Yesterday
was my dad’s 80th birthday. Before
COVID our family was planning on celebrating this Friday at the Hubbell House
in Mantorville, a restaurant where many of our family celebrations have taken
place. But the pandemic has changed our plans. My dad is fine with this milestone passing without a
lot of attention; however I want to take some time to write a tribute to him.
It’s not often that your dad turns 80!
He grew on a farm outside of Ringsted, Iowa, the youngest of six. When my sister and I were growing up we heard many stories from him about working on the farm. In particular he regaled us about the hundreds—maybe thousands, who knows maybe even millions—of hours he spent hoeing beans. He found a way to escape farm work by spending time with his mom in the kitchen. He learned to cook. And he decided he wanted to go to college.
He ended up at Mankato State. He graduated in three years, but more importantly he met my mom. She was the only woman he’s ever dated. They got married in August 1961. Both of them got teaching jobs in Paullina, Iowa. I came thirty-one months later even though my dad had trouble finding the hospital.
My family moved to Worthington where my dad got a job teaching English at Worthington Junior College. My sister was born there in November 1965. Life was not that complicated—family, church, work, community. All four blended into each other. He grew up going to First Presbyterian Church in Ringsted, Iowa, so my family attended Westminster Presbyterian Church in Worthington.
Life got interesting when he and my mom decided to go to Kansas City in the summer of 1972 to work for a social service agency called Cross Lines. The preaching of Bob Burnett at Westminster encouraged them to go. He ran a day camp out of a church for kids in a low-income neighborhood. My mom ran a food pantry that delivered food to people. They found their work so rewarding that my dad got a sabbatical from teaching. We spent over a year living in what was called, “the Inner City.”
We experienced a different world in Kansas City. We lived within a mile of two “projects;” we saw abandoned houses; garbage in the alleys; we locked our doors at night. Being there was the ultimate Mission trip. We loved being there. Living in Kansas City shaped how our family views the world. Many people wondered why my parents would take two elementary-aged kids to live in such a different environment in Kansas City. It was their way of serving the poor and teaching my sister and me that a big world existed outside of southwest Minnesota.
It’s not an accident that I became a pastor; my sister became a pastor, and then she married a pastor. These decisions were incubated in our experiences in Kansas City. Our family saw how faith could make a difference in the community.
My dad mastered the concept of “showing up.” He didn’t talk about love, he illustrated it. When I wanted to take violin lessons in Sioux Falls, he drove me every Saturday. When my sister got serious about 4-H, he drove her. He and my mom attended every athletic and music and church event in which my sister and I participated. Every—single—one.
Most importantly he was devoted to my mom. I never saw them argue in the first 18 years of my life. When I came home from college and saw them have a minor argument, it was so surprising that I wondered if they were going to get a divorce. Having that consistency from them provided a foundation for our home.
He has a lot of interests—square dancing and traveling and sports and politics. We rarely talk for long without some conversation being about the church. And every time I call on Friday mornings, I receive a report on how the morning Sudoku is going.
The world is a better place because my dad has walked it for 80 years. And even though five hip surgeries have caused him to walk slower, he still has a desire to help.
Thanks, dad for being you. Love you! I’m grateful for eighty years and hoping for many more
