by jphilo | Mar 4, 2013 | Family
Sixteen years ago this day, my father died.
He was born almost 68 years earlier, the long-awaited and only child of his doting parents, Cyril and Fern Stratton. Maybe because he was an only his parents, who raised him on an Iowa farm during the Great Depression, could afford to take so many pictures of their little boy. Maybe caring for only one child gave his mom time to glue the photos on the black pages of an album and label them in her careful handwriting with a white-inked pen–page after page of quaint photos in which little Harlan looks like a member of the Little Rascals gang.
It’s hard to reconcile the blond-haired toddler in the pictures with my dark-haired dad until I see my father’s smile and joyful spirit shining on the child’s face. Then the resemblance is startling, striking, because throughout his life, Dad was a child–even a rascal–at heart.
When we were young, he was our kindred spirit. My brother, sister, and I loved to be near him. We snuggled close to him on the couch, though we learned to keep a wary eye out for his finger pokes and tickles. He taught us silly songs, showed us how to make goofy faces, and laughed until he cried at the television shows that made us laugh until we cried, too.
On summer days, when Dad wheeled his chair outside and parked in the driveway, the neighborhood kids came running. Children swarmed around him as he told jokes, handed out nicknames like candy, and–until Mom put a stop to it–gave wheelchair rides to those daring enough to climb into his lap.
As the years went by and multiple sclerosis stripped away Dad’s physical abilities, his speech, and finally, his memories, when all he could do was lay in a bed or sit propped up in a wheelchair, the presence of little children stirred him to life. His eyes followed the movement of his grandchildren. His head turned to the sound of the high, piping voices of his grand-nieces and nephews. A grin spread across his face and he snorted with laughter.
In the presence of children, his spirit broke through the walls of his ravaged body. For a moment, the man we missed so much returned. For a moment we saw, that despite a long struggle against a cruel and devastating disease, our father was still a child–and even a rascal–at heart.
Oh, Dad, I miss your smile.
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929–March 4, 1997
by jphilo | Dec 20, 2012 | Current Events
- God of all comfort, please comfort the children, comfort the parents, comfort the teachers and staff at Sandy Hook School in the hard days, months, and years to come as only you can.
- Wrap your arms around the family of Adam Lanza and comfort them, too.
- May your love for humankind demonstrated in the gift of your son, the baby in the manger, be the source of comfort and hope to those who mourn.
Image credit: www.christiansunite.com
by jphilo | Mar 5, 2012 | Family
Yesterday morning’s date, March 4, kept niggling in my brain. But until an email arrived from my youngest cousin Dan, the significance of the date escaped me. It was the anniversary of my father’s death. The fifteenth anniversary, to be exact.
Fifteen years since Dad’s soul left the body that imprisoned him for so many years.
Fifteen years since his wide grin graced my day.
Fifteen years since his family said good-by to the bravest man we knew.
Fifteen years later, my cousin Dan remembered the loss by sending this passage. I hope resonates in you as deeply as it did in him and in me.
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle each other.
Then someone at my side says: ‘There, she is gone!’
‘Gone where?’
Gone from my sight. That’s all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and she is just as able to bear the load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says: ‘There, she is gone!’ There are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout: ‘Here she comes!’
And that is dying.
~ Henry Van Dyke
In memory of Harlan John Stratton: May 11, 1929 – March 4, 1997
Here he comes!
by jphilo | Jan 16, 2012 | Family
Yesterday afternoon, Hiram went for a run.
The event hardly seems worth mentioning when compared to news of the cruise ship that capsized near Italy, the secretary general of the UN chastising the king of Syria, the race for the Republican presidential nomination, or outgoing governor Haley Barbour pardoning more than 200 convicted felons during his last hour in office.
But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning.
Because this is January in Iowa, a month written off by most joggers as too icy and cold for running outdoors. But this winter, the roads are still ice free and the temperatures much warmer than usual.
But excluding the weather, Hiram’s run is still worth mentioning.
Because it is a grace beyond what many men my husband’s age have been granted. We are surrounded by evidence of this reality. Hiram cares for patients who can’t walk because of serious heart issues. The memory of my wheelchair bound, fifty-five-year-old father in the nursing home never leaves us. We are praying for friends our age and younger who’ve recently had knee surgeries and hip replacements.
But Hiram’s run is worth mentioning for another reason.
In the past year and a half, four friends have lost their husbands. One to cancer. One to suicide. One to the effects of Agent Orange exposure in Viet Nam. One to a brain aneurysm. Two of them were younger than Hiram. Two were older, but not by much.
But Hiram was alive yesterday and went for a run.
His run is worthy of more than a mere mention. It is worthy of thanksgiving, even when my alive-and-well husband who went for a run yesterday forgets to take out the garbage. It is worthy of gratitude, especially when his sweaty running clothes in the bedroom hamper make the room stink. It is an event for which I am usually not grateful enough.
Except for today, when I thank God for my husband who went for a run yesterday.
by jphilo | Jan 2, 2012 | Church Newsletter Columns
In my book, this past month did not qualify as a Hallmark perfect Christmas. Too many friends experienced too many tragedies too close to the holidays. One friend lost her husband to a brain aneurysm. He was only two years younger than my husband. Two of her sons were preparing for college finals and the third was adjusting to a new school. Another friend faced the first anniversary of her husband’s death on Christmas Eve. Someone else received a grim prognosis concerning a disease she’s battled for years. A nine-year-old boy with the same esophageal anomaly as our son developed complications. His mom said her active, food-driven boy may soon require a feeding tube.
Tears flow when I think of the the loneliness and heartbreak of two widows, three young men without their dad to guide them to adulthood, and a woman destined to leave her family far too soon. When I think of the nine-year-old boy who may need a feeding tube for the rest of his life, I can imagine what our son’s life would have been like in similar circumstances. Then my tears give way to sobs and a profound, deep, unending grief.
In those sorrowing moments, I don’t like God very much.
I question His timing. Did you have to do it now, God?
I question His decisions. Did it have to happen to these people I love so much?
I question His compassion. Do you know how they feel?
Then I think of Mary in this year’s Christmas program. She’s waiting in the wings, holding her baby close. I close my eyes and picture God looking down on His baby, looking ahead through His Son’s life on earth to His death on the cross. I see the Father’s tears flowing into the bottle to join the tears of His Son, mixing with the tears of this past December’s new widows and orphans, of a little boy and his mother weeping while she pours bolus into a feeding tube. I see God’s tears mingled with theirs, with mine, and with yours.
I may never understand why God allowed such suffering into the lives of these people when He did. But I do know this. God understands how they feel. He has experienced their pain. And when his children cry out in the darkness, they never cry alone. God weeps, too, blessing them and us with His tears.
This past Christmas wasn’t Hallmark perfect. But, like the first Christmas, it was bathed in the Father’s tears. Not even a Hallmark perfect holiday can be better than that.
