Written by Michael Claxton
There used to be a humor columnist for the Atlanta Journal and Constitution named Lewis Grizzard. He was ahardened Southerner, seldom politically correct, and almost never a model of good behavior.
He once spent an entire column listing the various levels of intoxication. The lowest level was what he called “cryin’-about-your-daddy drunk.” While the strongest thing I’ve ever sipped was some iced tea that sat too long in the sun, I have been crying about my daddy.
My father was born during the Great Depression, but he never seemed to let that word set the tone for his life. His father owned a printing company in Atlanta, and his mother was a homemaker and full-time saint. From his father, my dad learned a head for business, a heart for God and a pocket for friends and strangers in need. From his mother, he learned the gentleness and compassionate spirit that would define him always. He and his sister would grow up to share so many things in common, including a love for antiques and a talent for teaching Sunday school.
As a young man he was handsome and athletic, a basketball player at Roosevelt High School in Atlanta. He transferred to David Lipscomb High School in Nashville to play ball, and it didn’t take long for him to fall in love with a beautiful cheerleader. They were so attached that when Dad’s sister got engaged, he sent a postcard home to his parents saying he couldn’t make it to the wedding because he had a date. One firm phone call straightened that out, but from then on, Barbara Louise would be his highest earthly priority. He was only kidding later, on their 20th anniversary, when he told his mother-in-law, “Bea, you had her for 20 years. Now I’ve had her for 20 years. I think it’s your turn again.” Mom knew how he truly felt, and that cheerleader is still his biggest fan.
Dad worked as a printer for five decades,building a reputation for integrity and quality work, in that order. He labored tirelessly and used his profession to serve God at every turn. He printed free materials for churches and missionaries, often working late into the night in order to beat a deadline before the plane left for New Zealand or Europe. He had a head for numbers but a heart for people, and he was loved by customers, sales reps and clients alike. He ran vintage equipment in the plant, and when the company bought a new digital paper cutter, he took that as his cue to retire.
Dad supervised the building of the HillcrestChurch of Christ in Atlanta, directed its Bible School and later served other congregations as a deacon and Bible teacher. His wisdom and light touch gained him the respect and affection of anyone who knew him. I don’t know how many people he has helped in his lifetime with money. He never kept a very good record of debts, which sounds a lot like Paul’s famous definition of love.
He had his faults. He bought stuff at the flea market and then hid it in the garage. He was hooked on ice cream and could often be found in a recliner, with a towel over his chest and a gallon of vanilla half-empty. He yelled too loud at basketball games. He ate potted meat sandwiches. If this seems like a pretty harmless list of faults, you’ve never smelled a potted meat sandwich.
Dad had the most delightful sense of humor. I last visited him in the nursing home in Georgia during spring break. One afternoon when I was feeding him, he took my hand and pulled it close to his face. I thought, “Oh how sweet. He’s going to kiss my hand.” Instead, he wiped his mouth on my wrist. And then he laughed and laughed.
We were so blessed by his devotion to us. In his final weeks, when he was not always coherent, he had moments of clarity. In one of them, he said this to my mother, “You’re my treasure. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I want you to be happy.” It was the tender way he had treated her for 55 years. To his children, he was our model, our hero, our supporter and occasionally, our partner in crime. I’d say more, but I’m out of Kleenex.
So I’ll simply tell God, “We had him for 75 years. I think it’s your turn again.”
MICHAEL CLAXTON is a guest contributor for the Bison. He may be contacted atmclaxto1@harding.edu
