How do you measure the life of a man? How does one choose words that will adequately convey impressions and memories? This post is obviously dedicated to my father. The thing is, he’s not here to read it. He died of kidney cancer in 1994. He was fifty-six years old. I was thirty-two at the time and all grown-up, but his death left a hole in his little girl’s heart that still hasn’t mended. Oh, I don’t mean that I still feel the stabbing sorrow of grief or that I even think of him daily. I mean that when his spirit left his mortal frame, something in me left too. There is just a part of me that feels incomplete somehow. He was wonderful. And he taught me to view the world through his eyes. Those amazing crystal blue eyes. I once saw a pristine mountain lake nestled in the Rockies. It breathtakingly reflected the blue of the sky. It was the same blue of Dad’s eyes.
His name was Ron Miller and his older sisters called him Ronnie to his dying day, which I always thought was incredibly endearing. He was the youngest of five children, and the one born after the death of Infant Richard. Dad’s birth brought healing and joy to the Miller household and he was doted on and adored by siblings and parents. He was living proof that life does indeed go on, even when hearts are missing pieces of itself.
Dad met my mother during their college years and they married young and started their family just nine months and three weeks after their June wedding. Enter Vonda. I was the beginning of their journey into parenthood and I was the sole recipient of their love and affection (and trial and error) for three years. My father loved me instantly, I’m sure. I loved him too, but I also grew to admire and more importantly, respect him.
I think he really had wanted a son, and maybe I should feel some displaced sense of rejection by that, but truthfully, it was always OK. He created a woodworking shop in our basement, and when he got home from his job as K-12 principle in a private school, he would head to his Man Cave and putter his frustrations away. Instead of banishing me away from his therapeutic setting, he invited me to join him and would give me “jobs” sorting screws or sweeping sawdust. I didn’t care what the task was, I just wanted to be in his presence. His quiet demeanor was comfort itself. He would speak quietly of life and life lessons. I couldn’t tell you specific things he said, but I know they were formative for me and helped shape my life view. Whatever I have become began during those quiet evenings of busy nothingness.
One of my most cherished memories displays the stuff Ron Miller was made of. I developed a love of rocks very early in life. I don’t know why. They just intrigued me. Vacations were interesting because I wanted to carry home a cache of rocks with roughly the weight of a chest freezer. I wasn’t interested in small, easy-to-transport stones. No, I wanted BOULDERS. I would stuff them into every crevice of the car or camper. Dad would sigh and roll his eyes when he discovered them, but he never asked me to leave one rock behind. He knew they were important to me, hence, getting them home for me was important to him.
To further encourage my interest, my parents gave me a rock tumbler for Christmas one year. I was thrilled. But they forgot to tell me how to dispose of the grit required for polishing. So I innocently sent it down the drain of the basement sink. It gave the septic system indigestion. A plumber’s visit and hefty bill later, I was back in business. I also received a complimentary crash course in Pipe-ology. But do you know what my dad did after that? Did he end my rock polishing days and hide my tumbler? Nope. When my grit supplies ran out, he pored through the yellow pages looking for suppliers (pre-Google days, of course), and finding one finally, he left work early one day to drive from our suburban home to downtown St. Louis to pick it up for me. The twinkle in those blue eyes when he surprised me with it remains indelibly burned into my memory. Such a small thing and yet it spoke of love and sacrifice. I fell in love even more on that day.
I learned to love World War II movies just so I could share that particular interest with him. He was born in ’38, so The War was a memorable part of his childhood. He talked of rationing and scrap drives. He was fascinated with anything that had to do with that era. I wanted to share that with him. He welcomed me with open arms.
Domestic, he was not. My mother once left for two weeks to visit her parents. He was at a loss at mealtimes. One night, he opened a can of pork and beans, set the can in the middle of the table, then handed my sister and I each a fork. That was supper. I was never so glad to see my mother’s face return.
He was always the authoritarian in the home, but he was also a fair and impartial judge, a sensitive caregiver, and a hard-working provider. My younger sister and I got the best of his youth and time, I feel. As he aged and our family grew to include two baby brothers, he worked harder and seemed to have less time to relax and enjoy family. Work was where his heart and mind were most of the time. I feel badly about that, especially in light of his early death. I wish my brothers had known the father I had known as a young child. And yet, he loved them no less and they knew that.
As I matured into adolescence, he stepped back and allowed me to navigate the choppy waters of hormones and insecurities. I was angry and moody A LOT. To my shame, I even hung up on him once when he ticked me off. When he got home that night, he wasn’t the angry parent I expected to see. He was just so HURT. It broke my heart that I had broken his. It never happened again.
During my college years, he seemed to innately know the problems and issues I was dealing with. I mean, he KNEW. It was freaky in a way. He would always promise me, “I’m praying for you, honey.” And I knew he meant it.
When John and I announced our engagement, my dad decided that he wanted to do something special for my wedding. He set about to write a song to sing to me during the ceremony. Here’s the kicker. My dad was not a songwriter. He had a beautiful singing voice, but I don’t think he had ever attempted to write music. Why that idea burrowed into his head, I’ll never know. But as The Big Day grew closer, he promised me that My Song would be ready. I thought the whole idea was adorable, but really didn’t expect a Grammy for Song of the Year. He enlisted the help of a gifted pianist he knew to help arrange the music and when he took the microphone and those first melodic notes began, I melted. He sang his blessing to us, and I don’t think there was a dry eye in the place.
When my first baby was born, his first grandchild, Dad nearly burst with pride and joy. He was exultant. He rediscovered the joy of little children and became a doting grandfather. He tapped the maple trees in his massive Vermont yard and took little Trevor with him to check the sap buckets. He spoke to Trevor, and then Ryan, and eventually Cody, of a loving Heavenly Father. He took seriously his role of patriarch and endeavored to steer them into Paths of Righteousness. I loved him for that.
