With Father’s Day upon us, I wanted to take a moment to tell two stories about my father
and leave you with a question at the end.

The first story—my favorite one—is about his time as a young new pastor.

My father often tells the story of one of his first pastoral appointments. It was deep in the
country, on Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore: a small, part-time appointment with few
members but a deeply loving community.

The story he told most often, however, was not about the church or the ministry. It was
about the parsonage.

According to my parents, the parsonage was a mess. It was infested with snakes! As a
result, the two of them developed a strategy. They would go through the house and shed
periodically; he would carry a broom, and she would carry the family’s shotgun. He would
tap on the rotted spaces, and, if and when a snake appeared, her role was to shoot it.

Whenever they narrated that story, the two of them could not contain their laughter and joy. You would think something that traumatic would evoke dismay or disgust, but they both told it religiously, with a sense of pride. A young married couple with an infant and a toddler, brand new to ministry—one carrying a broom, the other, a shotgun.

That story taught me two things about my father. First, he trusted my mother implicitly.
Second, they did not allow their circumstances to distract them from their mission of
serving the church. Instead, they grabbed what they needed and kept moving.

Another story I often think about when I remember my father is the day he retired after forty years of ordained ministry.

By that time in his life, his health was significantly failing. Between kidney disease,
diabetes, and a slew of other conditions, he had to be extremely intentional about taking
his medications and eating regularly.

On the morning of his retirement, there was a rehearsal that both of us attended. When it
was over, he shared that he planned to drive from Wilmington to Princess Anne to pick up
my mother and bring her back that evening for the retirement celebration.

We planned to have lunch before he left the area.

Except he never showed up.

He was not answering his phone. My mother could not reach him. Suddenly, panic spread
among all of us as we wondered where he could be.

A few hours later, he called me, whispering into the phone, “Son, can you come pick me
up? — and don’t tell your mother.”

Apparently, while driving home from the morning rehearsal, he had skipped his pills and
passed out behind the wheel.

Divinely—and I use that word intentionally—his car somehow made it safely off the
highway and crashed into the parking lot of a gas station just off the road. I say divinely
because it just so happened that a doctor and a registered nurse were getting gas at that
station at the exact moment he crashed. When they saw him, they immediately
administered aid and got him to a nearby hospital for treatment and recovery.

He was fine. The car was dented but still working. Now he simply needed to be released to
family.

Here is the thing: when I went to get him, he had only one request:

” Say nothing to your mother. I have to finish driving home. Get her and bring her to the
retirement. “

Despite my many protests, he was insistent on completing the journey and being the one to
bring my mother to the celebration.

I often think about those bookends of his ministry.

The two of them starting with a broom and a shotgun.

And ending forty years later walking arm in arm despite medical barriers.

My father taught me that loving someone is not the goal. He absolutely loved my mother,
but deeper than that, he trusted her. Trusted her enough to hold the shotgun while he
carried only a broom.

Trust mattered.

And in addition to trust, my father taught me that selflessness was an essential
ingredient of love. He refused to put his own limitations above caring for her and making
certain she could experience his retirement walking alongside him, just as she had done for
him for forty years.

As I think about Father’s Day, I find myself wondering:

What lessons and stories has a father figure in your life entrusted to you that you still
carry today?

Perhaps, the greatest legacy we leave is not found in what we accumulate, but in the
stories, we tell, the love we embody, and the courage we pass on to those who come
after us.

Grace and Peace,

Rev. Dr. Ronald Bell, II