A Tribute to My Dad

The following is a eulogy delivered on December 28th, 2010 by John Kingston.

From my brother Joel, and my wonderful wife Jean -- you have heard about the special man my Dad was.

Of course, there is always so much to a man -- and you can only capture a bit in a few minutes.

We haven’t talked about Dad’s love of history, and genealogy.

We haven’t discussed his passion for reading novels deep into the night, which was a signature of his.

We haven’t discussed his love of food and drink and tobacco -- which, I have to say, I have picked up a fair portion of myself.

You have heard about my Dad’s love of God -- more to come on that, in a minute.

You have heard about my Dad’s love of his country.

To this day, when I stand at attention at a ballgame, hand over heart, belting out the National Anthem -- I think of my Dad, who taught me that was the way.

You have heard about my Dad’s love of hard work, and his passion for his craft as an educator.

You have heard about my Dad’s love of the Texas A&M Aggies, and the Corps of Cadets he belonged to at A&M.

As just one example, we lived and breathed Southwest Conference football growing up -- those of you who are old college football fans remember the SWC, with all the Texas schools.

Because of my Dad, I am sure I was the only 8 year old boy in Connecticut in the 1970’s, who grew up knowing all the words and melody to the A&M fight song . . . which started with the immortal words “Hullabaloo, Caneck, Caneck,” and which one A&M President joked was Chickasaw for “Beat the Heck out of Texas!” -- except it wasn’t Heck, of course.

We were supposed to have a couple Aggies here in the room, but they were delayed by the weather . . . . the rest of you should count yourselves fortunate, or we would have done a rendition of the A&M fight song here in the service!

You have heard about my Dad’s life-long love of the Boston Red Sox.  I am going to have to ask forgiveness of the folks not taken with the game of baseball, as I take us down this path -- but it is an important part of the overall picture of who Dad is.

He would tell us stories about growing up sitting in the stands by Ted Williams in left, and tales of Bobby Doerr and Dom Dimaggio (brother of the great Joe, of course -- but pretty darn good in his own right, Dad would remind us!). 

He would tell us all the important stuff . . . about Johnny Pesky holding on to the ball in the seventh game of the 1946 World Series, with Enos Slaughter circling the bases and scoring the Series-winning run for the Cardinals . . .

And how in the 1948 play-off with the Indians, Manager Joe McCarthy selected the journeyman pitcher Denny Galehouse, even though frontliners Ellis Kinder and Mel Parnell were available to throw . . . and the Red Sox lost again.  I’m not sure Dad, 10 years old at the time, ever fully forgave Joe McCarthy for that decision.

Yes, that’s right -- all the important stuff, Dad made sure we knew. 

Paying back that debt to Dad, some of you know that Dad and I made a last minute trip to St. Louis in 2004, to watch the Red Sox beat the Cardinals in Game 4 of the Series. . . and -- you know the story -- close out the 86 year curse.

But, more than anything, Dad would become passionate about individual players, and their possibilities.  The best example of this in the last couple decades was Christopher Trotman Nixon -- known to baseball fans as Trot.

[Trot Nixon pictures distributed.]

Some of you remember Trot -- drafted in 93, debuted in 96, became a full-time big-leaguer a couple years later, and having a good, solid decade-long career.  Not that I checked to prepare for this -- but he ended up with a .274 lifetime average, 137 career home runs, and 555 RBIs.  These stats don’t count a very dramatic 5^th game walk-off home run against the A’s in the 2003 Divisional Series, which I am pleased that Jean and I were in attendance at.

My Dad LOVED Trot Nixon.  He loved his grit, his determination, his gutsy play -- and we in turn loved Trot too.  It wasn’t for his glory, his glitz, his glamour -- I mean, look at Trot.

Kind of doughy, a little lumpy, always dirty -- but played his heart out, all the time.

Dad’s love of Trot Nixon -- shows us something about Dad’s love of people generally.

It is here that I really want to dig in, because though my brother and Jean have covered some of this already, I think this one deserves some more time.

Trot Nixon is the perfect symbol of my Dad’s special relationship with people.

You see, I loved Trot, but I loved him for his intangibles, his solid contributions to the team . . .  .280 average, his predictable 15-20 home runs, and 75-80 RBIs.

Dad loved Trot, and somehow saw an unlimited horizon of possibility.  Even in the latter years of his career, Dad would say -- gosh, I hope this the year Trot really breaks through, and we see a big 30 HR and 100 RBI season out of him.

I would marshall all the facts, and try to persuade him -- but, Dad -- he hits .200 against lefties -- and because of that, he is a natural platoon player, and because of that . . . well, let’s just say we have seen about all out of Trot we are going to see.

For those of you who aren’t baseball fans, let me pause for a moment and explain why Trot’s inability to hit lefties is such a big deal.  About a quarter of all pitchers are left-handed -- and they are particularly challenging for lefty batters to hit, unless you are quite good.  At the end of the day, you really can’t be a great ballplayer ,unless you can hit all the pitchers, righty and lefty -- if not, you are limited as a ballplayer in a fundamental way.

