Today my father has been gone for ten years, and my son is almost one month old. I look into my son’s little face and wonder if there is any trace of his grandfather there, wonder how I will possibly tell him about this man I so want him to emulate, wonder if he will be able to know him through my stories and pictures.
I know that as accurately as I can describe my father, I can never reproduce who he was, but I will try to show my son his grandfather’s face (through pictures), his voice (through videos), his passions (through his writings), and his faith (by continuing his teachings). Today, I took my son to the cemetery for the first time to visit his grandfather’s grave and to begin the process of teaching him who this incredible man was.
We named our little boy Lincoln Kenneth so that he would always have a connection to my father- Kenneth Joseph- and so that he would carry a reminder with him that his grandfather had lived and loved and made an impact on those he touched. Both of his names represent great men of character, integrity, and faith who died well before their time. I want him to one day be his own man but to remember and honor those who came before him. I am reminded of the quote:
“It doth make a man better to hear of those noble men that lived so long ago. When one doth list to such tales, his soul doth say, ‘Put by thy poor little likings and seek to do likewise.’ Truly, one may not do as nobly oneself, but in the striving one is better.” (Howard Pyle)
I hope that my little Lincoln Kenneth always strives to be noble and faithful and kind and to go against the tide for what he believes. My father was incredibly courageous and amazingly gentle. He took stands that were not popular in his medical field at the time because he believed they were right, but he was always respectful, always kind.
He was unfailingly honorable. He would never even write me a prescription or a doctor’s note, much to my chagrin. He was the most honest person I have ever met.
He was always faithful. He never did anything important without praying. He sent my sister and me off to school every single day of our childhood by placing his hand on us and praying for us before we left the car. Later, when I cried and pleaded with him not to make me change schools, my mother cried with me, but my father told me he had prayed about it, and he believed it was the right decision. That first year of high school I met my husband, and when I now hold our son in my arms, I see how that one small example of his faith and assurance has come to fruition.
He was tremendously strong. When he received the diagnosis in his late 20s that would eventually lead to his death in his early 50s, he never stopped fighting. He lived every moment to the fullest for God, his family, his patients, and for those he fought to protect through his writings and his actions. He knew those moments were limited, and he lived with a great deal of pain but with an even greater urgency and fervor.
He was uniquely kind. My mother tells the story that the first time she really noticed him is when they were both working in a hospital together- she as a nurse and he as a resident. All of the other residents were following the attending physician around and observing patients. The head physician and other doctors all left the room where a frail older woman had been receiving a treatment, and on their way out they passed an old man waiting outside the room- her husband. They all kept walking, but my father hesitated and then told the man, “Just one moment,” before going back into the room. He carefully covered the naked woman and made her presentable for her husband, and then invited the man into the room to see his wife before rushing to catch up to his fellow doctors. It was then that my mother knew that he was different, and he WAS different. I saw it every day in every action.
People say that when someone passes you tend to make a saint out of them, and it is true that the good is often amplified in your mind and the bad is glossed over, but there was so little to gloss over in my father’s case and so much to amplify that I am far more concerned that I will not accurately represent who he was to those I meet than that I will make him into something he was not. I fear that I will never be able to convey this to my son, but he will grow up hearing of his grandfather on special days and average days, through stories and memories. We will speak of him often so that he is not just a memory but feels like he is with us in a way. This week, I was reading a passage in Hebrews about the great forefathers of the Bible: “…and by faith Abel still speaks, even though he is dead.” I was struck by this sentiment, and I know that by his faith my father also still speaks, even though he is gone. A man who lives a life like he did and loves as he did will speak through his legacy long after death. I pray that he speaks through me, and I pray that he speaks through my son, who has my father’s blood in his veins and legacy as his birthright.
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Jackie Chea is a blogger from San Antonio, Texas who holds a B.A. in Psychology and an M.A. in Community Counseling from the University of Texas at San Antonio. She writes on political and cultural issues from a conservative, religious standpoint. She lives in the Lone Star State with her husband Nick, her 5-year-old son Lincoln, and her rescue dogs. |
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