P.S. I Loved You

P.S., I loved you.

Mum passed away from cancer when I was 17. Dad was 53. For the next five years or so, Dad and I learned to rely on one another and relate to each other as we never had before. The relationship as father and son that I'd always wanted with him became reality for the first time, and I loved it. In many ways, he became my closest friend. However, I was too immature to comprehend the loneliness growing in his heart. After all, I was 1,200 miles away at college most of the time. He was still very much a man ready for love, and just as I prepared to graduate from my undergrad program and move home, he was preparing to remarry. In my shortsightedness and his dislike of confrontation, neither of us acknowledged the obvious: His new wife wouldn't want me living there. It got ugly quickly, and my close relationship with Dad soured, almost to the point of utter dissolution.

It was years before we reconciled and made peace over the situation that played out in 1993. I learned a lot about and from my father during those years, and while the relationship with his second wife never fully developed into what I'd hoped it would, she was good for him in many ways. She lacked the ability to trust that his kids could love and accept her into the family, so she spent almost thirty years distrusting everything we ever did or said, believing the worst about us, and doing all she could to drive wedges between Dad and us. There were times when we weren't sure if Dad knew how we really felt about him because she didn't pass along our messages to him. How can I say that she was good for him in many ways if she acted so poorly? I can say it because he clearly loved her, and because she helped him improve his health when they first met. He never would have lived as long as he did without her.

Some of these lessons from my father have been learned with pain and hardship. Others are more lighthearted. It’s easy to glamorize a beloved figure as a blameless person, but Dad was not blameless. He was a godly man, yes. He loved his Lord Jesus, yes. He desired that the glory of his life be given to God alone. Yet Dad had—like this son of his has—flaws. Some of those flaws caused irritation, and others caused strife. His distaste for confrontation led him to avoid dealing with situations in a direct manner. Sometimes that worked well, and other times it led to trouble for everyone involved.

One of the lessons, then, that I’m learning from Dad’s example, is to discern when to hold back and when to charge forward. A mentor of mine from more than twenty years ago, Ken J, used to coach me with these words, “If it’s in the policy, it’s not personal. If it’s not personal, then just say what has to be said.” I have relied on that advice countless times in my career! ‘It’s not personal; it’s policy.’ The other party may not like it still, but it removes the sting from the circumstance a little. Dad had once been a spiritual mentor to Ken J.

Dad was a spiritual mentor to many. Carl S, Luke H, Rick P, Mike D, just to name a handful that I knew of during my college years. Mike was a friend of mine from high school that had encountered a relative involved with a cult. The relative had nearly convinced Mike to leave his Christian faith behind for the twisted version embraced by the cult. I asked Dad to talk with Mike if Mike would agree. Both said yes, and Dad, who had studied Greek and Hebrew in seminary for the pastorate before ultimately opting not to follow that vocation, patiently explained the differences in the original Scriptures between God’s Word and the cult’s version. I heard from Mike later, expressing his gratitude for Dad’s kind instruction and manners with my friend. He rejected his relative’s cult and stayed true to his Savior.

Rick, a college friend from a southern state, appeared in our dooryard one day while Dad and I were haying. He’d had some struggles post-graduation and needed a fresh start. He started driving north, remembered that I lived in Maine, and eventually found his way to our home. He rented a room from Dad for about a year, worked in sales, married a woman he met locally, and moved on. He told me frequently that Dad had a very positive influence on his life, though I’ve lost touch with him since.

Luke H was a childhood friend whose grandfather sold Dad the property and home where I was raised. Luke rented a room from Dad for a time and was discipled by him; to this day he credits Dad for shepherding him through perilous times in his life.

During the time Luke lived at Dad’s house, Carl S also stayed there. Carl was a middle-aged man whose life had taken some negative turns. He and Dad had served together at the church at one point, and Dad was committed to helping Carl right his ship, as it were.

All of these men contributed to the financial needs of the house while Dad provided spiritual guidance to their lives. I don’t believe it was ideal for him to live in such an arrangement, but I admire how he submitted himself to be used by the Lord for the good of others in that way. I know that some of these men are still with the Lord because of Dad’s service to Him and to them.

Dad’s generosity of spirit to people in need filled me with admiration. He didn’t always make the best decisions, but he always did his best to serve.

