Thoughts of my Father

I can remember my father telling me, sometime in my late teens, that he really loved the times we had together drinking tea and reading the paper on Sunday Mornings.  We would get up really early and insert ads, then load up the bags on our bikes and head out. It usually lasted an hour and when we got home we would sit and read for another hour before everyone got up. I didn’t say anything in response, just smiled… because, really, I hated him, and also those times. Most of it was being a teenage boy perhaps. But back then, my father was mean.

Many who knew and loved Jim Caruthers Sr in the last few years would not recognize the man I remember. Maybe they’d tell me that I was crazy, or I was being mean myself. In the last few years, as I have reflected back, I have tried to figure out what made him mean, but I have no real idea. And it isn’t important any more. My parents divorced when I was 17, and in typical teenage fashion, I made him the scapegoat for many of my issues, and had almost nothing to do with him until I joined the Army at 20. But I do remember one time, shortly before I left, when he and his new wife came by to drop off a present for my sister. For some reason I didn’t feel so angry, and tried to talk to him. But he said little and drove off quickly…

And it really wasn’t until 1983, after a few months in the Army, when I thought of him again. This time I had just finished seeing a new movie, Return of the Jedi, where a son and a father get back together, if only for a few minutes. I remember seeing it a lot and crying every time. And it took me a few months, but eventually I wrote my Dad a letter and told him that I forgave him and asked him to forgive me. I asked if we could start again. I felt that an effort other than a phone call was required. I pored over the words and later he told me that when he read it great tears ran down his face. I had no real response to hearing that, maybe it seemed odd. I didn’t think he cared that much. He had told me that he was a Christian now, and I remember thinking not a whole lot about that either, but the Lord and I had begun our dance through an army buddy who was witnessing to me. I stoutly refused to surrender, afraid of the whole thing.

I came home on leave and met up with my father and his wife, Wanda. At one point Wanda took me aside and in a very serious tone told me how much my visit meant to him, and how happy he was. None of my siblings wanted anything to do with him. I remember a road trip he and I took to Springfield. It felt a little awkward at first. I had spent so much time hating him, I wasn’t sure how to act. But we talked of the army and his job and other things. I remember sitting on the plane back home and thinking I really didn’t so much have a father as a 55 year old friend.

In 1988, I gave my life to Jesus on a highway in North Carolina at 11 at night. I really had no idea of what I had just done, but I remember sharing this with my father who, again, cried great tears at the news. And he told me he and Wanda had been praying for me. And again I thought, oh, okay, that’s nice.

To this day and every day of my life I will always believe that me forgiving my father was somehow a seed the Lord used to bring me to Himself. And as I sit writing this, crying, and wanting to come to my father’s service, every one of these feelings that at the time were so inconsequential, are now very powerful and emotional. Being a father myself now, I feel each one of my father’s tears over me, as I would have cried over my own sons. I feel him crying that I wanted to spend time with him, to get to know him again, and crying tears of joy that I had chosen to follow Jesus, his prayers were answered.

There was a song that came out in the eighties that had these words: “I wasn’t there that morning, when my father passed away, I didn’t get to tell him, all the things I had to say/I just wish I could have told him, In the living years.” And I am so extremely grateful that I got to tell him I loved him, that I forgive him, I believe in him, I am thankful for him and my mother adopting me, giving me a home and a start in life, that his marriage to Wanda and his walk with Jesus inspired me.

Dad, I remember the man you were… and I remember the pained look in your face a few years ago when you told me to my face how truly sorry you were. I will always see your life as a living sermon of what the Lord can do with a man who surrenders and gives his heart to Jesus. You were transformed. I read comments from people I don’t know, who remember you and your love and service and your heart… I read comments from Wanda’s daughters about how they loved you and you cared for them, and how much they miss you… and I see Jesus in your life, guiding you and teaching you and living through you. Dad, I want to be like you. I want to raise my boys like you. They will always know about you, even if their time with you was short.

Oh, that we could have those Sunday mornings over again. Maybe in Heaven there is a paper and we can ride our bikes again on those deserted Sunday morning streets, and I’ll bring my boys, and afterwards we can all sit down and just get to know each other.  But your life, Dad, has inspired me to look for those moments in my son’s lives, and teach them the good things of God, the things young boys should know, and to listen to them and find out who they are, and love them without condition. And I will love my wife like you loved Wanda, who truly misses you and has nothing but wonderful things to say about you and your life. I will truly miss you Dad, but it is a short wait until we are together again, this time forever.

And I would say to any who care to listen… don’t let the great things of life go unsaid, one to another. Learn from my father and let the Lord heal your bitterness. Call that someone and start again, even if it is difficult. You might find that they will cry great tears of joy.