In Memory of Dad's Retirement

Dad would have turned 92 today, but Parkinson's Disease snuffed out his life 8 1/2 years ago. In fact, the slow, inexorable phyical and mental decline left him hollowed out throughout the final few years of his life. JoAnna and the boys and I saw him only one or twice a year during this time, usually at Christmas when we'd make the pilgrimage to both sets of grandparents' houses. When it was too late, I decided I had all these questions to ask him about his life -- growing up, choosing a career, courting Mom, being a father. By that time, he didn't even know who I was.

The congregation of St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Warren Pennsylvania hosted a retirement party for Dad on Sunday, August 30, 1981. Here's what I noted in my journal that day.

Dad's last official day as pastor of St. Paul's. He delivered an inspiring sermon, giving no sign of the emotional turmoil he must have been experiencing internally. I found myself frequently fighting back the tears. In fact, at the conclusion of the service, I was suffering from a headache centered near the bridge of my nose.


The family ate dinner together at Jackson Heights, not the most appropriate restaurant to share a special occasion. Warren has no outstanding eateries; we had no choice to speak of. With no meatless entrees to select from the menu, Barb ordered the pot roast beef without a single disparaging comment. Maybe she is finally realizing how strange her inflexible philosophies appear to others.

Dale skipped out on the afternoon open house in Mom and Dad's honor at the church. To be expected. Unfortunately, he missed one of the most sincere and touching outpourings of love that I have ever experienced. The president of the Warren County Ministerial Association, Father Carter, and a few members of the congregation saluted Dad's 24 years of service. Father Carter's heartfelt speech left me feeling exhausted from working overtime to suppress the emotion I felt. Standing in the reception line, I tried to remember the names associated with the identifiable 50/50 mix of familiar faces and strangers.

A conversation with Bill Brader after the morning service best typifies the emotion-charged day. At one point, Bill said to me, "You know, Paul, at this point in time, I just feel like finding a quiet corner and crying my eyes out." I felt my body quake as he spoke these words. Using every ounce of strength I could muster, I managed to retain my composure.