It’s 8:44 pm, December 29, 2016, and as I sit down to my computer I am filled with profound sorrow—my heart deeply broken, wounded. My dad, my hero, died this morning, complications related to the dementia that he fought for more than three years.
When my older sister delivered the devastating news after calling me this morning, I sat numb. Surely, she's mistaken, or perhaps, I'm having a nightmare. "Please God, let me be having a nightmare," I thought. Mere moments after I hung up the phone, still numb, I arose, showered and headed to my parents' home praying that my sister was mistaken.
It seemed only a few short hours before that I'd seen my dad. I spent most of yesterday with him—sitting with him, talking with him, singing to him, dancing "with" him (we liked to keep the swing music channel playing because he liked the music), trying to coax him to eat. I wheeled him over to the front door so he could look out and see what a beautiful day it was, never suspecting that those moments, that day, would be our last together.
I don’t think I told my father often enough how much I loved and respected him, or how much I learned from him. I'm certain he knew. Over the course of my life, particularly after becoming a teenager, my father and I had our share of disagreements about a great many things. Most children and their parents do, yet I respected him as a father and as a man, and loved him deeply, and I know he loved me. He loved all of us very deeply—his children, grandchildren, great grands, and my mom. He was very proud of his family.
Before the dementia and even in the early to middle stages of it, my father always carried himself with an air of dignity and confidence and grace, wherever he went. He was a strong, intelligent, independent, hardworking, and genial man of steadfast faith and conviction.
He loved people and he loved serving people. He was committed to demonstrating his faith in God through his actions—he diligently and compassionately served the members of his congregations and the community for more than 60 years. Whenever someone called my dad for prayer, he responded. Sometimes it didn’t matter what time of the night or day it was. I witnessed him on many occasions get out of his bed after midnight to drive to a hospital to pray for a member or one of their family members who was sick and wanted prayer. You could say that love by deed, not by word only was his motto.
I used to marvel at the ease with which my father could engage strangers in hours-long conversations, about pretty much anything: religion, politics, raising children, cars, sports, home repairs, fishing, race walking, and very definitely the Bible. It seemed as if people instinctively knew he was a man who cared about them and would try to help them in some way if need be, so they would pour out their hearts to him and he'd listen, always directing them to trust and believe in God to work things out on their behalf. I also think his friends and neighbors just enjoyed talking with him because he had such a warm, friendly presence.
For nearly 20 years, I had the honor of serving as my father’s assistant and office administrator at the church that he founded and oversaw for nearly 50 years. I accompanied him to most of his speaking engagements, and to a few marriage ceremonies, funeral services, nursing home and hospital visits and occasional home visits. It was my job to keep up with his hat (as he never went anywhere without a proper hat), his robe, and sometimes his Bible. Witnessing him in action outside of Sunday mornings, I can attest as can my entire family to the fact that he held firm in his beliefs and what he taught others about God and Christ. Even during the final days of his life, we would hear him talking of God's love, singing a praise song even if he could no longer remember all the words, and offering up a “hallelujah” or two. I remember him telling me just a few days before he died as I sat by his bed, "It'll be alright, God is going to bless you, baby."
Among my favorite sermons that I can recall my dad preaching was some years ago, mid 2000s, about the story of how King Jehoshaphat and the children of Israel prevailed against a threatened attack by the Moabites and Ammonites.
(2 Chronicles: 20) When my dad started feeling that thing as he was talking, I remember vividly how he began to walk up and down the aisles—handkerchief in hand, head thrown back—exuberantly declaring over and over and over again as King Jehoshaphat had instructed the children of Israel to do: “Praise the LORD, for his mercy endures forever. Praise the LORD, for his mercy endures forever.” "Whatever you're going through, whatever the problem," I remember him saying just keep repeating “Praise the LORD, for his mercy endures forever.”’
At home later that evening, I could still hear my father's voice ringing in my ears: "Praise the Lord, for his mercy endures forever."
Despite growing up poor in the segregated south, my dad knew he wanted more for his life and was determined to get it. He often shared the story of how he committed himself to leaving the red dirt roads of Texasville, Ala., and forging a better life for himself and the family he hoped to have one day. He devoted himself to learning to read and write, believing that education/knowledge was his way out of poverty. My dad loved to read, he loved learning. During the early years of his life and ministry, he read through the Bible so many times that he could quote it word for word, chapter and verse, even the most obscure passages.
