IN SEARCH OF MY FATHER

It was the famous photo album. Or, if you were my mother, the infamous one. “It” was from my dad’s days in the US Army/Air Corps during the tail end of WWII. It contained snapshots of him and his buddies, along with their B-24 and other aircraft. The planes were festooned with fanciful paintings of some rather voluptuous young maidens in various stages of undress—some in no dress at all, which was a very common military practice at the time. That’s really what mom thought it was—common—and we were forbidden to look at it.

Well, of course, you know what happened: we looked at the album whenever we could sneak a peek. “Oh, my! Look at her! And her!” Tee hee, giggle, giggle and all that. Probably the biggest surprise of the whole thing was that it belonged to our dad. It was dad’s! Yikes!

Anyway, the album is now in my youngest brother’s possession. I recently asked if he would scan and email to me some of the “plainer” shots, those that might have my father in uniform, which he did.

These WWII-era photos are tiny, black and white, somewhat grainy and...old. It took under-the-magnifying-glass inspection to figure out how many of the young men staring back at me from so long ago were actually my father. Some obviously were, some definitely were not and a few I wasn’t so sure about. A few handsome fliers sported grins, but most were quite serious. Those were, after all quite serious times. Were the men afraid? Were they worried? Did they wonder if they’d make it back unscathed, back to homes and hearths and honeys—if they had them?

I wondered, as I made this photographic inspection back through time and searched for something telling in his face, what my dad was like then. Was he afraid? Was he worried? My mother was not yet his to get back to and I’m sure I was certainly not yet twinkling in his eye. I realized I did not know much at all about this father. The one I did come to know was not much of a talker and had passed away two years ago, which made him unavailable for talking. I would just not ever know.

But my Heavenly Father? I know lots about Him. He is loving, kind, just, faithful, creative, present, everlasting. It was His desire to make Himself known to us—through His creation and through His Word. “They know the truth about God because he has made it obvious to them.” (Romans 1:9). I search the starry sky and see His magnificent face; I search the Words he left me and know without a doubt: that face is turned toward me in a deep, abiding, forever kind of love.

Mom, I Remember You

Mother’s Day. Rather like Valentine’s Day in that the cynics tend to call them “Hallmark holidays,” made-up celebrations to increase the coffers of that and other businesses such as the floral and candy types. It pains me when I hear people exclaim over their “hatred” for such days because, first of all, nowhere is it written that one must participate; and, second, I believe we forgetful, insensitive, selfish types (read all of us) need all the reminders and nudges we can get to honor those we love. (And as long as I am complaining when I mean to be honoring, I really, really, REALLY despise the use of the phrase “Mother’s Day s _ _ _ _” – it rhymes with ducks – considering the sordid etymology of that s-word. It might truly be difficult to celebrate the day when one’s mother has passed on, but that crude expression should just be banned when connected to a discussion of mothers. Actually just plain banned.)

My Mom passed away in August 2008 at the age of 83, about a month and a half short of 84. Her health had not been good for her last few years, and considering we know she is now in heaven by virtue of her faith in Jesus Christ, she is where she should be.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. I walk by the Mother’s Day cards and don’t buy any. I start to think about what she might like for a gift and remember she now has all the riches she could want. I hear Trisha Yearwood’s sweet song about her mama, “I Remember You” and remember mine.

Mom, I remember:

*Your roast beef dinners, accompanied by your fresh, yeasty biscuits

*Your willingness to always say yes when I asked you to babysit – what a huge help you were to a young mom!

*Your ability to fix all my clothing rips and tears (sorry, I never did learn to fix them myself)

*Your love of really, really clean – toothbrushes scrubbing down the corners, anyone? Did you like to clean, mom?!

*Your constant attempts at instilling your love of really, really clean in me – sorry, that didn’t completely work, either

*Your ability to stretch a dollar, and never letting on to your little ones that that’s what you were doing, because it was a necessity to do the stretching

*Your willingness to always do what had to be done, no matter how tired you were (and in 1957 when you had 4 of us under 5 years old, you had to be tired!)

*Your love for Jesus

*Your desire that I have that love for Jesus myself; thanks, Mom – that one “worked!”

*Your efforts in bringing us all to a good, Bible-believing church every week, most of the time on your own

*Your homemade birthday cakes – no one ever went without one

*Your homemade Halloween costumes – I only ever remember one “store-bought” one and that was borrowed from a friend

*Your constant supply of scrumptious brownies and cookies and pies (why did that stick with me and not the cleaning thing??!!)

*Your determination that your children understand right from wrong – and just why right was right and wrong was wrong

*Your agreement with Tenneva Jordan: A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.”

*Your obvious tickled delight in 1974 as you spied your first grandchild for the first time at the West Berlin airport – and your bravery in making that trans-Atlantic flight without Dad

*Your just-as-obvious tickled delight the few times you had all your kids and all your grandkids together under one roof

*The fun you and Dad had with Baby Bob in Babbitt (so glad we made that trip!)

Oh, I could go on, remembering. And yes, there’s sorrow when I remember the almost five long years Dad had to spend without Mom. Or that Mom never got to meet her youngest grandchild and five of her great-grandchildren. But in the remembering there is joy and there is gratitude. And a profound sense of blessing for being the children of our mom.

“I can picture you, like a photograph
I can see your smile
I can hear your laugh
No I don't have to look back
I remember you

When I'm all alone
You're all around
I tell you things, yeah I talk out loud
Ever since you left the ground
I remember you

You can ask the sun
You can ask the moon
Every day that goes by
I remember you

And even when
I close my eyes
Like a dream, you come back to life
I can't escape your love, your light
I remember you

And I know some day
Only God knows when
I'll touch your face
And I'll breathe again
And life goes on, so until then
I remember you.” (Trisha Yearwood)