7 Years Not Here

April 14, 2023: I am missing my Dad. It has been seven years. 7 years not here. Dad, I miss you. But, how could I ever question God’s perfect timing. I know you are in your heavenly home and that thought alone makes me smile.

 

First I was reminded by an email that showed up the other day. The email was from Legacy.com. The subject line was, “Remembering John Beal”. Ya, I remember John Beal. I was not happy for a moment. Then I opened the email and read (for the 7th year in a row) the comments that were left on the page back in 2016. I smiled. I cried.

Then, while driving, and listening to a book about Charles H. Spurgeon, it me, the idea for this very post. 7 Years Not Here (I thought of the title later), and the original idea continued to grow and change into what you are reading here.

I am talking about my Dad here. I mean, there is so much to say, still. I think of questions I wish I could ask him all the time. Sometimes I ask my Mom about such things that come into my mind at all hours of the day and night, regarding my Dad. I look forward to seeing him one day in heaven.

Like I said, I read through the comments from my Dad’s obituary. There are not a lot of things to read, but they are a good sampling of how my Dad resonated with people during his lifetime. This also made me think of some lyrics from a song that my Dad and I would listen to sometimes. “The Last Cowboy Song“. Specifically, I thought of lines like the following, “…and wish to God we could have ridden his trail. (with Johnny Cash speaking lyrics) The old Chisholm Trail is covered in concrete now, they ship ’em to market in 50-foot rigs. They roll by his markings and don’t even notice, like living and dying was all he ever did…”.

You would have to grow up in my time, with my Dad, to know why I still think of Dad as ‘The Last Cowboy’. Dad would have loved to be a cowboy. He would have loved to be truck driver. He would have loved to patrol the outfield with Mantle and Maris.

I read the obituary on the website. I can’t escape the idea of the perception, “like living and dying was all he ever did“. Here is a snippet from the obituary for my Dad. “…Apart from his family, his greatest love was for His Savior, Jesus Christ and the study of the Word of God. Rev. Beal pastored churches in Maine, NH and Mass…He was a graduate of New Brunswick Bible Institute, Victoria, New Brunswick and Calvary Bible College, Kansas City, Missouri.”

He loved to preach the gospel. He had a tremendous ability to relate to people through scripture and illustrations that were seamlessly connected. His prayers were thoughtful but pointed directly to Christ. There was a love and a joy that flowed through my Dad when he was in the pulpit and people noticed.

Dad’s ministries were always well attended because he did the work, and because he pursued God’s will. Clearly, he followed through on a calling to teach and preach. He visited with people. He prayed with people. He wrote to still more people. He studied all the time. His door was open. He held prayer meetings and Bible studies. He was in motion for the furtherance of God’s Word.

I remember as a kid thinking that my Dad always seemed tired, spent, on Sunday’s and I didn’t fully understand why. But I have a better idea of that now. He was always on. He poured his energy and mind power into the words he spoke, the words he prayed, and the words that were inspired by God. He willed his way through thick and thin to deliver the truth and to bring others closer to the Lord Jesus. It only took everything that he had to give.

Dad’s churches were always outstanding at raising support for missionaries. His vision wasn’t contained in the four walls of the church building, his vision was global. He had countless missionaries and evangelists come through for meetings, services, and conferences. Some of my favorite times sitting in church were not even Sundays, but other days of the week where Jesus was being shared by missionaries and the Holy Spirit was working round the clock.

He reached many many people. He made friends all over the world. The warmth and the love was all around, and the inescapable light in Dad’s eyes was a great place to know where I stood. Yes, I am missing my Dad. I am missing my favorite preacher. I am missing my biggest fan.

Then, there is the number 7. The number seven (seventh and sevenfold as well) is mentioned more than 850 times in the Bible. The number 7 is the number of perfection and fullness. My Dad’s favorite number was the number 7.

I remember a conversation with my Dad when I was probably only 13 years old. We talked about the number 7. We talked about the Bible. We talked about Mickey Mantle. Of course, I already knew some of the facts regarding the number, but that one chat, in the church, on a random day of the week, with my Dad, I still remember. The number 7 has been my favorite number since that day.

Now, Dad is 7 years not here, but also he is 7 years in heaven. It’s foolish to mourn that. Yes, I am still missing my Dad, and I always will. But to know that he is with his Saviour, whom he loved so much, well that is just uplifting and restores hope everywhere.

Life speeds along at an alarming rate. We forget more than we retain. And during the passage of time, while we race along, we lose friends and loved ones along the way. Maybe they are gone before all of our questions were asked, and certainly before they were answered. A certain history leaves with them when they are gone, and we usually never fully recover that history. Like living and dying was all he ever did; certainly not.

My Dad lived for Christ. He lived for his family. He lived for his country. He lived for laughter and sports. He lived for my Mom, who had set goals to be a pastor’s wife. Let’s just say, that she has been an exceptional pastor’s wife. Yes, Dad died, but he sensed it was coming. He knew that his service to the Lord here on earth was done, and it was time to be called back, a good and faithful servant.  Well done, Dad.

For some reason, as I knew this date (April 14) was approaching. I thought of a poem I wrote after Dad died. I couldn’t recall the details, but I have shared it here. A Dad and This Boy. From 2016.

 

Dad, I think of you now and I smile as I look to the skies.

I look up to the blue skies through the trees and the leaves.

I smile your smile and feel you’re close in the gentle breeze.

Growing up with you and our family, my all-time earthly prize.