A son of a pastor honors his father’s legacy, shortly after his father’s death. He focuses especially on the spiritual guidance he believed his father epitomized when testifying in a public courtroom trial that stunned both his son and their community.

The Rev. Paul H. Smith celebrated the 70th anniversary of his ordination just weeks before his death on August 29, 2007. He served congregations primarily in the Maryland Synod, retiring in 1978.

A week ago we buried our dad. His recent hospitalization and the activities surrounding the funeral, including out-of-state relatives staying at our home, have given me little time to fully reflect. I still find myself thinking about him in the present tense is and am reluctant to think of him as was. If his legacy is still alive through people’s memories and actions, then in fact he still lives. In body, he is surely a “was,” but as long as his spirit lives within me, then he will remain as an “is” in my heart.

I was fortunate to be born into a family where my father was a Lutheran minister. Over the years many parishioners have said to me how wonderful it must have been to grow up in a strong Christian home, which mine was. I recognize the many advantages, and I have never regretted being a pastor’s son. As a teenager, for instance, it was helpful in dating. When a girl’s parents learned of my father’s vocation, they automatically liked me. Unfortunately, it carried no weight with the girl. On a more serious note, I can name one serious disadvantage: I always thought of my father as a dad and not necessarily as my pastor. Growing up, I found it hard to think of him as my spiritual leader when our primary relationship was one of playing games, throwing the football, and sometimes getting a well-deserved spanking.

At the funeral visitation, I heard many stories of how my dad had made lasting impressions on people. One woman recounted how in the late 1940s the young adult church group wanted to dance in the church after their Sunday evening meeting. The congregation council said absolutely no (this was before the Elvis era), but my father supported the youth, and they danced the following Sunday night. A man told the story of my father spending all night in prayer with the family of a dying man, after the doctors gave little hope for survival. This man said, with all confidence and conviction, that my father had saved the sick man’s life as he recovered. I am sure that my father took no credit for the miracle. However, I doubt that anyone could convince this man otherwise.

Spiritual Guidance
These stories and others have caused me to reflect on my relationship with my dad and his spiritual guidance, which I may have overlooked. After my mother died, my father, now by himself, continued to live in a brick rancher located in the Baltimore suburbs. One wintry morning, a neighbor from across the street broke into my dad’s house and terrorized him. As my father was calling 911, the neighbor knocked him down, cutting his head. The man, in his early 50s, appeared to be on drugs of some kind, as he was completely naked and shouting nonsense at the top of his lungs. The police arrived and arrested him for housebreaking and assault.

Fortunately, Dad was not seriously hurt; however, I feared for his safety. When the trial date finally came, I took Dad to the courthouse. He was the state’s only witness, and he took the stand. Although he didn’t deny anything in the police report about the actions of his neighbor, he refused to testify against his assailant. I am sure that the district attorney and the judge thought that this 92-year-old man had moments of dementia, and the judge was getting impatient. When asked, my dad said that a conviction and probable jail time would serve no purpose. He said that he had spent many hours in counseling, devotions, and prayer with his neighbor and that the neighbor was a changed man and not a danger to anyone. Without Dad’s testimony, the judge dismissed the case as long as the assailant paid to repair the broken door.

I had had no idea that Dad was going to do this. After we left the courtroom, I confronted him, demanding, “How could you do that? This man has a previous police record and is dangerous. You don’t understand....”

He stopped and looked me in the eye. “Joel, you don’t understand.”

My father had never spoken to me in such an authoritative, yet desperate, way. What was he saying?

A Winter Rescue
The story doesn’t end here. Two years later, on another cold, snowy morning, Dad, now almost 94, decided to walk to the end of driveway to get the mail. With his cotton windbreaker on and cane in hand, he went for the mail. The prior evening the snowplow had cleared a path on his dead-end street, leaving a bank of snow along the curb. As Dad got to the mailbox, he fell into the snowbank, cutting his head and twisting his legs so that he could not get up. There he lay calling for help, but there was no response. Cold started working through his body and his shivering became uncontrollable. He sang hymns and recited Bible verses, including the Lord’s Prayer, until his voice gave way. As a last desperate effort, he took his cane and started rapping on the side of the metal mailbox. By chance, his assailant-neighbor heard this odd rapping noise above the winter wind and found him in the snow bank. The neighbor carried him into the house, wrapped him in some blankets, and bandaged his head. For the rest of that winter during inclement conditions, the neighbor put Dad’s newspaper and mail on the front porch.

I don’t understand. How much do we interfere with God’s plan? How much more could I see if I had my father’s eyes?

The burial took place on a typically hot, still, summer-like day. Flowers from the funeral were placed on a metal stand next to the grave. During the minister’s closing graveside prayer, a gust of wind came from nowhere. It toppled the flowers, which hit the corner of the coffin. Shortly thereafter, the wind ceased. I didn’t think much of the incident; however, on the way home, my 43-year-old son said to me, “That was God.”

Joel Smith, a member of Grace Lutheran Church, Westminster, Maryland, is one of four children of Paul and Kathryn Smith. Having worked in banking and real estate, he is also one of five founders of a public company working to help rehabilitate adjudicated youth through residential treatment programs.