General Lessons from My Father

Boy, writing the title was easy. And the ideas flow through my mind every day as I drive to and from work. But when I sit down to write, they race out of my head and I’m left with mere glimpses of intentions, shadows of thoughts.

It’s really hard to know what to put here and what to leave out. Maybe nothing should be left out. Maybe nothing should be included. He was a very private man, so on the one hand I don’t want to overshare, but on the other hand, I need to say what’s on my heart. It is vital that the reader understands this basic premise right off the bat: I loved and admired my Dad, and I would not be half the man I am today without him. My portrayal of him in this essay is a mere fraction of his nature and character, as I am the youngest of five children born to him and my mother, and countless others knew him and esteemed him highly as I do. My lessons from my father are taken from my limited perspective, but they are no less valid, and I share them in the pages that follow, to honor my father and the influence he had on my life.

Throughout my life I’ve been told that I’m very much like my father, and I suppose I can see some of why people say that, but to me, many of those similarities are cosmetic. We carry ourselves in similar ways. We have some mannerisms that are the same, and our voices sound alike. When my hair is cut just so, and my goatee grows to a certain length, I can pass for Dad when he was the age I am now, briefly. I must admit that I love that.

1. He Held His Tongue (all but once)

However, our temperaments are very different. For as long as I can remember, my father had a long fuse—he’s not been a man to rage. My fuse is so short that it’s as if I explode before the powder’s lit. As a child, I watched him endure endless mechanical failures of tractors, balers, mowers, rakes, wagons, cars, chainsaws, trucks, and more, and never once in those situations did he utter a curse, oath, swear word, vulgarity, or anything like it. He worked harder; I steamed and gave up. I don’t know how he did it. Perseverance comes slowly, and I’m sure he had to learn it, too.

I recall one time when the baler, a John Deere 14T, was giving him particular fits when he was haying a neighbor’s field. The feller watched in amazement as Dad fixed the same cotter pin two or three times in the same day, and then when Dad missed his aim with the hammer and got his thumb instead, all Dad said was, “Ooh, that smahts.”

The man finally remarked, “I don’t believe you even know HOW to swear, do you?” I won’t tell you the words that were running through my head at the time. Let’s just say that it wasn’t as pure minded as my father was. His testimony remained untarnished by foolish talk. It’s a lesson I’m still learning.

Dad did lose his temper once with me and say something he instantly regretted. He was using a tractor to tow the farm truck to get it started. I was about ten years old, and it was my job to steer the truck and pop the clutch at the appropriate time to get the beast going. I’d done it before, but many things had gone wrong already that day, and they went wrong again. Frustrated, Dad got off the tractor, yanked open my door, and hissed, “D—n you!”

As a lover of the Word of God and a man for whom words have meaning (as should we all), he was instantly horrified at the meaning of those two words. I had never seen him so broken by his own words. “Oh Bill, I’m so sorry! I don’t mean that. Forgive me!” Of course, I forgave him. And I’ll add that it marked a change in our relationship, because from that point on I knew that my father had admitted his fault. It was a powerful example.

2. Relationships over Rights: Honoring the Savior

Dad would rather suffer an injustice than put the screws to someone. I’m confrontational. I recall one summer when a potato farmer rented some of our hayfields to plant his crops and then failed to pay the balance of the bill to my parents, or so I was told. From what I understood, Dad preferred not to take the man to court over it, citing Scripture’s command not to sue a fellow believer in a secular setting, so our family was out the money due us. I struggled to maintain a charitable attitude when I learned about getting short-changed like that. On the other hand, Dad was being charitable, sowing mercy, and reaping a harvest of mercy and righteousness that I didn’t comprehend at such a young age.

Over the years, Dad did his best to assemble the family for family worship after supper. We usually sang and then read a passage from the Bible and prayed. I squirmed. A lot. I don’t know why, exactly, but when I see my sons squirming now, I remember my experience from childhood. I have not done well with this practice at all as a dad, although the boys and I did have several stretches over their younger years when I would read the Bible and pray with them at bedtime.

As a teacher in public school, my father had responsibilities that kept him away from the house some evenings. We lived equidistant from his work, which was west of us, and where we went to school, which was east of us, 30-40 minutes either way, depending on traffic and road conditions. Also, he was an elder in our church, which was east of us, in another part of the same city where we went to school, and he attended meetings there at least once a week, I think. It seemed he was away from home at least two or three evenings a week or had meetings at the house.

