Cigar Stories 7: Chosen

It’s Wednesday 7/10 at about 6:00 a.m. and  I’m on “vacation” this week. I still have three meetings today. A Perdomo Champagne Reserve, a cup of coffee, and Bella accompany me under the pergola. It’s supposed to be 95 today. 100 tomorrow. 105 on Friday. It’s July in Colorado and I’m making small talk about the damn weather, procrastinating writing the story that I promised you in a rather emotional social media post that I would share. It may be long. It may be emotional. It likely won’t make sense. But you have always shown me grace, so here it goes…

I could consume 1,200 words telling you the story of how I met Amy Parks and how she and Hugh and I became a strand of three chords that not even death has broken. I might write that story one day, but suffice to say for now that our meeting and subsequent friendship have been divinely orchestrated. Amy has a son who has Down Syndrome. When he was born, Amy was scared. Confused. Uncertain. She cried out to God, “Why me?!”

In her moment of desperation, anger, and fear, she heard a clear message from the almighty. “Because I chose you.” Her son is a teenager now and is an amazing, loving, charismatic soul who loves. Unconditionally. God works through Amy’s son and He works through Amy just as He works through all of us. In spite of us. To use our gifts and acquaintances and circumstances and skills to His greater good and glory, all according to His great plan. We are all, in some divine way, chosen.

A very brief history of me and an even more brief history of my father: I was born on December 9, 1962, in Littleton, Colorado. Dad was working at the Martin Marietta plant in Littleton. When I was three, Martin transferred dad to their plant in Orlando. My brother, Greg, was born in Orlando in May of 1966. Mom and dad divorced - at a time when no one divorced - in 1969. Mom needed a support system - her mom and dad - and moved to where they lived - LaSalle, Colorado, which is how LaSalle became what I call my hometown. 

Dad decided to stay with his career in Orlando. He married Sharon. Divorced. Married Chris. Divorced. And remarried Sharon. Yup, number two was also number four. Sharon was obviously the love of his life, and is a dear, sweet, lady. Sharon had a daughter from her previous marriage, Sheryl, who was three when they first married. Dad legally adopted Sheryl, who lovingly recognizes my dad as hers. That is the life my father chose.

On Monday at about 10:15 a.m., I found myself sitting in the front pew of the historic chapel of the First Methodist Church of Oviedo, Florida for the memorial service for L. Dale James. I heard my step-sister (whom I have not seen in over 40 years), her husband, a friend, and a pastor (ironically named Brian James) eulogize my father.

A good man. Devoted to his family and his church. He had a storied career as an engineer at Martin Marietta/Lockheed Martin. He was a skilled woodworker – a craftsman – who made and repaired furniture and tackled both small and large carpentry projects. He was a trustee in his church where he was very active and taught an adult Sunday school class. Those in his class obviously appreciated him for his intellect and gift for teaching. He was a servant (so that’s where I get that…). He was a good father, grandfather, and friend. He loved his church. He loved his community. He loved his family. But did he love me?

Of course he did. My mind knows that, but my heart struggles. Throughout the decade of my thirties, I really struggled. I wrote letters and emails. I reached out. I wanted that picturesque father-son relationship. I wanted it bad. Dad would respond – to the best of his ability – and I believe he became frustrated not knowing what I wanted. I wanted a dad. But life’s circumstances and God’s plan did not have my desire in store.

My beloved mother, Pat (whom I credit for giving me my uncommon common-sense, my sense of humor, my love for people, and my overly large ass – don’t tell her that), sympathetically advised, “Your father just doesn’t know how to be your dad. He is who he is.” I accepted that wise counsel, accepted my relationship with him, and ended that quest for a dad. There is no sordid reason as to why. No fight. No “falling out.” No estrangement. It just is.

Back to that pew and the eulogy. Eric, Sheryl’s husband, spoke fondly of his father-in-law – my father – and lovingly called him “Dad.” He obviously loved my father and the love was clearly returned. He spoke of wood-working projects and family time together.

Through tears, my step-sister, Sheryl, spoke of the man who was her dad. She remembered vacations and family events. She remembered her father walking her down the aisle of her wedding and loving on her three kids, whom he clearly adored and relished in his role as grandfather. She remembered riding on the shoulders of this very tall man. Sheryl recounted the very relationship that I longed for. She then thanked my father for choosing her.

