Ric Strangway 2023-03-26 Ric Strangway 2023-03-26

Dear Dad

Dear Dad, I can’t imagine being born in the fall of 1928. And neither can I imagine a life that started in a 15’ x 8’ log cabin and survived a harsh winter on the Canadian prairies …

My father passed away early in the morning, on Monday, March 13, 2023. He lived a good and faithful life of over 94 years. He was a man of faith, a pastor for over 45 years, and a loving husband, and a great dad. He deeply influenced my life. I wrote this for his memorial service on March 20, 2023.

Dear Dad,

I can’t imagine being born in the fall of 1928. And neither can I imagine a life that started in a 15’ x 8’ log cabin and survived a harsh winter on the Canadian prairies. I remember you saying that as you grew up your first memories on the farm were of work, and that you rarely ever played, because everyday was a battle for survival in those days, and that one winter you only ate turnips for supper. I also remember you telling me that sometimes your dad would get mad when you were little, and that when he’d get mad he’d call you a “jackass.”

I don’t think I realize how hard it was for you to grow up in the 20’s and 30’s. But I do know this, I know that when I was little you had a big laugh, you liked to play with me and my brothers, and you were always full of love.

Dad, I can’t imagine what it was like going to school in the 40’s and 50’s. It must have been hard. You walked to school every day. You did chores in the evenings after school, and sometimes you had to stay home to work in the fields during harvest. But you went from high school to bible school, and then again, another bible school. I don’t know when it happened but somewhere along the line you decided to study and become a learner, and when you were a pastor, you would buy as many books as you could afford just to keep learning about God, and the Bible, and faith.

I don’t think I realize just how much of an opportunity you gave me and my brothers. Some of my first memories are of you lying on your stomach on the living room floor, with me on your back, and you reading Thornton Burgess books. Story after story of Peter Cottontail, Reddy Fox, Jack Squirrel, and Ol’ Mistah Buzzard. Over time each of us brothers has taken a liking to reading, learning, and education.

Dad, I can’t really imagine how it happened but it seems like somewhere along the line you came across this thing called “mischief.” It sounds like it started outside your father’s ear shot, and usually with your brother, or friends from school. Then when you went to bible school you liked to get involved in all sorts of things. And I can remember later in life, when you were older, and I was in junior high and high school, and President Boda, or Mr. Fowler, or Mr. Sylvester would come over after church, and you would start telling stories. And I don’t remember which I enjoyed more, listening to the actual story or watching you laugh so hard telling the story.

I don’t think I realize just how much of a gift that was for me. You always had a deep passion for life, and friends and faith. You always saw the funny side of things. As I have grown older I have come to appreciate the gift of laughter and faith with good friends.

Dad, I know you talked a lot about the day you came to faith in Jesus Christ, and how your mother’s love and prayers had a strong influence on you. Through the years you talked again and again about the grace of God changing your life, and how your mother, and our mother, and then later Lil [second wife] all had a deep loving faith. You cherished that love through your long journey of life and faith.

I don’t think I fully realize how much that love changed you. For something happened along the way, something transformed the way you saw those who were closest to you. While you never heard your own dad say, “I love you,” I heard those words from you all the time, and I never went one day of my life doubting your love for me.

Dad, I don’t know how you did it but you prayed a lot. You prayed long prayers at the supper table, and you prayed long prayers when you got up to preach, and you prayed early in the mornings, and I can recall many times when I came home on a Friday night, that you would be there in the living room, with a blanket over your knees, and a dim table lamp casting a shadow across your face, and you would be praying. I always assumed you were praying for my brothers, Merle and Gary.

I don’t think I fully realize how fortunate I was to have a dad show me what a journey of faith looks like. One that is rooted in the daily rhythm of leaning in to a loving and faithful God.

Dad, I don’t think I realized just what love was until that day you called me and told me how you celebrated your anniversary with mom. I remember it well because mom was just a year or two from passing away, she had gained a little weight in her wheelchair after so many years, and her face was pretty worn and run down. And I wouldn’t want to judge but her wardrobe wasn’t too sharp at that point in her life.

But when you called you were so excited. You had made a full three course meal for her in your basement suite. It had everything—mashed potatoes, roast beef, green beans, salad, and a dessert. Just like mom used to do. And you had to prepare all that and then load it up in your car and bring it to the nursing home where she was living.

I remember you telling me how you got that table in the back of the recreation room and the first thing you did was put a table cloth on it and a dozen red roses. And then you brought all the food in and set it up.

And you told me that you had asked the care givers to dress mom up in that nice blouse and skirt that you had bought her, and then you said they put on that really nice necklace, the one that had the blue in it.

But the part I remember the most was when you told me how beautiful mom looked. I could hear it in your voice, “Oh Ric,” you said, “you should have seen your mom.” You loved her so much.

I still don’t think I appreciate all that you went through at that time of your life, but looking back, I realize this, that was the day I learned what a love that delights in and cherishes another really looks like. And that phone call was one of the greatest gifts you could give me.

Dad, I have been pretty blessed to have you as my dad through my life. You’ve show me the path that I need to walk, and I am grateful for that. You’ve shown me how to laugh and have fun, the kind of work it takes to be a lifelong learner, and the way of faith in Jesus. You’ve shown me how to be a son, a husband, and a father, and as I just said, you’ve shown me what love looks and feels like. I am grateful for each of those gifts.

But in the last few years, I have come to appreciate that you have shown me how to get old. I used to think that I could never do what you did for mom when she was in the nursing home, or that I could never give up being a pastor, or that I could never face my own limitations. But you have shown me something.

You have shown me how to still laugh, while facing your limitations and vulnerabilities. You have shown me how to trust God, even when you still had questions. You have shown me how to be kind and gracious, while still feeling lonely.

And maybe most of all, you have shown me that it’s okay to hold hands in silence, while we wait with hope for that last breathe to come.

I love you dad.

Your son,

—Ricky

March 20, 2023