Does anyone remember the significance of August 1997? Most people won't remember that this is the month that Princess Diana died in a dark Paris tunnel, until they see the little sidebar on an internet website. I can't ever forget, because the day she died was the day of my dad's funeral.
My dad entered eternity on August 27, 1997. I was 21. I hadn't had enough time with my dad, but I refuse to dwell on the sadness, because I HAD a dad...a great one...and he taught me many things during those two decades. And even in his passing, he taught me some incredible lessons with eternal significance.
So here it is, 13 years since his death...and this blog is dedicated to his memory. To my dad, Oscar Allen Foster.
Dad was born in 1927, the youngest of three. His parents were poor and he grew up on a farm in Diggins, Missouri. In his veins flowed brave Cherokee blood, and his mother was one of my family's legendary 'Foster Women'; those women in our ancestry with amazing strength and resilience. We look back at these women and shake our heads in awe as we strive to demonstrate thier strength. It's not that the Foster men are weak...I don't mean that at all...but the Foster women are just incredibly strong survivors! But I digress....
After high school graduation my dad, still a fresh faced teenager, joined the United States Navy at 17 while the world was embroiled in a long and bitter war. His military career has always been shrouded in mystery for us, because he refused to talk about it much. Most of what we know, we found out after he died and we were finally able to gain access to his military records. He'd been awarded medals that we never saw. He was on a ship in the Pacific Arena during the war, and one of our pictures of him during this time shows a rakishly handsome sailor casually smoking a cigarette and baring his chest in what must have been tropical temperatures based on the trees in the background. Now that I live in Hawaii and am aware of the huge military presence here, I like to imagine that perhaps he was here on this island!
Dad is the second from the right.
We believe that Dad's ship was one of the first US ships to land in Hiroshima, Japan after the detonation of the bomb that helped to bring the war to an end. We don't know what it was that Dad saw and experienced there, but it must have been horrendous. The few things he did mention over the years reflected his experience there, including his hatred of racism. When we would later move from Missouri to Louisiana, we found ourselves living among a much larger black population and I remember not really knowing how to adjust or adapt. Dad adamantly insisted that I resist any racist attitudes; it was one of the few times I was impressed at his 'righteous anger'! He vehemently told me that "men of any race or color are capable of horrible evil" and that NO ONE should be judged by their skin or culture. "Get to know someone past their race or color", he insisted, "then you can know whether you should be their friend or not." His eyes would look unseeing past me as he remembered his past..."you can't imagine how terrible people can be to other humans until you've seen some of the things I've seen." I didn't want to know...then. But now I wished I'd asked.
Handsome Navy sailor!
I wish I had more pictures of my dad, but unfortunately they are packed away at my mom's house with everything else from my childhood that's in storage! Oh well...at least I have a few. One of the ones that is my favorite shows us standing by the pond on our property, fishing. During my pre-teen years that was one of my favorite activities with him.
After the war, Dad married a childhood friend and they had 2 children; Sharon and then Larry. Things didn't work out, however, and Dad found himself a single father with custody of two young kids. Thankfully his mother stepped in and helped him raise the kids for about 10 years as my dad worked hard to support his family. Also thankfully during this time, he returned to his spiritual roots. When he was in his early 30's, he met my mom, a 21-year old blonde with Irish blood in her veins, who had been helping at a church camp where Sharon was attending. On a bright June day they were married.
My mom impresses me; at such a young age she became the step-mother to a 13-year old girl and a 10-year old boy! I don't think I could have done this, but she did...and she did it so well that they considered her Mom. My dad worked as an electrician for the city of Springfield, Missouri and my parents bought a house. Over the years they had my sister Janet, my brother David, my sister Michelle, and then me. I was born when mom was 35 and dad was nearly 50. I'm sure he often wondered what in the world he was doing still up at night with a newborn while his oldest daughter was already married! Sure enough, Sharon made him a grandfather before I entered Kindergarten.
Dad worked hard, but I remember so many gentle and fun memories. He loved taking us camping or to Indian pow-wows so we'd learn to embrace our Indian heritage. I thought it was so cool when he'd drive his work truck home with the big 'basket' in the back that would be lifted up on a crane when he worked on the city lights. Michelle and I would sneak up into that basket and play although I'm sure we weren't supposed to! Dad was so soft-hearted; once one of our cats got up there and had a litter of kittens overnight, which he discovered after he drove the truck to work the next day. He took time out of his schedule to drive the little feline family all the way back home so they would be safe with us!