The word rang like a bell in the steeple of my mind. Chosen. Set to music, the slide show that accompanies every modern memorial service began to play. Pictures of dad as a boy in Pueblo with his siblings and mom and dad (who I did not know). Pictures of a young man in dated suits and ties. Pictures of Dad and Sharon at their wedding. A picture of Dad walking Sheryl down the aisle and posing in tuxedoes with his son-in-law. Pictures of family vacations and dad on the couch with his pets (he had pets?). Pictures of Dad doing woodworking projects. It was beautiful. Fitting. Pictures of a life well lived. And I wasn’t in it.

I did a quick gut check. I did not feel anger. I did not feel jealousy. I felt respect and love and happiness for my father and for the people he loved. It was a life well lived and I was so happy for Dad and the people with whom he did life. I did not mourn my loss. For me, that was decades ago. I mourned the loss felt by the family that he (and God) chose.

After the service, I had some time before my flight back to my home in Colorado. Eric and Sheryl invited me back to their house. It is a beautiful home in a gated community in Oviedo, just outside of Orlando. Apparently, Dad and Sharon lived close by. Funny, I don’t know where my father lived. Eric and Sheryl’s home was perfect. Filled with kids and dogs and love. And a pool! All houses in Florida should have a pool. I felt accepted – like I was family.

I sat at the kitchen table and conversed with people I hardly knew, but with whom I share a father. And The Father. Eric’s mom commented that I was sitting “where Dale always sat – and you look like him. You have similar mannerisms.” I do? Huh. When it came time for me to leave, I gave hugs, and wondered if I would see them again. I hope I do.

Making the trip back to Orlando International Airport on Monday afternoon, I couldn’t help but wonder. I like Florida – 95 degrees, 90% relatively humidity, and all. I like the palm trees and the architecture. I like the manicured landscaping and tropical feel. I like the state. How would I have been different if Mom and Dad would have stayed together? If I grew up with his influence in my life. If I would have became and stayed a Floridian and would not have been the native Coloradan that I so richly identify as today? How would I be different? Who would I be?

I know who I wouldn’t be. I wouldn’t have come to know my grandparents the way I did. I’d be less like my mom. They shaped me. I wouldn’t be a Coloradan. I wouldn’t have been reared in LaSalle. It shaped me. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with agriculture, worked on feedlots, ranches, and farms. Agriculture, and my mom, gave me a work ethic. I wouldn’t have been a state FFA officer. That honed my speaking ability and leadership skills (plus taught me parliamentary procedure!). I wouldn’t have gone to NJC to study Ag Ed, where I “accidentally” fell into the radio business, where I garnered my knack for communication.

I wouldn’t have spent 40-years behind a microphone and gladly serving a community for which I have helped raise over $2 million in charitable giving. I wouldn’t have this platform. I wouldn’t be writing this and you wouldn’t be reading it.

I wouldn’t one day be a program director at a radio station who desperately needed free airfare for a promotion and sent a proposal to Frontier Airlines where Julie Wood in marketing said it was the best proposal she had ever seen. I wouldn’t be Julie’s husband and I wouldn’t be Jack’s dad.

I wouldn’t have “accidentally” landed in Johnstown where, for 28 years, I have been loving on and serving this community. I wouldn’t have been frustrated with my developer, I wouldn’t have gone to a planning and zoning commission meeting to complain, I wouldn’t have been asked to serve on P&Z, I wouldn’t have run for town council, I wouldn’t have ran for mayor, and I wouldn’t have run for County Commissioner. Twice. Some of you would be happy about that. Tough. You’re stuck with me.

All the zigs, zags, and sometimes painful twists in my life would not have come to happen as they have. In short, I wouldn’t be me. And I like who I am. I am chosen.

In that slide show at Dad’s memorial, Sharon pointed out the last picture she took of my father. He was frail, huddled over a puzzle upon which he was working. My father now walks with Our Father and the puzzle is completed. He sees God’s grand picture. Every jagged piece fits perfect to form a beautiful, flawless tapestry.

At 61, I have the ability to look over my shoulder at my life. To see the jagged pieces, the painful zigs and zags, all coming together to form a divinely orchestrated picture. My puzzle is not complete. Nor is yours. But please know this – while it might not make sense now – while the pieces may seem too jagged to possibly fit anywhere in a picture – they may even hurt and break your heart – those pieces are being divinely shaped into the landscape The Painter has in mind. Because you are chosen.