I Love a Parade

My father died almost 34 years ago. Today would have been his 105th birthday. Rarely does a week pass that I don’t wish I had a chance to talk to him. He was my most often mentioned reference in my sermons. Early in my adult years, I finally figured out who he really was. My childish perceptions were way off base. He was a good, loving, and wise man. In many ways, I sought to be like him.

About 3 years after his death, I was motivated to write the first piece I ever had published. Allow me to share those thoughts with you at this time.

I love a good parade. I even like bad parades. I have seen both kinds. Some really stick in my memory.

The 1970 Memorial Day Parade in Waddy, Kentucky (yes, that is the town's real name) immediately springs to mind. The town folks had been talking about the Memorial Day Parade for weeks before the event and I was getting rather excited about it. One couldn’t spend any time in the local grocery store without the conversation turning to the parade. Plans and preparations were being made. It seemed that most of the people in the little town were going to be participating.

My family and I passed up several offers so we could be sure to be there for the "big" parade. I will admit that the offers we received were not all that tempting. But we did make a conscious decision to be around for the big parade. At the appointed time we took our places on the sidewalk of the main drag. I must be fair and tell you that Waddy in 1970 was a community of about 255 people and the main drag was the only drag. And there were not very many feet of sidewalk to get on. Since most of the residents were in the parade, finding a place to watch it wasn’t difficult. We didn’t have to come down the night before and stake out our space. Showing up ten minutes before parade time worked out fine.

We didn’t have to wait long before the action started. Here came the parade. It was absolutely wonderful. Strung out for several feet behind the town's antique and only fire truck were two shiny, brand spanking new pick up trucks. The owners had obviously spent a lot of time washing and waxing their pride and joy. One of the trucks was pulling the only float in the parade which was carrying some of the local veterans riding on a tobacco wagon. The other truck was hauling a young girl – perhaps she was Miss Waddy or Miss Shelby County. The entire local Cub Scout Pack, all six of them, were the color guard. There were bicycles and wagons and baby strollers and balloons and crepe paper and sparklers and dogs, some horses, and a couple of ponies. My, it was grand. One of the finest parades I have ever seen. My heart was touched. I wouldn't have missed it.

There have been several other parades in my life. All of them were larger and longer. Many were more exciting and colorful and entertaining. Some were so long they became boring. A couple of them have been just plain stupid. No offense is intended (Really) but have you ever attended a gay rights parade? There is a bad idea. But none of them grander... except one. That is the parade that wandered through my parents’ kitchen in the fall of 1986.

 My father was very busy that fall dying of cancer of the God-knows-what. The doctors couldn't tell where the cancer had originated but it wasn't difficult to see where it had gone. It was everywhere and Dad was so skinny by then that much of it stuck out on various parts of his body. It was horrible to watch a strong, robust, commanding man reduced to a skeleton struggling to live through each day seeking to find ways to have as little pain as possible. It was horrible, but riveting – like those slasher horror films young teens flock to watch. It was also a wonderful time of quiet conversations and opportunities to do for my father; a man who had always done for others, especially his children. Though the role reversal was a bit challenging for both of us, it was a wonderful God gift to be able to serve my father during a very difficult time.

As cancer took more and more from him and more of him from us, we were completely centered on his well being. Though not unusually tall, my dad was very strong. As a high school kid he had a job picking up milk cans from the local dairy farmers. He could hang on the back of the truck with one hand, lean out and grab a milk can in the other and swing it up into the back of the truck. That is about 140 pounds per can. Whoa, strong guy. Dad played baseball and basketball well and taught his boys how to play.

Because the degeneration of his physical body and our all-consuming struggle to make him as comfortable as possible had so captured my attention, the parade that had begun had been passing before my eyes long before I noticed it.

But one those beautiful cloudless, bright blue sky, breezy autumn afternoons it burst upon my sight. For a parade, it was difficult to spot. There were no fire trucks or Cub Scouts or floats or marching bands or riders on horseback.  There were no pretty young beauty queens seeking our attention or politicians seeking our votes. Most of the faces in this parade were familiar to me, although some were strangers. But they all knew my father. He was the "theme" that held this parade together. This was a parade of people, passing through my parent's spacious, warm, welcoming kitchen, in front of the reclining chair that had become Dad's chief place of residence.

They came from near and far. As close as the next-door neighbor and as far as several states away. They all came to say the same thing in many different ways.  They came to say, "Thank you, Mr. McConnell.  You have made a difference in my life."   What a wonderful thing to say!  "Thanks for living and letting me be a part of your life.  Your life counted for something in my life." “You have lived a life that was significant because your life powerfully impacted my life.”

