V: He Was Unwanted

My dad's birthday was this week. February 17, 1922, a baby boy, weighing 8 lbs. was born to my 20 yr. old grandmother, who had been deserted by her young husband. He left Arkansas to seek his fortune in Salt Lake City and later ended up in New York. In the old family Bible, I discovered my grandmother's attempt to erase the indelible ink birthdate of my father, who had been born in Feb. following her August wedding. She had confessed to my mother that she and her mother had attempted to bring on menstruation by various home "remedies". Of course it is apparent that in order to avoid the shame and embarrassment of a unwed pregnancy (especially in 1921), that they tried to abort the life of her unborn child. Fortunately, the attempt was not successful, and my lovely grandmother gave birth to a hearty, healthy, handsome boy who would be the best son a mother could have and he would be the only child she would ever bear, though she remarried when he was nine.

Letters in the old suitcase my grandmother left me, written by my dad when he spent four years in the South Pacific during World War II reveal a son always concerned and worried about his mother, because it always ended up just the two of them. He worried that she had to work when she had health problems, and that he was not there to help her.

Dad and me.

Many years later, when my grandmother died at age 77, it was the only time I recall ever seeing my father break down and weep. He wept quietly at the funeral home; he was a reserved person who was uncomfortable with public displays of grief. The last time we saw her at the funeral, he again wept and said "Mother was a beautiful woman". It took me back a little because I had never heard him say such a thing. I loved my grandmother. I still do. I don't condemn her for being afraid and probably ashamed for her predicament. She did not have an easy time; both her parents died before she was thirty years old, and she raised my dad pretty much by herself with no financial support from my grandfather, and little help from her brothers and former-in-laws. They did assist her some, and my dad grew up close to his cousins who were more like brothers and sisters. But I guess what I want to say is that sometimes we think we know what is best for ourselves. It's our own life, our own plans. We think we know what is best for ourself--our own life. But Holy Scripture tells us that we do not belong to ourselves, but were purchased by the blood of the Lamb. I especially consider this during this Season of Lent.

Dad and my eldest daughter.

Psalm 139 tells us that "You created every part of me; you put me together in my mother's womb...I know it with all my heart. When my bones were being formed, carefully put together in my mother's womb, when I was growing there in secret, you knew that I was there--you saw me before I was born. The days allotted to me had all been recorded in your book, before any of them ever began."

In 1989, my Dad (who joined a church for the first time in his life at the age of 67), sat next to me in a Bible class. It was January and Life Sunday, the day when people who profess pro-life, pray and march in support of their position. The Lutheran pastor read the above Psalm, and I heard a little gasp from my Dad sitting next to me. "Why that's predestination", he whispered. Now, I am the last person to say that I fully comprehend the doctrines of predestination and election, but I do believe that God is the Creator and Author of LIFE, and that our days are in His hands. With every fibre of my being I believe that life has intrinsic value which does not hinge upon being "wanted" or "planned". And I give thanks for the life of my dad, an unwanted child, who now lives with His heavenly Father, and through me and my children and grandchildren and even future grandchildren yet to be born. My dad's life taught me that we do not always know what is best for us. Our forgiven mistakes may result in our greatest joys and blessings.