Faye’s father died earlier this week. Not her biological father, and I can’t remember exactly where he fit in the scheme of things. But in his latter days, Faye was the primary care-giver. I admire that. Since Faye was in our 40 Days of Purpose group this fall, we went to the viewing last night in Geneva, where the ice remains very thick on the trees. Further south, telephone poles had snapped in half, unable to bear the weight of ice on the lines.
Faye’s father served in the Navy during World War 2, and saw action, particularly in the Battle of Leyte Gulf. At the viewing, we saw a neat seaman’s photo, which seemed very typical of other Navy photos of that era. He served on an aircraft carrier called, I think, the Kutkin Bay‚Äîone I hadn’t heard of. There was a commendation from the WW2-era Secretary of the Navy, given evidently to everyone who served on the Kutkin Bay, commending them for their important role in the battle.
Kris, another member of our 40 Days group, rode with us. Kris, too, is the primary care-giver for an aging father who, as in Faye’s case, is not her biological father. Kris never knew her real father. He died during World War 2. Her dad was the oldest of seven children, and their father had died when he was just 12. He was teaching school when he received his draft notice. He could have gotten out of it. Two younger brothers were already serving, and he was, essentially, the head of household with kids still at home. It’s just that he received his draft notice in the county where he was teaching, and they didn’t know his situation. But he went. And he left a pregnant wife behind.
Kris’s Dad received the Silver Star for bravery in action. That’s not a medal they give out lightly. He was wounded in December 1944 in Germany, spent quite a bit of time in a field hospital, and then was sent home. But he didn’t quite make it all the way home. A liver infection set in, a result of his wounds, and he died in the States before his wife could reach him.
After 9/11, we held one of our Christian punk-hardcore concerts. One band, in what to them was a display of patriotism, covered their display table with an American flag (or at least a cloth bearing the stars and stripes). Kris, who knows the etiquette behind how flags are to be used and not used, was upset. She said her father died in defense of what that flag represents, and she felt they were using it dishonorably. I wasn’t disturbed by it‚Äîlike I said, I saw it as their display of patriotism. But then, I don’t have a father who died fighting for his country.
We stopped to eat on the way back, and that’s when I asked Kris to tell me what she knew about her father. She said he was a hometown hero, with the VFW post named after him. She also admitted that she holds an idealized image of her father, since she never saw a man who, undoubtedly, had his own collection of flaws and quirks. All she sees is a man of heroic proportions. Kris, who is a prayer warrior, said some women are unable to have a proper image of God as Father, because they carry too much baggage from what their earthly father was like. But Kris has never had that problem. Her father is someone extraordinary to her, and when she thinks of God the Father, there is no baggage–just an extraordinary and loving Father. And when she prays, she connects.
