Christian Living

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THIS I BELIEVE
FAITH OF OUR FATHERS

My father was a simple man, coming from the farms in Northern Minnesota with its killing cold weather and icebox out-houses. He moved to Detroit to work in the automobile factories and to have some security in life. He also brought a love of God and his faith to us his family.

As a small child, whenever there was a thunderstorm with great frightening flashes of lightning and thunder, my father would burn a small yellow piece of palm leaf he saved from Palm Sunday. My younger sister and I would watch with large eyes as he would hold the thin palm leaf, light it, and as the flame neared his fingers, he would place the dark ash gently in a saucer from the kitchen. The image is clear in my head; the dark room, his face yellowed from the light of the small flame, my sister standing close to me, and both of us intently part of this ritual of ours.

We didn’t pray out loud or say anything. We were to pray silently inside ourselves. We knew we were going to be safe after that. Not so much because of the burnt offering to God, but because of the deep faith our father had that our prayers would be heard and answered. After a time, the storm would quiet, the flashes of lightning grow dim and distant, and my sister and I would curl up in bed with our parents and finally sleep knowing it had all worked.

My father didn’t laugh much, but he did smile a lot. Thanks to him, I have memories of our family regularly attending church, taking communion together, and occasionally attending a funeral—like my grandmother’s. In all, my childhood was safe, simple, and filled with the knowledge of my father’s faith in God.

I don’t remember burning palm when my father found out he was dying of brain cancer. I was thirteen as the cancer slowly grew out his forehead, distorting his face and removing his smile forever. It took three years for him to die. We had the grace of time with him, time to talk, time to help, time to hold, and time to pray, but the price was high in agony and pain for all of us.

The only time I ever saw my father cry was after our local parish priest insisted on telling him he was going to die. He wanted to give him Last Rites while he was still lucid and coherent. I was angry with that young priest, but Dad wasn’t. His faith was firm and whatever happened to him he was prepared to meet the God of his prayers. He never once blamed God for his sickness, pain, or suffering. He bore it quietly and prayed inside himself as we did when storms threatened. I do know he never lost his faith or love of God no matter how much he suffered.

This I believe. I inherited my faith, my reverence, my awe, my belief in God and his Son Jesus, from my father. I hope I passed this on to my children and grandchildren, not with the words of my mouth, but by my actions, behavior, and faith. The faith of my father.

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