“Children’s children are the crown of old men; and the glory
of children are their fathers.” (Proverbs 17:6 KJV)
My Dad was close to Life’s River. Eighty-six
birthdays, and three unrelenting malignancies, compounded by Mom’s fifteen year
slide into Alzheimer’s oblivion, combined to draw him inexorably towards
the end of his earthly sojourn. My older sister and I alternated weeks
with him in the hospital. As Dad neared his departure we agreed I would
stay in the room with him until the angels came for his weary spirit. Then I
would notify her. And Wednesday morning the angels seemed to be at his
door.
Though Dad was thirty years old at my birth, still, in
recent years, a bond of friendship deepened with Dad, along with my
having an immeasurable sense of grateful wonder and respect for him. Born
in a small unpainted house in the Ozark Mountains of northeast
Arkansas, the fourth of
twelve children, he learned life’s lessons from God-fearing parents and
grandparents while working with siblings on a red-clay rocky farm. He split a
wagon-load of hickory firewood in order to become the first in his family to
complete high school – in a private religious academy, with one professor. He
then washed dishes in
Springfield,
MO to enable him to study and to
obtain a certificate from a business school there.
Dad married Mom, his high school academy sweetheart in 1929.
Mom gave birth to their first child – a daughter, in the depths of the
Great Depression. When I was born three years later, the meager funds our
parents had saved to pay the doctor and hospital were swallowed up when the
bank failed. Mom and I were not going to be released without payment –
but there was no money, nor job, to provide the payment. I do not
remember ever hearing how the conundrum was solved.
Dad confessed his faith in the Lord Jesus and was baptized
into Christ about the time I was born. So we grew up together – he, as a “newborn”
babe in Christ (Cf. Acts 8:26-39; 1 Peter 1:18-2:3), and I, in the
beginning of my life’s journey. There were only two churches of Christ in
Little Rock, AR at that time. E. R. Harper, the
preacher in the 4th & State
St. congregation, had a gospel meeting elsewhere
about that time. So he asked Dad if he would take his daily fifteen-minute
radio program for a week. Dad had hardly “dripped dry” from his baptism,
and had never prepared Bible lessons before. But he spoke on Radio KARK
(which covered the state ) that week. And that started his gospel
ministry, alongside his working in the Little Rock City Tax Collector’s office
- in time, becoming the City Collector.
If you had drawn a circle of 150 miles radius around Little Rock, in the years
following Dad would likely have preached in seven of ten churches within that
circle – helping start new congregations, helping churches with no preacher,
helping between preacher changes, helping as a peacemaker during troublesome
times, performing weddings and conducting funerals. My sister and I
became well acquainted with the back-seat, and floor, as Dad and Mom rode in
the front seats of a 1935 Chevy on late Sunday night returns from Dad’s
preaching appointments.
Gas was rationed during the 1940s WW II, along with a
nationwide 35 mph speed limit. An “A” sticker on the windshield would
allow you 4 gallons of gas per week; “B” stickers for essential workers
provided 8 gallons; and a “C” sticker (doctors, ministers, mail carriers and
railroad workers) would provide more gas – as the ration board determined how
much. Dad, not being a full-time minister, had only an “A” sticker – 4
gallons per week. But brethren, hither and yon, wanting Dad to come
on Sunday, would pool their gas to give him enough gas to get back to Little Rock on Sunday
nights. Such ministry as this continued for about forty years. But
with the onslaught of Mom’s illness, Dad’s care of her took precedence over his
helping churches across the state.
I stayed in Dad’s hospital room without leaving, the
first week of the final week and a half. On Saturday he inquired, “What’s
the doctor saying?” I replied, “He said you were a ‘grizzly old hillbilly’,
and he did not expect you to die soon. But we are losing the battle”.
“Does he offer us any hope?” “Dad, God can raise the
dead. So He can cure cancer if that’s his purpose. But the doctor has
nothing else he can do. We truly are in God’s hands.” Dad paused in silence,
then said, “Well, it’s hard to give up.”
“I’m sure
it would be”, I observed, “ if you knew how to give up. But I’ve never
seen you ever back away from anything which you thought you needed to do. Dad,
I don’t see your giving up. Our Lord did not have to die. He said, ‘The
reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life – only to take it up
again…This command I received from my Father.” (John 10:17ff. ) When
Jesus said, “…not my will, but yours be done” Jesus showed He trusted his
Father and gave Himself over to his Father’s will. (Luke 22:42.) He was “obedient
unto death – even death on a cross”. (Philippians 2:8. ) That’s what I see us
doing in these circumstances.”
Dad looked
at me, without speaking, closed his eyes in trust and began his wait on his
Father’s will for him. He appeared to sleep, without rousing or speaking,
until Wednesday morning. The angels seemed to be at the door.
But there
was something further I needed to say. “Dad, I want to thank you again
this morning for some very important things you taught, that you showed me. Thank
you for the GOOD NAME you gave me. Though you likely had occasion to
apologize that I was your son, I never had reason to apologize that Frank Kell
was my father. Thank you, Dad, for your INTEGRITY. I have never, to
anyone, at any time, for any reason, seen you be dishonest. In my own
experience I learned that you would do what you said – for good or for ill. And,
Dad, thank you for your life of faith in God, and love for Mom, our family, and
others. You have taught and encouraged me, not only with your words, but
by your daily life and EXAMPLE. My
Grandaddy Kell was dying of prostate cancer in June, 1942. His strength gone,
he asked Dad, two brothers and a sister, to sing, “Life’s evening sun is
sinking low, a few more days, and I must go…” And, they sang to their
Dad. Not knowing if he could hear, I added, “Dad, I’m going to sing to
you the song you sang to Granddaddy Kell.” So, there in the hospital room, I
sang that great hymn of faith in God. Then the angels must have
entered the room and borne away to the Heavenly Father, the spirit of my
earthly father, Frank T. Kell, in the 87th year of his earthly pilgrimage.
(NOTE: Mom,
who had not spoken in three years, two weeks later some how sensed her “Shug”
was gone. So Dad’s “Sweetheart” stopped eating, must have willed to
die, and completed her earthly sojourn at age 84.)
A LAD AND HIS DAD
I can’t
remember when my eyes first saw him –
The day I understood he was my Dad;
My
recollection of that time has grown dim,
Still,
day by day his life would guide this lad.
In time, I’d
look and wonder at his power,
His
hairy arms, the hands that swallowed mine;
He stood
erect, his frame as though a tower,
Yet,
gentleness, with strength, love did combine.
A young boy
needs a lot of help in living,
So
much to learn, of “What?”, and “How?”, and “Why?”
But simply,
clearly, daily, he kept giving
Example,
how to live, and how to die.
His life was ever moving
towards heaven,
Though
painful toil, or trials, be his lot;
God’s love
through him touched others, just like leaven,
His covenant with Christ he ne’er
forgot.
I watched
the weight of years on him, increasing,
The
strong and noble form now bowed with pain;
The time
drew nearer for this soul’ releasing,
That
in God’s welcome he might find life’s gain.
I’ll long remember when my
eyes last saw him,
The
day I whispered, “Farewell…” to my Dad;
Nor death
itself could cause my mind to grow dim
Towards
him, who showed true life unto this lad.
--Ted
Kell (Father’s Day, 1994)
Ted Kell
Brownwood,
Texas
