Daddy

Today, August 9, is the third anniversary of my father's death. You can read about that by clicking here.

 

When we met with the minister a couple of days before the funeral to tell him stories he might be able to use in his sermon, this is the story I shared with him. I used it in my Elijah book to illustrate my understanding of love.

           When I was fourteen, I learned to drive while working on my grandfather’s farm for the summer. An older cousin, Royce Dodd, took me under his wing and taught me how to drive an old army surplus jeep. It was in less-than-perfect shape, and I had to learn to double shift and sort of slide into and through second gear. It had little pick-up, and I had to push the pedal to the metal to get it to move, but by the end of the summer, I was managing well enough to feel confident when I began my driver’s education classes at school.

         One day in the fall, before I had actually gotten into a car to drive in driver’s ed, my brother was playing down the road when dinner time rolled around. My father tossed me his keys and told me to go get him. I made excuses, but he assured me I could do it. After all, it was a country road with little or no traffic, the distance to cover was only about a block each way and I had learned to drive over the summer. Right?

       I got into my father’s Plymouth with some trepidation, but also with some excitement. After all, this was an automatic transmission. I did not have to worry about the clutch or shifting gears. How hard could it be?

        I started the engine, sat for a moment, pushed it into reverse and, as I had done many times with the jeep, floored the gas pedal.

     Unlike the rickety old jeep, the Plymouth was in good shape and had approximately a gazillion horsepower engine. It flew out of the garage, narrowly missing my mother’s car and the central supporting pillar, across the curve of the driveway and into a tree in our neighbor’s yard.

         I was physically unhurt – there is much to be said for the physical resiliency of a fourteen-year-old – but when I got out and saw the crushed rear fender, I was sick at my stomach. I waited for someone to come, but apparently no one had heard the crash that to me had seemed to shake the Texas countryside. There was nothing to do but go tell my father.

          I went back into the house, where he was still reading the newspaper and told him what had happened. He folded the paper, got up and said, “Let’s go see.”

         We went out and he walked around the car. He jumped up and down on the bumper a couple of times and got it loose from the tree. Then he turned to me and said, “Get in.”

          Get in? Get back in the car? Surely you jest!

         He was serious. He had me get back in the car, in the driver’s seat. He got in and had me start the car, pull away from the tree and down the drive, and then he talked me through driving down the road to get my brother and all the way back. His only concession to my poor driving skills was that he let me get out and he put the car back in the garage himself.

         To me, that was a great act of love. My father accepted what I had done. I know he did not like it or approve of it. But he accepted it, and more importantly, he accepted me as the one responsible. He then challenged me to do better by having me get back in the car and drive. Finally, he committed himself to me by getting in the car with me, even though he saw what I had just done. That may have been the greatest act of love of all.

        Incidentally, I once used this story as an example in a homily I gave on Mother’s Day when I was on sabbatical. I was going to be leaving before Father’s Day, so I couldn’t save it for then. One of the nuns recorded it and gave me a copy to give my father. When he and my mother listened to it, my mother was moved to tears. But she wanted to know where her homily was! Sadly I left the priesthood and ministry before I ever got to use a story about her in a sermon. But she is my mother, and you and I both know that  there are a million stories of love in that statement.