Dear
Dad July 20, 1988 [eight weeks before he died] The
chairs—can I ever forget those beautiful chairs you made so skillfully
with your own hands? Today I wonder where those chairs are, and if
perchance I could have one. How I would love to have one of them! The
couches I remember, too, with their wide, curved wooden arms. We could
have sat on something much more simple. Ours was the first house of all
the missionaries to have a flush toilet and running water to sink and
shower because you had the foresight to take those things all the way to
Africa. And, Dad, the piano. To give us a
piano, you combined your skills—no, not of music perhaps, but of
patience, perseverance and perfectionism to give us a piano. You crated
it so carefully for shipment to Africa, but when it arrived at the
coast, there were no lifts with which to move it. So they rolled it end
over end over end. As a result, all the little hammers and sticks inside
came apart, and when we opened the crate they lay in heap at the bottom
like a box of tinker toys. Though you know nothing about music, you figured
out how to put it back together, and with an earlier single lesson in
tuning, you somehow made it playable. Play it we did, then—and we
still play. That heritage you gave us has been used in many places, in
many parts of the world. And we have passed it on to our own children
and others. Undoubtedly, they will pass it on to still others. Though you did not have the privilege of being
raised in a strong Christian home, when you heard the Good News, you had
the courage to accept it and to step out by faith and live what you
believed, no matter what it cost you. And you never turned back. Though
not trained in formal higher education, you studied the Word on your
own, and you taught and preached it faithfully. You set for us the
highest standard of godliness that a young person could desire. Your
loyalty and commitment to your Savior and your God led you and your
young bride to leave family and friends to go to a vast unknown in the
very heart of darkest Africa. It was farther away then than it is now. Travel was
long and arduous. Mail took forever. Medicine was minimal. There you
learned two new languages, and you established churches that exist to
this day. Whenever I have been tempted to shrink back from the task, I
have remembered your example. We didn’t have school, we didn’t have
luxuries; as I recall, we didn’t have candy. But we had some of the
greatest parents a child could ever want. Dad, you have never really told us how much it cost
you and Mother to give us an education at the best Christian college
around. Oh, we may have seen the bill—but how did you pay it? I guess
I don’t really know. Surely I have told you thanks, Dad, but it
won’t hurt to say it again. I know you must have done without a lot to
make that possible. And Dad, thanks for all the toys you fixed. I
always believed, and still do, that you can fix anything. Thanks for
encouraging me to enter one of the most exciting professions on earth. I
still remember your writing me a letter in your own hand when I was at
the Summer Institute of Linguistics training in North Dakota and saying
it was okay if I joined Wycliffe, if that was what I thought the Lord
wanted me to do. Thanks for letting me go far away, and for taking care
of all the business at home when we were gone. Thanks for taking care of
our children so many times, for giving them a piece of your mantel, for
sharing generously the little money you had. Dad, you taught us so many things—do I dare name
a few at the risk of excluding other important ones? Money just isn’t
that important. You don’t have to have money to be happy. God supplies
all our needs (and many of our wants). Family is important. Godly living
is essential. Sports are fun. Living by faith is a worthwhile risk.
Honesty is of utmost importance. I could go on and on. But what I want to say, Dad,
is that even though you are very sick now, in my mind you still exist as
the great man that you always were. You are no less important, no less
cared for, no less loved, no less esteemed. In fact, the opposite is
true. The fact that God has blessed you with 78 wonderful years does not
make pain any less real, or suffering any easier, nor your absence any
less painful when God chooses to promote you to glory. We’re proud of
you for the past—and we are proud of you now, Dad. You have met this
challenge with the same Godly courage that you have always used to
handle sorrow, difficulty, and hardship. One
of my greatest prayers is that you will know God’s peace and His
unmistakable presence through this valley until God chooses to bring you
out. His grace is sufficient. We’re
with you. We’re cheering for you. We love you. Dottie
[Daddy slipped away to heaven on September 12, 1988.] |