This Little Life Of Mine - Chapter 50 - Rain On The Windshield Thomas M Parsons

50. Rain on the Windshield

I remember rain on my windshield.

We had stopped at a rest area on our way back to Oglesby, Illinois from Lincoln Park, Michigan. It was April, 1978.

We had made many trips between Oglesby and Lincoln Park. After all, Linda and I and our daughter, Mandy, lived in Oglesby while my parents and sisters and their families lived in Lincoln Park. But this trip was different.

I have mentioned previously that my dad, Whelan LaVerne Parsons - Bill, began smoking when he was just eleven years old. Growing up in Windsor, I rarely saw my dad without a smoking cigarette dangling from his lips. When he was in his sixties, which was about the time cigarettes began to be linked to lung cancer, my dad, who never did have lung cancer, suffered a nearly fatal aorta aneurism. Dad, under the advice of his physicians, stopped smoking. But by the time he did that, he already had more than fifty years of smoke damage to his body.

The aneurism, which was repaired with significant surgery, was at least in part due to his smoking. Although I don't remember him ever saying it, I am certain he was glad that I had decided not to smoke.

The aortal surgery involved replacing the damaged portion of the aorta with a dacron tube. The location was just above the point where the aorta branches to the two legs. Dad's aneurism was on the left side, effecting the branch to his left leg. When Linda and I were still living in Flint, the dacron tube collapsed, cutting off the flow of blood to his leg. This necessitated amputation just below the knee.

This slowed Dad down some, but it certainly didn't stop him. He was fitted with an artificial leg which he wore whenever he went out socially. At home, he used crutches to get around.

But the aneurism was not the only health problem Dad had as a result of smoking. He also had emphysema. Breathing became more and more difficult for him, and even though he did quit smoking, the damage was done and it was irreparable.

I had a friend from seminary who served as the pastor of a small church in Ecorse, Michigan, the Detroit suburb just east of Lincoln Park. Dad had never made a profession of faith in Christ as far as I knew. He never talked about such a profession when I talked with him. So, when my brother-in-law, Phil, called to say that Dad was in the hospital, and the tone of his voice indicated that it was serious, perhaps fatal, I immediately thought of calling my friend.

I explained the situation to Pastor Tom Swedburg, and he told me that he had an evangelist speaking at his church that week. He said he and the evangelist would visit Dad in Henry Ford Community Hospital as soon as possible. I would go to Detroit to visit Dad a few days later, when I could get some time from my pastoral duties.

Before I left on that trip, Pastor Tom called to tell me that he and the evangelist had visited Dad. Upon entering the room, the evangelist boldly said, "Mr. Parsons, you may die soon and when you do you are going to Hell!" I, of course, had never spoken that boldly to my dad, although probably I should have."

Photos: Left column top - Dad enjoying an afternoon on his porch in Lincoln Park, Michigan in the mid 1960s. Bottom - Mom and Dad holding hands at Niagara Falls, Ontario in 1972. My sister, Lynne, is in the dark shirt and my wife Linda in the orange shirt. Right column - Dad's watch still keeping reasonably accurate time on my arm more than thirty years after his death.

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The evangelist explained to Dad once again the simple plan of salvation, and Dad accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior. He was 74 years old.

A few days later, I visited Dad in the hospital. I asked him about the visit of Pastor Tom and the evangelist. He said he was glad they had come. I asked if he had made a decision and he said, "Yes, I did." I asked him to tell me about it. He did, and, although I do not remember the exact words he said, I do remember thinking that his decision was real, that he knew exactly what he had done. I praised the Lord for that

It was a couple of weeks later that Phil called me again. "We lost him," Phil said.

My parents were not members of any local church, so Mom was not certain who to call to conduct the funeral service. I was asked, but declined. It would have been too hard. I suggested Pastor Tom. Mom agreed.

A day or so later, Linda, Mandy and I were back in Lincoln Park for the service. Pastor Tom's service was gentle and Scriptural, and he lovingly shared Dad's conversion testimony. He announced that, based on Dad's recent decision and prayer, Dad was now in Heaven with Jesus. We then drove to Windsor, Ontario, where Dad was to be buried at the Victoria Memorial Gardens just a few yards from where my brother Ron's body had been laid to rest thirty-one years earlier.

After the service, we gathered at the family home on Farnham Street for the traditional meal. The house was small and filled with people eating food just about anywhere they could find a nook or cranny available. Memories were shared; some brought laughter. But it was Mandy for whom the biggest laugh of the day was reserved.

Noticing all the moving of food from room to room, one and a half year old Mandy, just a toddler who recently learned to walk, decided to carry a small cake from the kitchen to the living room. No one noticed her until she entered the living room where I was sitting. Seeing me, she decided to quicken her steps to hand the cake to me. Unfortunately, though, the cake fell from her hands and smashed on the floor.

Soon we had said our goodbyes and were headed across the state of Michigan and into Indiana and then into Illinois. It was raining as we stopped at a rest area. I remember the rain splashing on the windshield. I looked at my watch as I waited with Mandy for Linda to return to the car. It was now my watch, but before it had been Dad's. Mom gave it to me. She said Dad wanted me to have it.

I recalled that years earlier I had taken a picture of Dad on the front porch of his home dozing as he enjoyed the warm day. He had worked hard all his life, but he did enjoy his porch. The photo shows a watch on Dad's left wrist. I am certain it is the same watch Mom gave me, the same watch I am still wearing as I write this some thirty plus years since Dad's funeral. The watch face has some minor scratches on it, but the watch still keeps fairly accurate time. It does gain a few minutes per week, so I have to reset it, and sometimes overnight it stops and in the morning I have to shake its self winding little heart back into beating. But it still ticks on, a constant reminder of the man who helped raise me, and who now waits for me in Heaven.

It has rained on a succession of windshields I have owned over the past thirty plus years. But the image of that particular rainy day is indelibly emblazoned in my memory. Thank you, Dad, for all you did for me. And, thank you, Jesus, for all you did for Dad.

Oh, and one more thing about that day in the rest area. We stopped at several rest areas that day. You see, in just two months, our second child was due to be born.