It’s Veterans Day here in the U.S., so my thoughts turn to my earthly father, William (Bill) Davies.
He served in the Army in World War II. He was at the Battle of the Bulge, a five-week battle in December 1944 and January 1945. According to Wikipedia, this was “the largest and bloodiest single battle fought by the United States in World War II,” with at least 77,000 casualties and more than 8,600 deaths.
My father was fortunate to make it home alive. He was sent back to the U.S. with frozen feet and a Purple Heart.
He never talked about the war. My mother told me that he had nightmares for years.
My Dad died in 2010 at the age of 88. The older I get, the more thankful I am that he was my Dad. Today I’m realizing (again) how little I appreciated him when he was alive.
He was a quiet man. When it came to conversation, he was a minimalist, so when he did say something, it was usually significant.
I stuttered as a child, sometimes uncontrollably. Talking could be a huge challenge. My Dad did his best to help me overcome it.
He took me to a psychiatrist to figure out the cause. I don’t know how much those counseling sessions may have helped. But what I understand now is how much my Dad loved me. He took action in an attempt to make my life better.
He also would try to get me to relax about it, to even laugh at myself, which I refused to do.
We both liked sports, and he would take me to watch the local minor-league basketball team, the Wilmington (Delaware) Blue Bombers. I loved going to those games with him.
One night, on the way home after a game the Blue Bombers won in a thrilling comeback, I was so excited, I couldn’t say anything. This is known as “blocking,” and I was blocking on every word. The marbles in my mouth had become the Rock of Gibraltar.
I’ll never forget what my Dad said to me. “Wayne, how about you write me a letter when we get home?”
At the time, I didn’t get it. I just got mad at him. How could I laugh at what I hated?
Fifty-some years later, I finally get it. This was a wise and loving use of humor to get me to not take myself so seriously.
Another topic that my Dad didn’t talk much about was religion. He was raised in a Christian home, but after the war, he became an atheist. When I became a believer, he said to me, “After what I saw over there, you can’t tell me there’s a God.”
This is a common objection to the claims of Christianity. “If a loving God exists, why is there so much suffering in the world?”
But years later, when his health began to fail, I believe that God used my Dad’s mortality to soften his heart. I sent him a book about Christianity (One Heartbeat Away: Your Journey Into Eternity, by Mark Cahill). After he read it, he called me on the phone to tell me, “I think it’s time for a change. God is the Boss.” During his final days, he would ask my Mom to play an audio recording of the Bible, so he could listen to the Word of God.
I take comfort in these signs of spiritual life in my Dad.
I look forward to seeing him again one day. Should that happen, eternity will provide plenty of time to offer thanks to both my earthly father and my heavenly Father for their love.
Oh, how I miss him. Oh, how I wish I had thanked him more often for being my Dad.