We attended Sunday school and church every Sunday morning, and then evening service, too. We also attended prayer meetings or hosted them at our house. It differed over the years. Some of my earliest years, Dad served as pulpit supply at the East Dixmont Community Church. We had just one vehicle, so he’d drive us to Bangor for Sunday school, drop us off, and then drive to East Dixmont for church there. When church was over there, he’d return to Bangor to pick us up and go home for lunch. He did a lot of driving in those days.

It was once such Sunday in the fall of the mid-1970s when we lost the barn. The night before, my brother and I had helped Dad line a room in the barn with bales of mulch hay to make a cozy place for the chickens to spend the winter. We held off on moving the hens that night, though. The next morning, after we left for church, a fire was started. A neighbor noticed it and called the fire department. Then he called our church. Mum got the call just as Sunday school was finishing up. She found a ride for us with someone who had a car large enough for all of us.

As we hurried home, someone else contacted Dad somehow. To this day, I don’t know how he was reached in East Dixmont. They didn’t have a phone nor running water or indoor plumbing in their church.

Today, nearly 42 years after the fact, I can still picture the cars and trucks lining both sides of the road of the final quarter mile to our house, blocked from continuing due to the ferocity of the fire. When our driver tried to proceed, a fireman stopped him. Our friend rolled down his window and Mum shouted to the fireman, “That’s my barn!” He let us through.

I sat by the three trees at the corner of the driveway and watched the barn burn. Dad arrived home just as the roof collapsed. The entire season’s hay was gone, hay that would have been sold to pay our Christian school tuition. Of far greater concern to Dad was that a neighbor had parked some farming equipment in the barn for safekeeping for the winter, and that had burned up, too. At some point, a dead tree behind the barn caught fire, broke off, and rolled down the hill into an uncut field, causing it to light up. A firetruck had to be driven down there to put out that blaze. The State Fire Marshal was never able to pinpoint a cause, though he suspected arson.

Dad was more concerned about his relationship with the neighboring farmer than with the material loss we suffered. By God’s grace, the other man was also a believer, and was a forgiving man. It helped that the barn was insured, but it took me a long time to comprehend that relationships are more important than materials, a lesson well demonstrated by my father’s reaction to our barn fire.

3. Priorities

I have always idolized my “Big Bother,” as I call him (he calls me his “Little Bother”), though I have learned that he is fallible. ☺ I was very young when Dad had me start helping him and my brother cut trees for firewood. Dad would assess which trees to cut and run the chainsaw. Dan would use the axe to trim smaller branches from the fallen trunk, and I would haul the debris in one direction and the firewood to the trailer. As my brother matured, he was taught to use the chainsaw. On one occasion as we worked at the edge of a hayfield behind the house, part of a tree fell on my brother’s head, injuring him. Dad moved quickly to tend to Dan, who needed to go to the hospital to get stitches. In that experience I got to see how much more my father valued his son’s health than he did getting firewood cut—a truth my immature mentality had frequently failed to comprehend. Hard work and providing for family are important, but loving your family is more valuable than getting a job done at a certain time.

4. Trust

The images of the farm flash through my mind all the time: Blooming flowers and trees of spring. Growing timothy and clover hayfields of summer are cut down by the Farmall 200 with a cutter bar mower. It could be raised to a vertical position for transport, and then lowered for operation. The oddly five-sided teeth of the bar were held in place by short, stout, round-headed pins that had to be hammered into place against an iron backing so that the flat end would spread out and hold the new tooth in its location. I learned how to replace teeth that had broken, worn down, or come loose. Mowing with that machine was primitive compared to the mower-conditioner Dad bought when I was in high school, but it was also hypnotic. As the tractor progressed to the left of the uncut grass, the blade snapped mercilessly at the uncut hay. It looked like a crowd of people that had the rug yanked out from under them; they’d teeter and then fall, and it would happen again immediately to the next group. Over and over and over, the grass clipped, teetered, and fell, as though unsure what to do and shocked at the outcome.

Haying a field behind Helen Worcester’s house (now owned by Becky Treadwell) one day brought me a lesson on trust. Dad entrusted the mowing to me, which filled me with pride. We all know what pride goes before…

Driving the Farmall 200 around that field with the cutter bar mower one time took one hour. ONE HOUR. Naturally, as more of the field was cut, the trips around took less time, but the work was slow and became tedious. Of greater concern than tedium, however, were the darkening clouds to the west. I kept mowing, though, knowing it was not my decision to stop and go home. Besides, I didn’t know if I should leave the mower there, drive it home, leave the tractor and mower and walk home, or what. Better to stay on task.

