Twenty-Three Years

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.