Saturday, June 18, 2016

Recalling a Father's Lesson in Words of Shame


     "Just wait until your father gets home!”  Those words, even today, strike a sense of fear and foreboding deep down within my soul. 

        Corporal punishment was a way a life, a rite of passage, in the non-politically correct world of the 1950s and 60s.  While I only recall a few times receiving an all-out, down-home, honest-to-gosh “whooping,” the mere threat of such a cataclysmic occurrence was enough to keep me walking the straight and narrow most of the time.

        But without question, the most severe punishment I ever received from my father came not from the force of his hands but in his words of shame when I acted most inappropriately at a football game. We had traveled to an out-of-town game one Friday night; I must have been around 12 or 13.  I saw some of my friends and asked my dad if I could go and see them.  “Just be back in time for kickoff,” he said.  Football was like church, when the main event started you were expected in be in your seat paying close attention. 

        There were several of us who were horsing around near the end zone while the teams warmed up.  We were having a grand-old time when the band marched out onto the field and prepared for the national anthem.  One of my friends had the bright idea that when the band started playing we should march like soldiers.  Then one of the guys said, “Hey, I know what would be even better.  Let’s do the goose step!” 

        The PA announcer asked the crowd to stand for the national anthem.  Everyone stood, placed their hands over their hearts, and faced the flagpole at the end of the stadium.  As the band began playing and the American flag started to ascend the rusted pole, a group of boys performed the goose step march for all to see. 

        We only marched two or three steps before we stopped in a fit of laughter, but it was a nervous laughter, because we immediately knew we had done something terribly wrong.  I hung my head and went back to the stands to sit beside my father.  I expected a harsh reprimand with a promise of a “whooping” when we got home, but my father didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to.    

        We sat through the entire game in total silence.  Like a condemned criminal on death row awaiting his execution, I somberly pondered by fate.  When the game was over we quietly walked to the car.  The tension was palatable.  I’m sure my dad was carefully choosing his words as he smoked a cigarette, the smoke being pulled out of the little vent window, the steady sound of the wind whistling through the car until my dad finished his smoke and pulled the window shut creating a sudden ominous silence.  My heart was about to burst. 

        “Son,” he said sadly.   “I was ashamed of you tonight—very ashamed.” 

        I tried to hold back the tears as my father spoke of the war veterans who had been at the game, including some who had been held by the Germans as a POW.  He told me how many of those men had seen their best buddies slaughtered by those goose stepping Germans.  He talked about the high price of freedom, of the blood that so many had shed.  He told me that I had disrespected every man who had fought for our freedom, and while he didn’t mention himself, he was one of those veterans, too. 

        His final words were, “Don’t ever make me ashamed of you again.” 

Whenever I honor our veterans in a worship service, write a newspaper article on the significance of Memorial Day, or speak on the precious gift of freedom I think of my father and the powerful lesson I learned that night.  I know there were many times I did not live up to his expectations after that painful event, but I don’t think I ever gave him a reason to be ashamed of me again.  He died 18 years ago.  I will be thinking of him tomorrow on Father’s Day.  I hope I have made him proud.


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