Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary of my father's death from lung cancer. He died a little over a year after his initial diagnosis, and after more than 50 years as an unrepentant smoker. I think on some level I always expected one of my parents to die of lung cancer--they were both heavy smokers--but still, when Daddy became sick, it took all of us by surprise. He had the genes and family history to live well into his 90s and he'd always been healthy, while my mother had long seemed more fragile. Today, at 78 however, she is stilling hanging in there.
My father exemplified for me a "good death". He fought his cancer for as long as it seemed like he might extend his life in a meaningful way, and when it was clear that was no longer possible, he finished up those things that he needed to do, and then faced death, which came quickly. He did so with sadness for not being able to be with us longer, but also with gratefulness for the 75 years that he had.
My father was a child of the depression, the only surviving child of my grandparents' marriage. My grandparents eloped, and from what I can piece together, were somewhat estranged from their families. My grandmother used to tell us stories of her childhood, and of my father's, but now as an adult I recognize that they were carefully edited, and she took many family secrets to the grave with her. Daddy didn't talk much of the past, and he had been raised not to talk about feelings or problems either, so there is much of his life that I will never know about.
I do know that my father was a person of integrity. My father was a good liberal Southern Democrat, and a gentleman in the best sense of the word. He was kind, he was gentle and he cared about people, and these characteristics helped to form me and inform the way I see the world. His views of women, though,--his wife and his daughters--were old-fashioned. Although he never said it straight out, it seemed to me that when my mother was depressed and sometimes irrational, he excused it as "just the way women are." He expected my sister and me to do well in school, and to go on to college, but marriage (of course!!) would be our ultimate goal, and our husbands would (of course!!) take care of us, so there was no need to think of career goals. He was delighted when I married young to a "responsible young man" who could take care of me as my father had, and he was disturbed when we divorced 12 years later. Although he was proud of my accomplishments as I put myself through school, I don't think he was ever really sure that I could manage on my own, and my perception that he didn't see me as competent was a source of great sadness. In my early adult years I longed for my father to talk to me as an intelligent and independent person, but that rarely happened. Why, I wondered, could my father have these conversations with my female cousins, with family friends, but not with me? Years later I try to understand that his view of women, especially of me, was a product of his generation, of his up-bringing more than a real reflection of my intelligence and capability.
My father was the fastest reader I've ever known. On weekends he would sit down with a thick novel, and he wouldn't leave his chair until it was finished. Daddy was also one of the smartest people I've ever known, although he didn't excel at school, and dropped out of college before graduating. On the day of his funeral, one of his high school classmates came by for a visit. He said to my mother, "You know, I was the valedictorian of our class, but we all knew that Joe Bennett was the smartest one in the class."
When my dad retired at 55 (mandatory for his job) he and my mother returned to the same small Southern town where he was born and raised, and ultimately lived for all but 20 years of his life. He remained close to his high school friends, and had gathered a group of them to meet for lunch once a month the last 10 years or so of his life. He took on the task of making sure that each of them received a birthday card each year, and after he started using a computer, he made the cards himself. When he died, he left on his desk a box of cards, already addressed and in chronological order for the next year of birthdays for his remaining classmates.
He also left an anniversary card for my mother--he died just two weeks before their 53rd wedding anniversary. My parents' marriage was rocky, and they came close to divorce at least once. Their worst period began when I was in high school, and I sometimes wished they would just divorce and end the constant underlying angst and unhappiness that permeated our family at that point. I will never know, I suppose, the depth of their problems, nor why they ultimately stuck it out, but in their later years they did seem happier, and I believe that they loved each other.
In an ironic twist, I received my acceptance letter to seminary the same day that I received the letter my father wrote to each of us kids when he realized that he was dying, and that time was short. My parents were not happy with my decision to go to seminary and to seek ordination. On one level I understand their concern--I was giving up tenure and financial security for a less certain future. I think he was still uneasy with the idea of women's ordination. But it also hurt, because it reflected my father's continued concern that I wasn't really competent, and worse, that I made foolish choices and that I was selfish. It revealed once again the gap that seems to exist between how I see myself and how my parents see me--a gap that we'd closed just a little bit when I finished grad school, but that had reopened.
It is a great sadness to me that Daddy died before he could really see what my life at seminary would be like, before he could see me take on this new part of my life--because I think he might have been proud. I'd like to think that we might have attempted to reconcile the difference, and that he might have seen just a glimpse of the me that I think God is calling me to be.
Daddy, I'm still thinking of you.