 And what a strange mix of people it was that carried this message to my father. There were the preachers and church leaders from all over the state that Dad had prayed with and for and taught so much about how to be sensitive to the needs of others and the leading of the Lord. He helped them have more than a theoretical Christianity. There was the alcoholic who lived next door who was snubbed by the community but was proud to be called "friend" by "Mr. Mack". There were the young men of the community that had looked to my father for advice and counsel on subjects ranging from family budgeting to how to win an argument without losing a friend. There were the single mother and her children who were helped through some hard times by a man they hardly knew. There were the old people that came to thank the man who brought them meals when they were too sick to cook for themselves. There were the business associates that had worked with him for over a quarter of a century – folks who really knew him and thus knew him to be a man of integrity, courage, compassion, wisdom, and humor. There were his law clients who received much more than just good legal advice from their attorney. There were the students from more than 30 years of Sunday school classes that came to thank the man who helped make God real and understandable to them. There were the Little League ballplayers who had become middle-aged men, wanting to thank him for being a fine baseball coach and an even better example.

 They came from all over. They loved and appreciated my father and came to tell him. Dad was sick, but he was having a wonderful time. He had invested his life well. And though it was coming to, what many of us considered, a premature end, it had been a great, meaningful, full life. My dad had been successful. He grew up on a little hill farm in Robertson County, Kentucky. He had served his country in World War II. He was the first in his family to graduate from college. He worked his way through law school and was the Vice President and Treasurer of a very successful life insurance company. He had provided very well for his wife and children. He was successful. But more importantly, his life had been significant.

 Fortunately, I recognized what was happening in time to join this wonderful parade. I grasped the opportunity at hand and thanked my Dad for being a fine father, good friend, wonderful teacher, and an excellent example. What a parade! My, it was grand. One of the finest parades I have ever seen. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Copyright © 2015, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved

 Bill McConnell works as an Interim Minister and is a Church Transformation consultant and a Christian Leadership Coach. He is a frequent speaker at Church Transformation events. His latest book on church transformation is DEVELOPING A SIGNIFICANT CHURCH and is available at Westbow Press.

He can be contacted @ bill45053@gmail.com. Connect with him on Facebook @ William T. McConnell or on Twitter @billmc45053 or visit his Amazon Author Page @ Amazon

Cream to 2%

As often happens, as I gain some age and perspective, I have been taking a look back to process what I have experienced and possibly learned. I do this with some consternation because I have seen older folks do this all my life and they seem to almost always bemoan the good things that have been lost in their lifetimes. It is often a – woe is me, the world is going to hell in a hand basket – discourse. I don’t want to be one of those people.

But I also don’t think it takes one of great intelligence to realize that the shift in our value system over the past 50 years has had a profound impact upon our society. Some of that impact and those changes have been good and healthy. We now talk about some things we need to talk about that used to be taboo. In some ways we are more open and honest and real. And I love that.

But unless one is mired deeply in denial, it is painfully obvious that many of the changes in our values have had a negative effect on our culture. Many of us are in denial because admitting that negative impact would mean we have made some very wrong decisions and put our faith in some pretty poor values. We would rather dance around the issues than admit that we are wrong. My generation, like most generation before and after, believed ourselves to be the smartest people to ever inhabit the earth. All great thinking began with us. Those who came before us may have been well meaning but not too smart.

One doesn’t have to stop, look, listen and think very long before perceiving that something is wrong and the solutions we have applied to the problems we have encountered are not producing great results. In my simple, pragmatic way, I would say that if it isn’t working we should try something else. I would also suggest we take a hard look at our value system and how it has been changed over the years.

I heard a dear friend speak of his concern for the effect his grandfather had on his father and uncles over the years. Even after fifty years, his impact was powerful, dynamic and destructive. One of my friend’s uncles had committed suicide that week. The family was thrown into chaos. The uncle was the type of individual "that would never do such a thing". It caused the speaker to have vague fears about the effect his "weirdness" would have on his children and grandchildren. 

My fears are the opposite. I fear the lack of effect my "weirdness" will have on my children. I see myself as a transmitter of values from my father to my children. Family values are not easily communicated today. There is so much competition from other sources. School, television, movies, professional athletes, pop "feel-good" psychology and other influences give the family plenty of competition. And, to further complicate the matter, I have not been a good conductor. When I needed to be high quality copper, it seems I have been cheap iron. My father's values are not being transmitted well. As they say, much has been lost in the translation.

My father's value system was both beautiful and functional. His values were like thick cream skimmed off the top of life; rich, full, and useful. One could almost sink one's teeth into them. His values were strong, bold and solid. They worked. They were passed down through the proceeding generations and developed over the years through hard work, thought, application, reconsideration and reapplication. He received them as a precious gift from his father and he gave them to me. Not just for safekeeping, but to help me get them most out of life and to help me add the most to life. Values were to empower me to live, instead of a life of success, a life of significance. 

