by: Dr. Charles Killian, Asbury Theological Seminary Professor 1970-2004
Standing there to my left was my father outside of Jesse Keller’s store. I imagine we both had an ice cream, and someone, probably Mom, wanted to take our picture. Mother was always takings pictures which filled about twenty of the family picture albums.
Recently, I rediscovered this picture. You can see that I was tucked in closely to my father. My face had a smirk of delight standing there beside this incredibly hard-working breadwinner—a painter, mechanic, carpenter, and a ‘jack-of-all-trades’—Dad could do just about anything; and with his meager income, we always had enough to eat and decent shoes to wear.
A hundred stories could be told about my Dad. He could borrow money from the bank with a handshake. He paid his bills on time. We kids never lacked getting love as well as instruction. But the brief story I want to tell you is from that picture above.
You can notice that Dad has a cigarette in his right hand. He smoked Marvels—a couple packs a day. I remember the day…Herm and Dad were in the kitchen and I sat down with them. It was ‘smoke’ time. I saw Dad carefully open the cellophane pack and with a gentle tap of his finger on the pack, a cigarette popped up. It was like magic.
So I took his pack and imitated my father with the snap of my index finger…and there it was. I looked at my father gleefully as if I had found a new discovery. There was a long pause. Dad looked at me and our eyes met. Silently, Dad took the partially used pack of cigarettes, squashed them in his hand, threw them in the trash and never smoked again in his entire life.
On that day he could have said something like, “Don’t ever let me catch you smoking,” but instead he gave me a gift of silence. He looked at me as he left the kitchen and I knew what was being said…it was kind of like a truth—the kind of truth that runs deep in the soul.
Thanks, Dad, for that transforming ‘moment’, and all the other stories that still bless me to this day.
Dad’s are like that. My Dad never hugged. He would shake hands. But he was always there for me in his silent way. Thanks for the tribute.
Great story Chuck. Thanks for sharing.