February 5, 2002 was the date that my father breathed his last earthly breath. Twenty-three years ago. That means that one third of my life has been lived without him.
Lately, the weight of that time apart has felt heavier. None of our children’s spouses, none of our grandchildren, and none of the deeply meaningful experiences that have characterized my own aging have been shared by a man I loved and admired. And indeed, a man who loved me.
Samuel Frey Wolgemuth was an only child, which, in the life of a farmer’s son, meant he carried a heavy load.
His faith was formed under the nearly unbearable weight of legalism. Then grace broke through. Both theologically and literally. In rural Lancaster County, Pennsylvania my dad met and married Grace Dourte. She was all that her name implied. And soon they embarked on a journey of embracing and extending the love of Christ, without strings. Certainly they did this imperfectly. We all do.
For 46 years, my dad invested in me. Not through grand gestures or by attending every sporting event, but through something far more lasting—by bringing me and my family persistently before God in prayer.
He was a soldier at my side, fighting battles I never even knew existed. Day by day, he advocated before the God he loved, building a foundation under me without ever knowing what would be built on it.
Admittedly,
I laugh out loud at the Progressive Insurance ad campaign that jokes,
“Progressive can’t help you from becoming your parents.” And while the humor is
irresistible, the promise is unnecessary.
I miss my dad. Twenty-three years a void.
The last time I heard his voice I was standing outside of a Morton’s Steakhouse
at Crown Center, in Kansas City with a cryptic cell phone in hand. I lingered
outside while my GE colleagues collected inside for a business dinner. My
father’s words were weak but clear. After a very short conversation, he
concluded with the three words he wanted to have linger in my soul until I was
reunited with him.
“I love you”.
I assured him of my love and gratitude.
We never spoke again. At least not verbally. But in so many ways, I still hear
him. In all the important things. I hear him.
Twenty-three years. Marked indelibly, by a Pennsylvania farm boy, and the God
he worshiped.
On a recent trip to Chicago to visit three of my siblings, I found myself invited to sift through a collection of family memorabilia—old photographs, reels of movie film, faded letters, and unexpected treasures. Included in the pile, two small booklets caught my attention. One, titled Genealogy of Solomon Sharpe, and the other, Their Legacy in Our Hearts – The Life and Times of Monroe and Susie Dourte. They were modest and faded. But intriguing. Relics that told an unexplored portion of my own story.
Monroe and Susie Dourte were my grandparents, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania farmers who raised eight children, my mother Grace being the third. As I flipped through the books, I noted that my grandfather’s lineage traced back to a man named Solomon Sharpe, his great-grandfather.
Solomon was born in 1801 in Yorkshire, England, and immigrated to the United States as a young man, seeking new opportunities in the vast, rural expanse of southeastern Pennsylvania. There, he married Christina Lehn, and together they raised seven children.
Solomon became a skilled fence maker and builder, carving out a modest life for his family. But as the years went on, and his family grew, so did his conscience. He became increasingly troubled by the practice of slavery, which had become entrenched in the southern United States.
Before the Civil War ignited, Solomon traveled south to Virginia, where he witnessed the brutality of the slave trade firsthand at a local auction. There, he made a purchase—one that would shape his legacy in ways I hadn’t expected. For $300—more than $11,000 in today’s money—he bought a slave.
After making the payment and signing the necessary papers, Solomon handed the documents to the slave and said, “You are a free man. Go where you please.”
The man began to walk away, but then turned back, handed Solomon the papers, and said, “I will go with you.”
Together, they returned to Pennsylvania, where they worked side by side for many years.
Legacy.
Stewarding the courage and sacrifice of those I call my family—not for the sake
of politics, but for the cause of Christ. Conviction over comfort. Justice
before convenience. Expensive obedience. Dignity imputed through creation. A
Biblical mandate to love and live together.
We too have been bought with a price. Set free at the expense of a righteous
man. We too have been handed our papers.
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