My 94-year-old Dad died a few hours ago. He was in a senior care facility in Galveston and the last time I saw him was in early Dec. for a Christmas visit. My Dad was a freak of nature in that he lived to be a very old man and no one, at least no one I know, would have predicted his longevity. The last conversation I had with him was three days ago and he struggled to hear me to which I said, “Dad can I have a shrimp dinner delivered?” Ordering UberEats seemed the only thing I knew to do for him that would offer entertainment and happiness. He loved Galveston and he loved shrimp.
As I reflect on life with my father, I’m wondering now how I could have missed so many of his kindnesses. He felt largely absent when I was a child growing up. As a minister, it seemed he was either preaching or getting ready for a sermon or counseling parishioners. When he left the Methodist Church, because the church leadership couldn’t support his efforts to integrate his all-white congregation, he became a civil rights leader in Houston under LBJ. Those years were marked by childhood fears of the KKK burning a cross in our little front yard. I would lie awake at night dreaming up plans to wrap belts or slings under my bed which I would crawl into when the KKK came to kidnap my family. I’d remain undetectable hiding in the slings and could wiggle out and run for help to save my family.