I don’t know if you noticed, but around two o’clock this morning, the world got a little colder. Carl Vinson had been keeping his spot on Earth warm for the past 94 years, but in the wee hours of the morning, God decided it was time for him to rest.
If you knew Carl, you knew that he hated to be cold. That stemmed, no doubt, from spending the brutal winter of 1944 inside the metal hull of a US Army tank helping roust the Nazis out of the Ardennes. It wasn’t unusual, especially these last few winters, to find him wrapped in a blanket putting as much distance between him and that chilly Oklahoma wind as possible.
I can’t say much about whether or not Carl liked cold food because the cook he’s had for almost 70 years is still around and wouldn’t hesitate to let me know if I got any of that wrong. But I know that Carl didn’t like to be cold.
I was born a dozen miles up the San Joaquin Valley from the Bible college where Tim Dugas’ dad, Paul, taught for several years, so the various names of the Dugas clan have been familiar for as long as I can remember. My father and grandfather both held the Dugas brothers, Paul and Phillip, in high regard, so I grew up with a generous dose of respect for the whole bunch. I guess that’s why I felt a little proud and important in July of 1980 when Tim Dugas spent a couple of hours on the sweltering Oklahoma District Campground telling me all the reasons why I needed to go to Christian Life College. He’d recently returned to Stockton himself, and, following in his father’s footsteps, was now part of the teaching and leadership team. A few weeks later, I loaded my clothes and my new stereo into my white diesel pickup, and headed west to claim all that Brother Dugas had promised was waiting for me.
It’s a little presumptuous for me to even write this post. My dad was born in 1934, twenty-five years before me, but I am the one who had the heart attack and who has to take medicine for high blood pressure. Not him. He is pushing through his mid-eighties, mowing his yard and remodeling anything he can get his hands on, with all his vitals showing perfect. So, he may be preaching my funeral instead of me helping my sisters plan his. But watching the funeral and memorial services for a famous American father who died last week got me to thinking about how my dad’s memorial service would contrast with this fellow’s — if I’m privileged to be there for my dad at the end of his life.
Some days, I get downright angry at what our culture is doing to our daughters. On all the other days, it makes me flat out mad!