Last week we were preparing to leave New York. And as I am wont to do, I studied the road map and our “Googled” instructions for traveling to our next destination. But for the first time, it occurred to me that the small town we were travelling to is due north of Mebane, North Carolina.
Other than a “parentheses” of about twenty years--when he joined the U.S. Army, went to war, visited San Diego and married my mother and fathered his four daughters--Mebane was where my father was born, lived, and died. I lived under the same roof as my father for a brief span of less than eleven years of his sixty-eight year life. The “open wound” in my heart never had the opportunity to heal.
I wondered about being able to visit his grave. I don’t remember if we were not notified right away when he died, but either way, I don’t think it would have occurred to me to go to his funeral. I was not angry with him in the beginning, just broken-hearted. But in time that rejection turned to anger, resentment, and self-guilt. How could a daddy who professed to love me just leave me behind; only to call at Christmas? It must have been me—so unlovable. It was an adolescent pain that no one could soothe or heal. And when Jesus Christ came into my life, yes, He loved me unconditionally. And is a better Father than any other could be. But He doesn’t remove the scars, you know? They are still scars.
So now, for some reason He put in my mind the desire to visit my father’s grave. I knew there had been only one cemetery in Mebane. And thanks again to Google, I was able to determine that there still was only one cemetery, and that it was called Oakwood. After floundering with trying to do it myself, I prayed, and called one sister that I thought might be able to help me. She was one of two who had maintained some contact with my father’s bunch. In fact, she had the phone number of his step-daughter and of my father’s brother also.
When I called Frances, his step-daughter, I knew from her voice that she was a frail, and aging, country woman. But her voice was kind. She knew who I was when I told her my name, and she seemed glad to hear from me. I don’t know if she was surprised. Frances said that there was no tombstone, but only a foot marker. She was concerned whether I would be able to find it on my own; she lives miles away, counties apart, and suggested I call the city records office. Our conversation was short but congenial. In trying to open a door of witness with her, I was able to find out she is saved.
The next day, the woman in the city office was going to try to send someone to check at the cemetery for me. But this was Friday, and with our schedule, the visit to the cemetery had to be on Saturday. So I hesitantly called Frances again, hoping for some more help.
She was groggy from sleep and the pain of some of her ailments, but she still talked kindly and told me of some of the years I had missed out on in my father’s life. Some of it was personal: only information fit for the ears of a broken-hearted ten year old girl who so missed having a father in her life. And things that provided some relief to the pain. Somewhere in the conversation, she mentioned his Bible. She went on to something else, but this caught my ear. I had already tried to find out from others if there was any possibility my father ever had gone to church, or knew the Lord. I knew he had never shown evidence of it in our family life in California. I had long ago given up hope that there was any chance he was saved. So a Bible? What would he be doing with a Bible? I asked her about it.
“My father had a Bible?”
“Yes,” Frances said quietly. “Your Daddy got saved a few months before he died.” The tears began to stream down my face. “He was telling everybody about it. And he told one of his neighbors, and they got saved.” I believed it now. What better evidence of salvation than to want to tell others? My pain, my broken heart finally had a chance to begin to heal. This was a miracle that could not have been worked out by anyone but the Lord. For me to be in the vicinity of my father’s hometown, for Frances still to be alive and accessible. I am convinced that had I waited four more years, it is likely she would not be around to tell me these things; and I had no other contacts. The telephone number of his brother has been disconnected, and even had I been able to reach him, by this time it would not have occurred to me to ask. Like I said, I had long given up hope. But the Lord knew. And He wanted me to know too.
Amazingly enough, the lady from the City of Mebane called me back. She had sent a worker to the cemetery, and verified there was a ground level marker on the grave, and the approximate location of it in relation to the street. “Park by the little brick church,” she said. “You should be able to find it.”
I could find the grave, and we did. Thank the Lord for Mike, who was willing to take me on this journey. It was a sunny, hot and muggy day, and we stood there and prayed and I thanked God for letting me hear that my Daddy did love me, and to know that I would see him again. I realize now that I am my father’s daughter also--all my life I have only acknowledged the attributes from my mother’s side of the family. Being my father’s daughter, I know he felt the regret of his failures as a parent; just as I have felt the regret of mine. I failed in my job as a mother. But my failures were not because I did not love my daughters. I love them deeply, and my father loved me. I can love him now too. And Jesus Christ loves us both.
“But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
1 Corinthans 15:57
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