When dad was diagnosed with Stage 4 kidney cancer, I was devastated. It just COULDN’T be too late for treatment. No! How could he be dying and nobody know it until it was too late to help him?! I was frustrated and frantic. Dad was calm. His life was in God’s hands. He had trusted Him in life. He would trust Him even in the face of death.
The doctors said Dad had anywhere from two weeks to two months left to live. He was sent home to live out his final days. Our gift from God was the quality of those last days. Dad was alert and relatively pain-free until the very end. My mother was left reeling trying to care for her spouse in his final days and keeping their counseling/retreat center running. The driving to doctor’s appointments and his minor care was granted to me. It was a high honor. It gave Dad and I time to rewind the years and step back into those sweet, sweet days of sitting in the sawdust of his workshop, quietly sharing the minutia of life.
We spoke of fond memories, and cherished family members, and faith. As I watched him live out his final days, I realized with startling clarity that life can be boiled down to just two things; family and faith. Nothing else was important to Dad. He didn’t dwell on career, or the countless people he had helped, or money. None of that stuff mattered anymore. He just wanted to be surrounded by his family members and he wanted to be comforted by the God who had been the center of his life.
I had watched him live well. Now I watched to see if he would die well. He had moments of discouragement, and grieved his own coming death. Those moments were difficult to witness. But his faith never wavered. He knew he would awaken in the presence of the Creator of the Universe and all was well with his soul.
Six days before he died, he asked if I would give him a haircut. He was frail, weak, and his skin waxy yellow. But he was still alert and could sit up unassisted. I complied (I had cut his hair for years), and we chatted about everything and nothing. Little did I know that I was grooming him for his own funeral. That may sounds morbid, but life is uncomfortable at times. I was glad later that I had taken the time to care for him in such a small way.
Over the next couple of days, he began to fail fast and eventually could no longer speak. The last time he spoke words to me, he patted my face tenderly and said, “You are so precious to me.” And I knew he couldn’t have meant it more. Precious words from a precious man.
My husband and I spent most of Dad’s last week at his side, but one night we decided to go home and see our children for a few moments and sleep in our own bed. We had just fallen into an exhausted sleep when the phone rang. It was our pastor’s wife, Beth. “Hurry,” she urged without preamble. “He’s dying.” We threw our clothes on in a frantic rush and flew to his side. She met us at the kitchen door. “He’s waiting for you.” I ran up the two flights of steps to his room and stumbled breathlessly into Death’s Chamber. I shrank back when I saw his face. I had heard of the Mask of Death and knew instinctively that I was eyewitness to it now. He looked monstrous, and I was afraid. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and his teeth barred. But then he turned to look at me with those crystal blue eyes I knew so well and I gained courage. I rushed to his side and laid my head on his chest. “Dad!” I sobbed out. Deep, racking tears from some inner wellspring convulsed my being. His gentle hand reached up and clasped mine. I can’t explain why, but he relaxed and his features regained normalcy. My best guess is it simply wasn’t time yet. He lived three more days.
The morning of his Homecoming, Christmas Eve Day, I awoke after only two hours of sleep. John and I had spent the night caring for him so others could sleep and had just fallen into bed, it seemed. I heard an inner voice before my eyes opened. “Get up!” it urged. My eyes were instantly open and I was immediately wide-awake. I had slept in my clothes and now headed to the kitchen for breakfast. I walked by Dad’s bedside and saw that he was in a blessed haze of morphine relief. My mother was sitting on a stool beside him, staring at his face, memorizing every line and curve. I grabbed the newspaper and settled into a chair at the foot of his bed. I had just started on the headlines when my mother’s voice arrested my attention. “Oh! OH!!” She was half-off her chair now. “It’s time!” I still wonder how she KNEW. My gaze shifted to dad’s face. His head was lifted off his pillow and he was staring wide-eyed at my mother. Whether he was looking directly at her or at something unseen by the rest of us I cannot say. I only know that he was completely AWARE.
My sister-in-law ran downstairs to pound on doors and roust everyone from bed. They came hurrying up, wiping sleep from confused eyes. We gathered in a tight circle around Dad’s bed and waited… for what, we weren’t sure. When we were all there, Dad’s eyes fluttered up in his head. It looked to me as though his spirit was being pulled from his body through the top of his head. And then his eyes… those crystal blue eyes, lost their spark and life.
He was gone.
I became so acutely aware in that moment that the human body is a mere shell for the spirit. We really are eternal beings. I will never doubt that he lives on in Heaven.
It was such an honor to be present at that moment. I think that was the moment I grew up. It changed me forever. It was sacred, holy, and hushed.
We stood there unsure what to do next. And then someone (I think it was me) began singing in an unsteady voice and the rest joined in:
It is finished. The Battle is over.
It is finished. There’ll be no more war.
It is finished, the end of the conflict.
It is finished, and Jesus is Lord.
All in attendance could feel a Holy Presence in that room. It was time to make calls and fall into action. There is an unwritten script that must be followed after all.
And yet we lingered there for a moment longer, unwilling to break the spell. I had witnessed the miracle of birth with my children, and now I had experienced the wonder of one being ushered into eternity.
I will always be grateful for the father that life handed me. He was good and kind and gentle. But he was also a man of great character and integrity.
All that I am I owe to your example, Dad. You taught me that it is never too late to pursue a dream. You taught me to be courageous in the face of fear. You taught me that words have meaning, so choose them carefully. You showed me that life is too short to harbor grudges. And by example, you taught me that a person’s reputation is the only lasting thing in a life.
And so on this Father’s Day, I celebrate the life of a man that was great and is greatly missed.
You live on through me.
I hope I do you justice.
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