Dad

Today is my father's 100th birthday. He died two short of this celebration, two years ago. I was with him for his birthday, holding a piece of cake in his hospital room in Harrisburg. The single candle was unlit in recognition of the oxygen tank that was helping him breathe. He said, "I don't like chocolate cake", which would have surprised mother. She baked him many chocolate cakes for birthdays of many years ago. So I ate the piece of cake as we talked together for his last birthday in his aging body.

Today, 100 years! Born 14 June 1919. David Elbert Climenhaga. My sister has told his story here, or at least the outline of it. Today, I remember him. I remember the INFJ (Myers-Briggs letters to give a snapshot of one's personality) who "overworks work re-working it". I remember someone who remembered more than I possibly could.

He wrote his memoirs (at one point called "Keep Lying to a Minimum"), in which I marvel at the precision of memory for events many years ago. I have his datebooks near me as I type, which help explain how he could state so clearly events from many years ago. He wrote things down! And he remembered things.

I remember his love and care -- for God, for the church, and for his family. These came together as we were driving to Phumula Mission in 1964. Dad was taking Bishop Elam Stauffer of the Mennonite Mission in Uganda to visit this outpost mission hospital 120 miles over sand roads into the bush. I was half-asleep in the back seat when I heard Dad say, "I wouldn't say this if Daryl were awake." Instantly I was awake, and completely still. "I know that the church has many problems, but I love the church deeply." I was unclear why I shouldn't overhear that and went back to sleep. But I remember it 55 years later. Dad loved the church deeply.

And Dad loved us deeply. In my desk, I have a letter he wrote when I missed the bus to Annville-Cleona High School. I was a 16-year old senior, and I overslept. Mother had to take me to school, throwing her day's schedule off. Dad sat down and wrote a letter to encourage me to be better and do better. Several pages. Some wisdom. Some just Dad. A visible memento of how deeply he cared for his children. [We, his children, could write letters about things that bugged us about Dad. No need to. He was also human, as we are.]

He loved mother even more. And in later years after mother died, Verna Mae. I remember his love and his care -- and his endless stories and puns and jokes, which we would try to derail, but never could. Today I remember, David Climenhaga was born 14 June 1919. One hundred years ago. I remember, and I love him.