Several years ago my older brother and I compared notes and recollections and recognized these as some of the values we received from our father:

                        m Work hard and don't expect something for nothing.

                        m Make work fun.

                        m Listen to people. Really listen.

                        m Keep practicing until excellence is natural.

                        m Be generous in helping others.

                        m Be a giver not a taker.

                        m Set high goals and strive to attain them.

                        m Put God first, family second, and work third.

                        m Be dependable, a man of your word.

                        m Be prompt. Being late is rude.

                        m To have good friends you must be a good friend.

                        m Be fun to be around.

                        m Make sacrifices for your family and friends.

                        m Keep learning and thinking.

                        m Dare to dream big dreams. Have a vision.

                        m Stand up for what you believe to be right.

                        m Pray and trust God.

 

He gave me this magnificent chilled glass of thick rich cream. As he handed it to me, I could see the cream slosh up the sides of the tumbler, dripping with rivulets of condensation, and coating the glass with its translucent richness. He urged me to drink deeply of its cool sweetness knowing that the more of it I drank the more I would have to give to my children when it came time to pass the cup. Values, like love, are unusual in that the more you use them, the more you have to share.

But catastrophe struck before it came time to share its rich goodness with my progeny. I was there the entire time, but I am still not sure exactly what happened. I guess it happened so slowly and over such an extended period of time that the catastrophe failed to fully register in my consciousness. All I know for sure is that when I handed the glass to my children, the cream no longer stuck to the sides. When I looked closer I realized that the content of the glass was no longer rich, thick cream. It looked more like the 2% milk I now have on my cereal in the mornings. Much more watery than either whole milk or cream; 2% milk shows itself for the "weak sister" it is most clearly when it is used as a creamer in coffee. If you want to see something really nasty, put 2% milk in coffee.

The catastrophic change was unnoticed because it was not one grand accident where I (And my generation) tripped and spilled the values in a big mess on the floor. Instead, in out astounding egotism of thinking all great thinking began with us, we splashed a little out here, dribbled a bit there, choked on a mouthful here and poured a tad down the drain there. In my attempt to keep the glass full, I added a touch of water here and there to keep up the appearance of holding a full glass. After all, who was going to notice a little water?

Well, it ends up that I am the one who notices. I have noticed that our lack of solid values has had a powerfulliy negative effect on my world. Our culture in in chaos but we refuse to believe the chaos has anything to do with a faulty value system. We blame it on a lack of education, inequity of money distribution, political processes, classism, sexism, and corporate greed. The truth is all of these things are off kilter because our values are screwed up. We will not fix these social issues until we address our values.

But then, my children don't notice because they have never seen or experienced the real thing – the cream. The cultural assault on values crashing down on them from other sources makes for values more akin to sewage than cream. And I certainly didn’t help much: didn’t add much to the mix. Even so, though my values seem pretty thin and weak compared to those of my father, my watered down value system is quite distinct from the alternatives available to my children and grandchildren.

It is my prayer they can filter through the muck and somehow rediscover the rich, healthy, foundational values my father passed on to me.

Copyright © 2013, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved

I Love a Parade

In memory and in honor of my father, each year, at the first of the year, I repost this article. It is the first writing I ever had published.

As a pastor, it is not uncommon for me to be around and able to observe a family lose a loved one to a progressive disease like cancer. Always painful, it is also wonderfully touching and life enriching to see love shared, life made more meaningful because of its brevity, every drop squeezed from each moment because they are suddenly of very short supply. I am touched and I am reminded of going through that process with my father.

My father died over 20 years ago and rarely does a week pass that I don't wish I had a chance to talk to him. A few years after his death, I was motivated to write the first piece I ever had published. Allow me to share those thoughts with you at the beginning of this year

I love a good parade. I even like bad parades. I have seen both kinds. Some really stick in my memory.

The 1970 Memorial Day Parade in Waddy, Kentucky (yes, that is the town's real name) immediately springs to mind. The town folks had been talking about the Memorial Day Parade for weeks before the event and I was getting rather excited about it. One couldn't spend any time in the local grocery store without the conversation turning to the parade. Plans and preparations were being made. It seemed that most of the people in the little town were going to be participating.

My family and I passed up several offers so we could be sure to be there for the "big" parade. I will admit that the offers we received were not all that tempting. But we did make a conscious decision to be around for the big parade. At the appointed time we took our places on the sidewalk of the main drag. I must be fair and tell you that Waddy in 1970 was a community of about 255 people and the main drag was the only drag. And there were not very many feet of sidewalk to get on. Since most of the residents were in the parade, finding a place to watch it wasn't difficult. We didn't have to come down the night before and stake out our space. Showing up ten minutes before parade time worked out fine.