As I recall, Dad arrived with his diesel tractor and began mowing with me to get the job done faster. However, we could not beat the rain, so he shouted for me to lead us home. The problem I had was that my mower was still engaged, and I thought that I had to stop the tractor and engage the clutch to disengage the mower. I didn’t realize that I could simply disengage the mower by moving the gear handle without using the clutch. All the way home, as I drove at top speed, that mower also ran at top speed, with Dad hollering at me to disengage it. We were drenched to the skin by the time we got home, and I could see that Dad was frustrated with me again.

However, unlike the time with the truck, this time he just said, “Why didn’t you disengage the mower like I told you?” When I gave him my reasons, he explained how to do it. If I had just trusted him, I could have saved the mower from damage I caused by running it at the same speed as I drove the tractor. I just hadn’t believed that my father knew what he was talking about. Moving one little toggle switch two inches forward is all I had to do, and I didn’t trust Dad. I gave in to the fear that I’d get it wrong. If my Father instructs me to obey, what is there to fear from obeying?

5. A Different Way

My father spent nearly 40 years teaching in Christian and public schools. What a rich heritage I gleaned from him as I, too, pursued a career in education! My journey has looked quite different from his, but I continue to be blessed by his experience and knowledge.

Something that took me many years to comprehend, however, impacted our interactions as I grew up. A former colleague in the Maine Department of Corrections’ Education Division, Jim Howard, asked me one time, “When I say the word ‘engine,’ what’s the first thing that pops into your mind?”

I spelled out, “E-N-G-I-N-E. How about for you?”

Jim said, “A train engine or a car engine. A motor.”

We went on to discuss how each learner responds differently to concepts in education. For me, I struggle with abstract concepts because the words appear in my mind as they’re spoken, in similar fashion to a chyron or teletype. Unless the object being discussed is extremely familiar to me, the image itself does not crop up in my mind’s eye.

I think that explains a lot of my struggles to understand what Dad wanted me to comprehend when he’d ask me to get this wrench or that one or follow a series of steps to accomplish tasks. No matter how much I tried to pay attention, the words flashed in my head, but the comprehension wasn’t there. As a result, I frequently bungled the process Dad had in mind, frustrating him. At least, that’s how it felt to me. Still, though, he persisted in bringing me along, physically and metaphorically, giving me new chances to try to learn.

My father was 36 years old when I was born. I’ve been told that my parents nicknamed all five of us kids prior to our births so that they’d have a way to refer to us other than “it.” Apparently, my nickname was “Quits.” Five was enough, I guess. ☺

In a conversation with Dad many years ago, he mentioned that because of his own upbringing, he didn’t know a lot about interacting with his kids when we were young. I remember helping him with many chores, and him taking us to an ice cream stand near the end of the Horseback Road on which we lived, a place called “The Big Dipper.” It sold soft serve only, as I recall, and if we ate our cones too slowly, Dad would “help” us eat our ice cream. ☺

He did what he could to make our time with him as special as possible, and that has not changed over the years. When my wife and I adopted two boys through foster care, on their respective adoption days, they were presented with toy cars that I had played with as a boy. Dad and his wife Jo even included some that he had played with as a child in the ‘40s. They’ve made a point of attending concerts and baseball games our boys have participated in, and those have become memories to cherish. They’ve supported us through their prayers and love in difficult times. The boys love them and have enjoyed visiting the farm on which I grew up.

Even as I have discovered that I learn differently than many of my peers, my boys learn differently from one another. As a father, I’ve had to adapt to their needs, and I have gained a deeper appreciation for Dad’s job with me!

6. Goodbyes

In April 2021, Dad’s journey on this earth ended. At the memorial service a few weeks later, my four siblings and I were privileged to recount the innumerable blessings of being raised by Paul MacDonald (Mom passed away in 1987). Dad had his share of failings as all dads do, but we knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he loved Jesus Christ. He’d spent his life teaching us to love God, too, demonstrating how, and loving us. Dad was 88 years old when he went to heaven.

It’s been two years since then, and we continue to recall the lessons we learned from my father.

Bill “Mack Ames” MacDonald

June 12, 2023