Farewell to my Dad

Dad would have been 91 tomorrow. Easy to remember his birthday because he was born on Groundhog's Day in 1921.

We lost him last week. He just could not recover from a massive stroke he suffered in September.

He hadn't been able to talk or walk for months, and very recently he could no longer swallow.

Dad made it emphatically clear that he didn't want to be kept alive with a tube or technology.

My Mom, sister and I honored his wishes.

At his graveside service on Saturday in Elizabethton, Tenn., David Siebenaler, minister of Valley Forge Christian Church, captured him perfectly:

"As a journalist and an author, Lawrence Timbs knew that every good story has to have a beginning and an ending, and in the story of his life--as in all our lives--the beginning and the ending is determined by God, the Author of Life. What happens between the starting point and when we cross the finish line is largely up to us...

"I believe we all would agree that Lawrence Timbs made very good use of the time that God gave him. The story of his life includes humble beginnings and a lifelong sense of appreciation for his upbringing in a large family that was rich in love and faith. Growing up in the Fish Springs community instilled him with enduring values that served him well and blessed those whose lives he touched and influenced. He learned the importance of hard work, duty, and honor; he gained an appreciation for even the smallest of life's blessings; he cultivated a serious mind and love for learning; and he developed a friendly, cheerful spirit toward his fellow man that would serve him well throughout his life.

"...Not only did Lawrence Timbs make good use of the nine decades that God gave him; he also shared freely the gifts of a friendly nature, an inquisitive mind, and a Christlike spirit. . . And Lawrence always had that cheerful little smile that contained just a hint of mischief. I don't know that he ever met a stranger, and his face always lit up whether he was meeting you for the first time or he had known you for years and years."

As the minister spoke, we focused on Dad's casket, about to be lowered into the cold, but receptive Tennessee ground. The tent we huddled under flapped ferociously in the wind. An honor guard fired three shots. An old soldier played taps. Then a young man sang "Amazing Grace." A woman from Dad's church strummed a harp softly. An aircraft passed by--a few hundred feet above us in the winter sky. (My brother would later remark that we had a flyover.)

We shivered and prayed and held hands and some of us cried a few more last good-bye tears and we laid my Dad to rest.