He instilled in us, his children, a great thirst for knowledge and passion for education. I cannot count the number of times he'd admonish us while we were in school to make learning as much as we could a top priority. He'd share with us stories of how blacks in the south were denied access to quality education, and how vitally important it is to our success in life to take advantage of any opportunity we have to learn. "People can take away your money and your possessions,” he'd tell us, “but what you have inside you, inside your head, no one can take that away.”
My father also instilled in us the value of hard work and giving 200 percent to whatever you do. He encouraged us to always be diligent in our work, no matter what job or position we held. Countless times I'd listen as he reminded me or someone else, "Even if you're only hired to be the janitor, then you mop floors like Michelangelo painted pictures," an expression I would later learn that he loosely borrowed from the late Dr. Martin Luther King. It may not have been an original expression, but my dad believed it and demonstrated it as he was definitely a diligent worker. In fact, it was his diligence while working as a janitor at NSA that caught the attention of a director who offered him the opportunity to secure a better position provided my dad complete college. He did and was promoted as promised. My dad retired from NSA in 1977 as one of the agency's chief analysts. It was this same diligence that earned him a number of top sales awards and honors as a district manager for World Book. Not bad for an African American man raised in abject poverty in a small town in Alabama that most people have never heard of.
Years after retiring, my dad would give me and my family another reason to be very proud of him when at the ripe young age of 75 he received his Master's in Divinity; about two years later at 77, he received his Doctorate degree, officially earning the title "Dr. King" by which many people had been referring to him for years.
By afternoon today, my siblings and I began notifying friends, extended family members, neighbors, and former members of his congregation about my dad's death. Almost immediately, the condolences began pouring in with many expressing how much they loved my dad and how his presence in their life had impacted them for the better. It made my heart glad for others to share how much they loved and respected my dad.
In January of this year, I wrote another post about being awakened one night by my dad while staying at my parents’ home. He was delivering what sounded like a sermon—the familiar preacher's cadence, strong urging, intermingled with an occasional “Hallelujah.” I recalled that night how just six years ago, while watching my father speak one Sunday morning I thought that he may very well leave this life like Moses—full of strength and days. He was already in his mid-80s then, and preached as hard that day as I had heard him preach 20 years prior.
As the dementia took hold and he began to struggle to recall the Bible verses that once came to him so easily, or what he had eaten for dinner mere moments after he'd eaten it, my faith began to falter. It was rekindled that night in January as I listened to him speak. And in the days afterward, I could still sense the fight in him as he sought to hold onto the memories of the names of his children and grandchildren, the place where he grew up and his current home, his sense of independence (“I know what I’m doing,” he'd shout sometimes when someone was trying to help him), and even his own name.
“Keep fighting dad!” I wrote. “While you may not leave here like Moses, at the very least you'll be able to say like Paul: "I have fought a good fight, I have kept the faith.”’
My dad lived a remarkable life devoted not only to caring for his family, but also to caring for and serving his neighbors, church members, and anyone else God placed in his path. He was loved by many, most especially his family.
Right now my family and I are hurting—deeply. I cannot find the words to fully describe the pain and emptiness I am feeling in my heart. Even now as I sit
here writing this, I am wishing I could just close my eyes and awaken
to discover that this whole day has been one really long, bad dream. I
don’t expect this hurt, this emptiness I'm feeling to ever fully leave
me as the selfish part of me wanted my dad to tough it out and remain
here with me.
The loving part of me, however, deeply
desired for him to be free of the hateful disease that had stolen his
mind and life. I had prayed countless days and nights since my dad’s
became ill for his healing until his last day in his physical body. And still I prayed, even after he departed. For
reasons I will never know, it was not to be.
I am grateful for all the invaluable lessons my father taught me, and for the love he showered upon me, upon all of us. Throughout his life, throughout his ministry, he gave selflessly of himself. Even when my father and I disagreed, sometimes quite intensely, I knew he loved me. He simply wanted for me, for all of his children, his grandchildren, and great grandchildren, to live the best life we could possibly live.
As I sat in the living room of my parents' home this evening with my brother where less than 24 hours ago my father sat also, it was eerily quiet—"too quiet," my brother noted. Something, or more precisely, someone, was missing.
I want to believe that my dad, my hero, is at peace now, not in the way I had hoped, but still at peace.
Having witnessed all that my father went through during the past three years, particularly the last six months of his life, I take comfort in knowing that my father can truly claim as the Apostle Paul did that "I have fought a good fight and I kept the faith.”