He would smile, and concede the point -- but wouldn’t stop seeing that best person in Trot.  Sure, in my view it was an unrealistic sense of the best -- it was a sort of “Platonic” form of the perfect Trot, if Trot transcended all his very real limitations, and became the best possible Trot Nixon imaginable (if God made Nixon to be like Albert Pujols, the best player in baseball, I mean!).

You see, on the facts, I was right.

But on the aspiration, on the possibility, on the love, so to speak -- Dad was right.  He saw and loved that Trot Nixon.

This was the essential, defining attribute of Dad in the last couple decades, the one that anyone who knew him at all would know.

He loved people, in some peculiar, blind to the facts, but completely spectacular way -- and this was . . . completely, spectacularly, awesome!

He loved my Mom.

And he loved my brothers.

And he loved the girls my brothers and I brought home to marry.

And he loved the children we had with those daughters-in-law.

And he loved the friends we introduced to him -- for me, he loved the friends I had in high school, and at college, and at law school, and after school . . .  and on and on and on.

And he loved the people he ran into at church, and at the grocery store, and the parking lot.

He somehow saw in each one of us -- the Trot Nixon he saw in his mind’s eye, ignoring the fact that we couldn’t hit lefties, and never would! -- but that just didn’t matter for Dad.  He loved people in that way, nevertheless.

The Return of the Prodigal Son

At this point -- I will pivot from Trot Nixon, and Dad’s love of people, to the story of the Return of the Prodigal Son . . .  I know the jump isn’t obvious -- but I hope I can get you there in a couple painless moves.

        [Ask for the Rembrandt painting to be displayed.]

We all know the story from Luke 15, so I won’t make any effort to summarize the general story line here.  For reasons I don’t completely understand -- but I certainly believe God is in it -- this story just keeps showing up in the lives and conversations of me and Jean and my Mom and Dad and Joel, and the rest of our family, too.

Mom and Dad and I discussed it a lot in the last few months.

And then Jean and I discussed it a lot in the last few months.

And, my daughter did a wonderful mixed media project on it at school, a couple weeks ago.

And then Joel and I stayed up until 4:00 am discussing it last Wednesday night.

If all that isn’t enough! -- I am working with a couple of wonderful film-makers, to bring a documentary of Henri Nouwen’s book on the subject to the screen.  One of those great film-makers, my friend Greg Whiteley took the red eye from California last night, by way of Atlanta -- to be here for this.  (Stories on that some other time, but let’s just say we are excited about the project!)

Some of you know the late Henri Nouwen -- a remarkable theologian and academic, who blazed so many trails in stories of faith across the evangelical and catholic and agnostic and atheist spectrum.

In 1994, Nouwen published a book about his own spiritual journey, reflecting entirely on a Rembrandt painting of the epic Prodigal Son story.

Rembrandt did such a masterful job with the story -- here is the returning son, who has lost everything but has now regained himself in his return home.

Here is the hurt and disapproving brother.

Here is someone -- well, we don’t really know who he is, we can only guess!

And, finally, here is the Father -- clearly the focus of the painting.

In Nouwen’s story line . . . . no one of us is any particular character --but rather, we are all the son, or the brother, or the father -- in different parts of ourselves, and in different chapters of our lives.

We are the prodigal son in some ways, having squandered our birthright and selves in a land away from our true “home”.

We are the virtuous brother, who feels a little jealous about the deal we have gotten.

If we had all day, we could talk about the different aspects of the stories of the son and the brother -- but that isn’t the point today.  Today, we are talking about the Father.

In Nouwen’s view -- and, I have to say, in my view -- we are all to ultimately become the Father, sharing God’s love to all, without condition, in a complete, spectacularly awesome way.

On some level -- not all levels, but on some level -- blind to limitations, blind to shortcomings, and perhaps even blind to the fact that you can’t hit lefties, just like Trot couldn’t hit them.

That is what my Dad shared with us . . . for all of his own limitations, he was a big bear of a man, just like this Father, who would wrap his arms around those he encountered and share that love with them.

A Heavenly Father

Ultimately, though -- this story about the Prodigal Son isn’t about us here on earth, no matter how many parallels to our behavior there may be -- or my Dad’s approach.

This story is about our perfect Heavenly Father welcoming us home --  a Heavenly Father without any of the limitations or shortcomings of our fathers here on earth.

And here, the story gets even better, for all of us . . . and for my Dad!

Over the last weeks and months, I was blessed to spend a lot of time with my Dad . . . and during that time . . . while his body was increasingly broken, his spirit was at the greatest peace and comfort I have ever seen.

Because, in short -- he knew his Heavenly Father.  He knew he was soon to be with his Creator . . . . one who would accept him for the mistakes of his life, and would by his grace and strength redeem those mistakes and leave a powerful legacy of his love.

And, in that . . . he became a child, took on the faith of a child, believed as a child, leaned on others -- as a child.  As that “child” Jesus tells us we must all be, in order to come back to the Father.

Today, as we tell stories about my Dad and who he was -- I have the greatest joy in thinking about who he is today . . . now, this wonderful bear of a man, who in his own way wrapped his arms around all he encountered while with us . . . is wrapped in the arms of that ultimate bear of a Heavenly Father, loved and embraced for the special child of God he is.