me), from the Mars Hill Bible Church (just search for "Mars Hill" in iTunes), with pastor Rob Bell. Some of you I am sure are familiar with him. And he recently preached a sermon on John 21, where Jesus asks Peter three times, "do you love me", and tells him to "feed my sheep".

So he assigns to Peter a unique and exciting ministry opportunity, and what is Peter's response? Pointing to John, he says, "What about him?" Immediately, Peter, instead of taking his charge and running with it, is comparing the deal he got to someone else. And Jesus' response? "If he remains until I come, what is that to you?" And that was the title of his sermon, "What is that to you?"

What really hit me was when he expanded the application from individuals to churches. He described the church that is sitting on its hands and looking at all the mega-churches around them, and saying, if we just had their buildings, if we just had their resources, if we just had their staff, we could really do something. Instead of taking the ministry that God has given them and running with it. Wow. It is almost as though Rob Bell had been party to some conversations I have had in the last year. It is almost as if I am looking over my shoulder at Bethlehem, or Grace, or Wooddale, and saying to God, "What about them"? And I can hear God's reply, "What is that to you? Feed my sheep".

So I guess all I am saying is, be thankful for what you have, instead of being bitter about what you do not have. And don't compare yourself to others, because, as Rob Bell says, that will kill your joy. Rather, focus on being who God would have you to be, and doing what God would have you to do.

As for getting along without my own personal transportation, I catch a ride to the bus stop with Kacie every morning on her way to school (my bus stop, not hers - don't need any rumors starting), and if it is a nice evening, I walk home from the bus stop, adding a nice 15 minutes of podcast time to my day. Life goes on.