We didn't have to wait long before the action started. Here came the parade. It was absolutely wonderful. Strung out for several feet behind the town's antique and only fire truck were two shiny, brand spanking new pick up trucks. The owners had obviously spent a lot of time washing and waxing their pride and joy. One of the trucks was pulling the only float in the parade which was carrying some of the local veterans riding on a tobacco wagon. The other truck was hauling a young girl – perhaps she was Miss Waddy or Miss Shelby County. The entire local Cub Scout Pack, all six of them, were the color guard. There were bicycles and wagons and baby strollers and balloons and crept paper and sparklers and dogs, some horses and a couple of ponies. My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. My heart was touched. I wouldn't have missed it.

There have been several other parades in my life. All of them were larger and longer. Many were more exciting and colorful and entertaining. Some were so long they became boring. A couple of them have been just plain stupid. No offense is intended (Really) but have you ever attended a gay rights parade? There is a bad idea. But none of them grander... except one. That is the parade that wandered through my parents' kitchen in the fall of 1986.

My father was very busy that fall dying of cancer of the Godknowswhat. The doctors couldn't tell where the cancer had originated but it wasn't difficult to see where it had gone. It was everywhere and Dad was so skinny by then that much of it stuck out on various parts of his body. It was horrible to watch a strong, robust, commanding man reduced to a skeleton struggling to live through each day seeking to find ways to have as little pain as possible. It was horrible, but riveting – like those slasher horror films young teens flock to watch. It was also a wonderful time of quiet conversations and opportunities to do for my father; a man who had always done for others, especially his children. Though the role reversal was a bit challenging for both of us, it was a wonderful God gift to be able to serve my father during a very difficult time.

As cancer took more and more from him and more of him from us, we were completely centered on his well being. Though not unusually tall, my dad was very strong. As a high school kid he had a job picking up milk cans from the local dairy farmers. He could hang on the back of the truck with one hand, lean out and grab a milk can in the other and swing it up into the back of the truck. That is about 140 pounds per can. Whoa, strong guy. Dad played baseball and basketball well and taught his boys how to play.

Because the degeneration of his physical body and our all consuming struggle to make him as comfortable as possible had so captured my attention, the parade that had begun had been passing before my eyes long before I noticed it.

But one those beautiful cloudless, bright blue sky, breezy autumn afternoons it burst upon my sight. For a parade, it was difficult to spot. There were no fire trucks or Cub Scouts or floats or marching bands or riders on horseback. There were no pretty young beauty queens seeking our attention or politicians seeking our votes. Most of the faces in this parade were familiar to me, although some were strangers. But they all knew my father. He was the "theme" that held this parade together. This was a parade of people, passing through my parent's spacious, warm, welcoming kitchen, in front of the reclining chair that had become Dad's chief place of residence.

They came from near and far. As close as the next door neighbor and as far as several states away. They all came to say the same thing in many different ways. They came to say, "Thank you, Mr. McConnell. You have made a difference in my life." What a wonderful thing to say! "Thanks for living and letting me be a part of your life. Your life counted for something in my life." "You have lived a life that was significant because your life powerfully impacted my life."

And what a strange mix of people it was that carried this message to my father. There were the preachers and church leaders from all over the state that Dad had prayed with and for and taught so much about how to be sensitive to the needs of others and the leading of the Lord. He helped them have more than a theoretical Christianity. There was the alcoholic who lived next door who was snubbed by the community but was proud to be called "friend" by "Mr. Mack". There were the young men of the community that had looked to my father for advice and counsel on subjects ranging from family budgeting to how to win an argument without losing a friend. There was the single mother and her children who were helped through some hard times by a man they hardly knew. There were the old people that came to thank the man who brought them meals when they were too sick to cook for themselves. There were the business associates that had worked with him for over a quarter of a century – folks who really knew him and thus knew him to be a man of integrity, courage, compassion, wisdom and humor. There were his law clients who received much more than just good legal advice from their attorney. There were the students from more than 30 years of Sunday school classes that came to thank the man who helped make God real and understandable to them. There were the Little League ball players who had become middle-aged men, wanting to thank him for being a fine baseball coach and an even better example.

They came from all over. They loved and appreciated my father and came to tell him. Dad was sick, but he was having a wonderful time. He had invested his life well. And though it was coming to, what many of us considered, a premature end, it had been a great, meaningful, full life. My dad had been successful. He grew up on a little hill farm in Robertson County, Kentucky. He had served his country in World War II. He was the first in his family to graduate from college. He worked his way through law school and was the Vice President and Treasurer of a very successful life insurance company. He had provided very well for his wife and children. He was successful. But more importantly, his life had been significant.

Fortunately, I recognized what was happening in time to join this wonderful parade. I grasped the opportunity at hand and thanked my Dad for being a fine father, good friend, wonderful teacher and excellent example. What a parade! My, it was grand. One the finest parades I have ever seen. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Copyright © 1991, William T. McConnell, III, All Rights Reserved