There’s no denying how incredibly
noisy the world—and thus our lives—have become. With more means of communication
from cell phones to podcast platforms to Instagram lives, never in history
have we all had so much to say yet be so greatly divided, disconnected, and misunderstood. It
was evident I was not alone in my observations when on the first Sunday in June the interim pastor
at my church shared that the topic of his sermon would be “Sheer Silence” supported by 1 Kings 19:1-13. Although the passage focuses on Elijah’s flee from Ahab and
Jezebel to the wilderness to keep from being murdered, and God providing him
protection to rest and to more clearly hear from Him, the greater message was that sometimes we simply need to slow down and quiet our lives enough to listen to our
Father’s voice.
This takes on a somewhat different and earthlier meaning for me around this May-June commemoration of my late father’s
birthday, Alzheimer's & Brain Awareness Month, and the
celebration of Father’s Day. For those who knew my father, one thing they could
all agree on: he was anything but quiet. The literal personification of a “mover
and shaker,” my father’s 88 years on earth started on a quiet country road in
New Zion, South Carolina but would expand to include military service that took
him from Korea to Germany to Alaska; into the field of law enforcement as a
captain in the DC Department of Corrections; and into politics as Mayor overseeing city
council meetings to shaking hands with presidents in the White House.
And in between, he would wear the hat of husband; father to six children; community
activist (creating programs for youth and seniors, and initiating scholarship
funds for high schoolers); little league coach; and chairman of the church’s deacon
board. And this was just a FEW of his accomplishments. Which is why when dementia
turned Alzheimer’s robbed my father largely of his mobility and his communication in
the last three years of his life, it was beyond comprehension for all who knew
and loved him. Especially his children. In particular me, who shared a special
bond with my father as his youngest child and who many joked was most like him
(at family reunions, some cousins would refer to me as “Lil Eugene.”)
For those who’ve dealt with the
evils of the disease, the most difficult by far is no longer being familiar to
your loved ones. In the worst-case scenarios, being forgotten altogether. Your
loved ones as you know them are no longer a part of your world. And you must quickly
learn not to push back against this harsh reality but to surrender completely
to their world wherever that takes the two of you. For me, at times, those
moments could be gut-wrenching; at others, downright comical, such as my dad’s
responses to doctors when they checked his cognitive skills through a series of
questions. For example, when a doctor once asked him who the current president
was, my dad replied without hesitation, “I am.” But you had to also know my dad’s
confidence, humor, and—at times—arrogance to understand how I and the doctor were left baffled as we couldn’t tell if he was being serious or if the
jokester we knew him to be was at play (we still don’t know. LOL).
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| Me and Pops |
And then
there would be those quiet times when I’d be mistaken in resemblance for my mom—his wife of 51
years—and without words his face would light up when I entered the room, which
was more than enough for me. There would also be those times when recalling the
contents of breakfast was impossible but recanting memories from his childhood
would roll off his lips effortlessly. But for the most part, there was quiet. Quiet bookmarked
by a cheery “hello” when I would arrive to spend time with him and punctuated by
a whispered “bye; love you” when I would leave. Yet it was that silence that lingered in
between us that was filled with an abundance of love. It was a peace that can’t be
explained. A comfort of just being in the same space together without words while the nightly
news or Wheel of Fortune played in the distant background. A stillness that would
envelop us until he’d drift off to sleep, and I’d depart for home that meant so much.
It is these profound memories
that are constant reminders to me of how much power and love there can be in
silence. That when words aren’t available, we are still connected by our hearts
and an intangible thread that binds us even after we transition and leave this
earth. And, for that, I’m eternally grateful. I often tell folks that as much as I would have loved to have had one more funny exchange with my dad; one more wisdom-filled
conversation; one more random shadow-boxing session in the kitchen; one more
request for me to write a campaign speech or edit a report before he left this
earth on that chilly day in January 2019, the memories I carry and the lesson I
gained about the power of love in silence was and remains invaluable. Just as God provided Elijah
a moment of silence and stillness to reflect, connect, regroup, and proceed, let us be
reminded to seek refuge from the cacophony of noise around us to more clearly hear
those things and from those people who truly deserve our undivided attention and
unconditional love the most.
Thank you for the lessons and the memories, Dad. And Happy Father’s Day to all of those dads
in physical form and in spiritual essence who were and continue to be the backbones of our families and our communities.
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