by Mavis Moon
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| Mom & Dad the week after Xmas 2017 |
Mom often said to me, “If you find someone half as good as the man I found, you’ll have a good man.” A couple days after Dad passed away, she said again, “He was such a good man.” Dad loved his family, all his family, and especially his wife Fran. One of the rare pieces of advice Dad gave me was, “The best gift you can give your children is to love your spouse.” He demonstrated that love and commitment throughout their 64 years of marriage.
Even recently, when they could not be at the same facility because Mom’s health demanded more assistance and she went to the Christian Health Center, Dad moved to Lynden Manor so he could cross the parking lot each day in his motorized wheelchair to be with Mom every day.
During your hard winter in Lynden this year, with all the snow, he did not let that stop him, either. Dad fell over in the parking lot one day and was fortunately helped up by a delivery man. There was a flurry of emails among us siblings and to Dad, calls to the facilities about watching Dad as he crossed, getting help for him, telling him not to cross when the path was not clear, and so on. Then another email came from my sister saying, “Turns out we don't need to fuss at Dad about whether he can take his wheelchair out into the icy elements because he pays no attention whatsoever to what we say!...Hi, Dad! Hope you're not in a snowbank!”
Many people who have expressed their condolences talk, too, about what a good man Dad was, so kind and easy to talk to. He was good at asking questions and taking a genuine interest in people. If someone else answered the phone when he called, I would always know it was Dad because the person who took the call would be answering question after question.
He asked anyone with whom he had contact all about their lives. Dad kept this up to the very end. As the workers at the nursing home helped him out of bed, he’d start with his questions. I was sitting outside the bathroom just the day before he died listening to one of the workers tell Dad all about Iowa where she was from, and where she went to school. And Dad liked every detail. When we spoke on the phone, if I happened to mention, for instance, that we’d just finished lunch, he would say, “What did you have?” and he really wanted to know! My sister says, “Dad is interested in details about my life that even I think are boring.”
My dad had so many wonderful attributes, it’s hard to decide what to talk about. One was the way he would take everything you said seriously, and try to help you explore and understand, especially if the subject was something to do with faith and beliefs. Sometimes his responses would edge into almost sermon-izing, but you knew it was because he was very earnest about helping you understand.
Once he demonstrated this trait when it actually wasn’t that serious. I came home and repeated a riddle to my mom that had been circulating at school. I asked, “Can God do anything?” and the correct response was, “Yes,” and next I’d ask, “Then can he make a rock too big for himself to push?” When Dad came in the room, I asked, “Dad, can God do anything?” He launched into a big explanation, “Well, even though God can do anything, He follows the natural rules of creation, and so on and so on.” I looked at my mom rather helplessly. She said, “Kinda takes the fun out of it, huh?”
My dad was a theological scholar, one of the most learned men I know, a voracious reader, someone whose beliefs I’d always thought were mostly based on “head knowledge.” But when my brother Dan was dying of ALS 10 years ago, my dad displayed a deep, childlike faith. Dan was fretful and worried about how his wife Kathy and the family would be set financially when he was gone. Dad said, “Dan, it’s okay. Don’t worry about Kathy. We will make sure she and the kids are alright. Why don’t you think about the other side? Think about who you’ll see, like Grandma and Grandpa, Uncle Hip, and the others.” I thought of that time again as I was sitting beside Dad those last few days of his own life. It is a great comfort to know that Dad had no fear of what would happen after he died.
But although he was serious, and earnest, and even scholarly, Dad loved to laugh. So many things struck him as funny. Later, when you see the slide presentation, you might notice a photo of him in college with a group of friends. Dad has his eyes closed and is laughing,... you can just see his pure joy. When he would tell a joke, he would laugh so hard he could hardly get to the punch line. Then when he did get there, he’d often say, “Oh, how did that go again?” and it didn’t matter. It was hilarious. He thought kids were funny, too. Even when they were naughty he could not help laughing at them. Someone once said about a little boy, “Tommy thinks he’s real.” Dad seemed to feel it was amazing that kids thought they were real. My favorite times were when he would laugh so hard it would get to that silent laughing phase. He could hardly catch his breath.
I’d like to end my testimony with a some participation from you. This speaks a little bit to his humor. Those of you who know my dad know that he had phrases and sayings you could count on hearing if you asked the right question, or said the right thing. In my family, we called them “Grandpa Lou-isms.” I’m going to say a part of some of them, and those of you who know them, please join in with me:
because they got no bones (or seeds).
If you dropped something on the floor, or found something there, he would say,
Op de vloer.
If the name of a certain city in Michigan came up, Dad couldn’t just say, “Kalamazoo,” he’d say,
Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo
If you asked the simple question, “Why?” he would answer
Cuz a y has a tail on it
Hold ‘er Newt...
She’s a rarin’
We're off!
Like a herd of turtles.
Good enough….
For who it’s for.
Put your shoes on Lucy,...
don't ya know you're in the city?
Save the bones for Henry Jones…
'cause Henry don't eat no meat.
Are you ready?
Or are you ready's brother?
I guess with Dad’s passing, we are all “ready’s brother.” We weren’t ready. We would never be. We take comfort in knowing that Dad loved us, that we loved him, and he knew it. We’ll miss you, Dad. You were a good man.
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| Mom with Randy, me, Ashlee, Zach & Violet at the visitation. |
I took pictures of Dad's "closet" in his bathroom at Lynden Manor. He preferred hooks to hangers. I took home one of the multi-colored shirts. I loved when he wore that and the red pants and suspendors.
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