In his early 60's Dad retired and my parents decided to move us all to the warmer climate of Louisiana. I was 9 and was proud and excited to make the drive all the way there sitting in the cab of the moving truck with Dad. Not long after we'd moved to a town so small that everyone knew everything about everyone, my mom told dad that he needed to relax, now that he was retired, and that meant wearing jeans. Gasp! My dad had never worn a pair of blue jeans in his entire life! I made the drive with him to Wal-Mart, several small towns over, and remember laughing as he cluelessly picked out various brands and styles of jeans, trying them on and asking me how he looked. As if I knew any better than he, what jeans looked good on a 60-ish retiree man (although he still had his natural black hair, thank you Indian blood!).
I love my memories during those years; fishing with Dad on the Sabine River (I could bait and fish but hated removing the captured prize so thankfully he helped with that!), helping him burn off the dead grass on our property or mow on our super-fun red riding mower. I loved riding with him in his red Silverado truck as he bounced around our land or made trips to town. Even when I got older and no longer wanted to ride in dusty trucks or sit with him in his workshop inhaling sawdust as he tinkered around, I spent time with him as he spoiled me (my older siblings made sure I knew I was a SPOILED Daddy's girl). He took me to get my drivers license when I turned 15 while Mom was visiting my sister in Georgia. He knew I hated riding the school bus during high school so every day, he'd get up and drive me to school and pick me up when school was done (my sister is still bitter about this since SHE'D always had to ride the bus up until she graduated).
Excuse the RIDICULOUS Southern Belle outfit....Dad escorting me at one of our church's infamous pageant fundraisers.
Dad was SO PROUD about each of his kids and all of our accomplishments. When my brother, who was in the Air Force, was deployed during the Gulf War, it wasn't enough to tie a yellow ribbon around the big tree by our driveway entrance; Dad pounded a huge American flag "Support Our Troops" sign into the shade of the tree. Since I'm the youngest I can't tell you how proud he is of all of my older siblings and their various accomplishments, but I do know how proud he was when my sister Michelle graduated from college. And when I graduated with my A.A. in Bible and Theology at my college in California, he was there to witness it, beaming from his wheelchair since strokes had already begun to claim his health. The last time I ever saw him alive, he urgently made me promise that no matter what, I would continue on in college and finish with my B.A. He was adamant and I promised.
It took 5 years and quite a detour across the United States....long story for another time...for me to fulfill that promise but I never felt complete until I did; sadly he was not there to witness it.
One of the last times I saw my dad; there were tears in my eyes because I couldn't stand knowing how fragile he'd become. And yet his love for me was so obvious and real.
My dad was a prayer warrior; many times throughout my life I heard him praying through the night, loudly travailing for his kids and other family or friends. Let me tell you...this is effective! As a teen there were times I was tempted to do things I shouldn't but could hear his voice ringing in my head, praying for me, and that stopped me! Or if I did do something I wasn't supposed to, it seemed that the next few nights were particularly intense prayer sessions by my dad and I KNEW God has revealed to him all of my sins...those nights saw me lying in bed with tears running down my face as I repented.
And even after Dad died, he taught me an invaluable lesson. You see, I'd never really seen God as a FATHER, as in....how he could be a DADDY to His sons and daughters. But after Dad passed away, I so desperately missed having a dad that I turned to God in anguish and really, anger that He'd taken my dad when I was still young. I began to see that yes, God IS our Father but much more than that; He wants to be a DADDY to us...those of us with good earthly dads and those of us without. He wants us to come to Him with our sorrows and joys, fears and boo-boos, desires and goals....just like we would our earthly dads. Thankfully, my relationship with God blossomed into a fuller one even after the loss...or because of the loss...of my Dad.
But even into my marriage, I found myself complaining about not having my Dad around, etc. Until my husband, who has never known his father and only had countless not-so-awesome step-fathers, gently reminded me that at least I'd been blessed to HAVE a Dad around, and a good, Christian one, at that. He's right, of course. And the funny thing is, in many ways he reminds me of my dad...whom he never met. Certain gestures, sayings, or just his gentle and patient way with the kids (plus the fact that he spoils the kids!)....he is so much like my dad.
Which may be God's way of returning my dad to me, in a way, for the rest of my life here on earth.
I miss you Daddy, and I can't wait to see you again someday. Thank you for everything you were here on Earth.
a great tribute!
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