My Dad Was an Instrument of Peace

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where this is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light; and
Where there is sadness, joy.
Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek to be 
Consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. 

This prayer is attributed to St. Francis, but upon further research, scholars believe that Francis would not have used "me" and "I" in any prayer. Oh well, I still love the prayer and I still love St. Francis.

Today is my dad's birthday. He would have been 78. It doesn't seem like nine years since we got the pancreatic cancer diagnosis, which lasted only five months.

My dad was. . . . an instrument of peace. He worked in an era of small town banking, when bankers actually used their instinct and experience to determine the character of a customer. People were more than financial numbers, they had work ethics and reputations and he was a pretty darn good judge of their ability to pay back a loan. And, sometimes when they couldn't, he had to be the bad guy, in a way that preserved the dignity of all.

He was not a man that you could present drama to. Pragmatic. Perhaps he knew the difference between real a crisis and a fabricated crisis. He was stable and predictable. Pretty much not open to any type of bull-shit. I say "bull-shit" in the western context--which Daddy would appreciate. The alternative is "hog-wash" which works but is not quite as effective. 

That's the way I want to be. Pragmatic. But, like just about everybody right now, I too get caught up in the crises, the real ones and the fabricated ones. Last week I went all Texan (as my Texas friend says) on the high school principal regarding the verbiage in his letter after the Florida shooting. We all have our tipping points. "Thoughts and cares" was mine. . . but that's another blog.

Most of the time we just need someone to listen to what we have to say. I read somewhere lately that being listened to is dangerously close to being loved.

Daddy saw people as individuals. Not religious. Not political. Not racial. Just people and their individual character. He treated everyone, including the coffee shop waitress, as a known friend and assumed their good intentions until he knew otherwise.

If you are lucky enough to have a good dad, you never stop missing him. When he died, the first words my husband said to me were--you still have a heavenly father. True, and somewhat comforting.

We could all use a stable, loving, non bull-shit accepting influence in our lives. An instrument of peace. A good listener. A calming influence.

Lord, 
Thank you for good dads. And thank you that when they are gone, we still have you as a heavenly father. Help us look for tangible witness of your love, patience and stability in the world--for what we look for is usually what we find. Put us back on track when we start to present bull-shit. Help us be calm and loving to each and every person in our circles. 
Amen.