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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 – Advanced)
Topic: Year(s) (01/20/11)

TITLE: Fathers, Lost and Found
By Marlene Bonney
01/23/11


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The year I turned twelve years old I was slowly adapting to my parentsí divorce, getting on with my life in spite of it. But it was a month past my thirteenth birthday in the autumn of 1963 when my world turned completely upside down.

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The staggering announcement blaring over our junior high school P.A. system seemed to freeze the moment in time: John Fitzgerald Kennedy, President of the United States, had been assassinated! Gone was the usual loud bantering and scrambling and laughing and shoving typical to the dismissal bellís buzz. We began to experience grief that day, not just as a spelling word to be memorized or structured into a sentence, but as a reality of life.

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Adults in our lives seemed insecureóvulnerableóand the domino effect of this exposed Americaís children, some for the first time, to the frailty of life. Churches opened their doors those days as prayer became fashionable again to a grieving nation, people recognizing their need for hope in God, a crisis of this magnitude forcing them to realize that they were not in control, after all.

Two days later my father collapsed from a mysterious illness. As the ambulance took him away, I had a passing premonition that Caroline Kennedy's world was intersecting with mine and the fate of her father was also destined to become my fatherís. On the day that Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald, the assumed assassin of J.F.K., we were informed that my father was in quarantine for possible spinal meningitis.

The taped footage of the JFK assassination locked in my mind: The cavalcade entourage driving through Dallas; the crowdís smiling faces and waving hands turning into a bevy of shocked mayhem. Mrs. Kennedyís pink dress splashed with her husbandís blood, his head cradled on her lap and, concurrently, Governor Connallyís limp body collapsing in his wifeís arms. The shouts of the panicked bodyguards, mass adrenalin pouring through their bodies even as the blood drained from the bodies of the men they served. The funeral procession: little Caroline in her designer clothes and darling little brother, John-John, performing the now famous good-by salute on what was his 3rd birthday--to his daddy.

And I identified with these children who had lost their father as I feared I was losing mine.

My father was finally diagnosed with rheumatic fever accompanied by rheumatoid arthritis, lupus and pneumonia. Large doses of prednisone, a new drug at that time, were administered daily to keep him alive. My father was released from the hospital three months later, moving into his parentsí home for recovery and rehabilitation, his disease-ravaged body and accompanying crippling arthritis a losing battle.

I observed Dadís friends accusing him of un-confessed sin in his life or not enough faith as being the reason for his illness. And, in tandem, I watched the nationís citizens cast blame upon the countryís security systems, police officers and security guards for John F. Kennedyís tragic death. And I observed that God does not choose to perform a healing or rescuing miracle for everyone, anymore than He causes these bad things to happen; but that He allows these things for our growth and strengthening.

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Over four decades have evolved since that 1963 presidential assassination. I cannot--nor can the nation--forget those days of trauma, anymore that our parents and grandparents can forget the Stock-market Crash and Great Depression decades previous to that. Our battle wounds have turned into faint scars that bear testimony to our suffering and to our perseverance and to our resiliency. The images of those happenings are burned into my memory like flowers on a kiln-baked pottery bowl. And, even as the Kennedyís laid flowers on John F. Kennedyís grave each yearís anniversary of his death, I paused momentarily to remember them in prayer.

John F. Kennedyís and my fatherís premature deaths, one sudden and quick and public, and the other drawn out and slow (he survived another thirteen years as a bed patient until a bout of pneumonia claimed his life) and involving only a slice of humanity, changed me forever. I am unable to separate these two incidents one from the other through the years, so close together in time that the second stepped on the heels of the first.

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The lessons I learned that year shaped and molded me into a person who does not take the precious God-given gift of life lightly or the certainty of death carelessly.


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This article has been read 324 times
Member Comments
Member Date
Gregory Kane01/27/11
You evoke some great parallels here
Carol Penhorwood 01/27/11
Beautifully written!
Anita van der Elst01/27/11
A memoir very worth the read.
Lynda Schultz 01/27/11
You've woven these events together wonderfully well and tied them up neatly with a great lesson. Well-done.
Lisa Johnson 01/29/11
What I remember most about this was the funeral on TV. Well written story.
Rikki Akeo01/29/11
Okay. So, I didn't come until post-Kennedy, but, you made it come alive for me. Job well done!
Mona Purvis01/30/11
Splendidly done. No one has to tell me this is a true story, it has refined itself over time. I enjoyed this entry very much, very interesting.
Lisa Fowler02/01/11
Thank you for sharing this. What stuck out to me was the passage about your dads' "friends" accusing him of having unconfessed sin in his life as the cause of his illness. How sad that we as Christians can be so hurtful to others in their times of need. After all, how were they to know that your dads' illness was not to teach THEM a few lessons. God truly moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform!