When we buried Dad we buried his Bible with him. Mum thought it would be a good idea and there was something symbolic about it that made sense. As sons and in-laws and grandsons hauled the casket from the hearse the breeze snapped the tattered and well worn volume open and we quickly grabbed the loose paper litter and reordered it before walking to the grave. But Frank and I had realised in that moment how much written history we were putting in the ground. So before we departed the yard we pored through well thumbed pages of a book now sans its cover. Full of sermon outlines, addresses of bookshops, mathematical and financial calculations, notes and reminders of events in the parish. Receipts for sardines, ginger nuts, cheese and a shaving brush. I took lots of photos. Last chance really.
The cover stands out. There is a list of names. Men some of whom I dimly remember from my childhood. Men and their families. Stern to me but generous to Dad. An interwar generation of farmers who did things differently. Men who were instrumental in altering the course of Dad’s life. Men who had the courage to challenge him to square up and face up. To be honest with himself and the course of his life. Men who set him an example about what a dirty hands faith could look like. Dad could be bluff and dismissive of symbols and markers but deep down he knew their importance and their power. Little wonder that there is a monument to these men on the now front cover of his Bible, names autographed in their own hand. Men long gone but very much alive and vibrant and powerful in the life of Dad. Men whose impact would ripple far and wide. They would be amazed if they knew. Perhaps now they do.
Then there is Tiny O’Shea. Tiny filled Dad’s narrative for a number of years. People would connect with him in ways he probably couldn’t understand or explain but he always responded. Sometimes the connection could become an obsession, as he focused his energies and cares into their needs. The veterans were the particular object of his affection. There was always a part of Dad which engaged the military in a vicarious way. He regretted not having a career in the military aside from his National Service and Reservist commitments. Not that he held that regret against his calling into the pastoral. But he was especially pleased when he was able to connect his ministry with the military and there were any number of people I met from his service at the Repatriation Hospital. It is a part of his life which is completely unsung. The veterans know, and that’s what counts. But it was no surprise that this clipping from 1984 of ‘Tiny’ O’Shea was catalogued in Dad’s Bible.
Farmers and the military seemed to be on a wavelength which resonated with Dad. But there were other types too. Men with whom he felt an affinity even if they came from other backgrounds. Men with whom he could be himself, speak the truth, to confess a little fragility. Bruce and Ross pictured here tucked away in the middle of his Bible. Reminders perhaps that men like these two had shaped his course and that of the family. He would tell anyone who listened that these men had been put on his path by God.
And of course Peter. Dad’s old book fell open here on the day. Twice. Arguably Dad’s favourite amongst favourites. I fancy that Peter’s heart on his sleeve, his impetuousness, his talking before thinking all appealed to Dad even though they were attributes from which he shied. Peter of course was a transformed man too, and in his letters spoke clearly and directly but from a base of deep affection for his audience. Dad preached from Peter repeatedly. I know he loved Peter’s guidelines for practical Christianity. But I suspect Dad appreciated the more emotive side of Peter, a side of his own he was never comfortable (or able) to show.
