Eulogy for my father

~Written & delivered June 2, 2010


First I want to say thank you. My heart is filled with appreciation and gratitude for all of you - my father's family and friends - who have come to pay their respects today. Hearing you all speak of the imprint he’s left on your lives has been an overwhelming emotional experience. Your presence has been a great gift for me.

I’m going to ask you all to bear with me as I speak, for you see, I had a father for more than 30 years – and I've only been without him, in this world, for 8 days. And for those of you who might note that I am not 30 yet... I can only remind you that I knew my father long before I was born, because he established our relationship speaking and reading to me while I was still in my mother’s womb.

In his life, John Bickerstaff was many, many things: an honored student, a respected soldier, a young machinist, an unrelenting flirt, a politico, a dedicated worker, a union leader. A young... and old(er) husband; a devoted father and patriarch; a cherished friend.

The youngest son – when his mother and eldest brother went home to be with the Lord, he rose to the occasion becoming the adoring and protective patriarch – fathering and guiding not just his children, but those of his sisters as each had need. When birthdays came round, you knew, if nothing else you’d get a call from Uncle Bubba, Unc’ and that a card was surely on its way.

While she was still alive, he watched over his aunt, my grandmother’s sister – Mama Annie – stopping by to bring her fish from his latest catch or simply to sit with her for a while. When he was blessed to meet and get to know his father, B.T. Perry, and all of his sisters and brothers on that side of the family, he welcomed them too into the folds of his heart. My daddy still stopped by my mother’s [house] to cut her grass and always reminded me when I left from one of his sumptuous meals that never failed to leave us both full and slouching in our chairs – he’d remind me to take my baby sister a plate of food when I went home. He was just as protective of the children and grandchildren he gained by marriage. Sure, he’s grumbled about the woes of little crumb-snatchers – but he’d show up for elementary school field trips and performances. And in times of unbearable loss, he stand as a shelter in the storm – for you see, they too were his.

He was equally dedicated to those whom he called friend. Each time we spoke, he’d run down of the going-ons of my uncles – his brothers by choice - who were by no means less essential to his life because they did not share blood. “I comes before U in the alphabet,” he’d say in another Bickerstaff’ism, yet, if ever one of them called in need, he’d drop what he was doing and find a way to help them make away. People matter, he taught me, not for what they can offer you – but because they are and because you would be less without them.

Perfect, he was not, not by a long shot. At times he lacked tact, was horribly ornery, a bit of a curmudgeon, had a temper beyond easy description, could be proud, stubborn and outspoken to a fault, and had a penchant for being ferociously persistent in arguing a person down in a battle of views – wearing you down till you gave up, if for nothing else, than pure exhaustion. He was, in the truest sense, a piece of work. But he was also and always a man who tried to live his life with dignity and honor. He held steadfast to his beliefs – in order and cleanliness, in maintaining family, in God – values which were not just spoken – but lived.

It was not easy, I imagine, to have grown up being black and a man and poor when he did. He grew up being known for his intelligence – in a time when intelligence was valuable, but not always valued properly enough because it was yours – a black man’s. He grew up in a time when hard work and perseverance might allow you to survive, but offered no guarantee of achieving that great American dream of security and success. But, my father was a man that stayed and remained with his family, when so many others did not. There are dreams that I think he relinquished as he became a husband, a father. Disappointments he suffered, mainly in silence, so that we would never question that we – children, spouse, family – that we were of the utmost importance to him. Duty was essential to him, I think not out of obligation, but from a sense of proud love.

I want to speak to you today especially about John Lee Bickerstaff as a father... and a friend.

Those of you who know me, know well, that I grew up being an unabashed daddy’s girl – loving Johnnie Bickerstaff with the kind of blind adoration that can only exist between a daughter and father. Yet, as I grew older, I began to see the world through the eyes of a woman - a progressive independent woman I’d often remind him – and no longer through the eyes of a child. I began to see chinks in his armor, saw contradictions and inconsistencies that made him simply human, wonderfully human.

It is rare that a child, but especially a daughter, gets to know her father. Part of that, I think, is because it is rare that a child ever gets to truly see her father – in all his nuance and complexity. But my father, he allowed me to see him. He never hid himself from me, never censored himself – all those parts that were less than honorable, that anyone, especially a father, might be tempted to hide for fear of rejection or judgment – he trusted me enough to see and hold and handle.

We struggled, he and I, as we developed that kind of a relationship, born not of a child and parent’s natural love nor blind adoration, but chosen intimacy. It required from both of us a willingness, which we did our best to bear – to see and be seen; to know and be known. To say to one another today – not in some distant future – what we felt, what we loved and also what we feared and how we hurt.

Questioned once about my forthright disagreement about a decision he made, which happened quite frequently, a friend of his, someone he greatly respected, remarked that it wasn’t my place to question or challenge or disagree – I was just his child. To which he respectfully replied, THAT is the relationship I have with my daughter. I tell her the truth; I don’t hide things from her. We don’t have to agree - often we don’t. But I am honest with her, and I know, even when it hurts one or both of us, she is honest with me.

It was no easy relationship my father and I had, but it was one that, thankfully, left little place for regrets. For better and for worse – we spoke our truths to one another in life. He was honest with me about who he was and was not; that gave me the strength to be just as honest with myself and thus with the world around me, so that I could grow up to be a woman of honor. I can think of few greater gifts.

As I’ve spent the last few days preparing for today, I’ve been thinking what have I learned from John Bickerstaff, what is his enduring legacy in me? Some things are easy: manners, cleanliness, respect, and such a delight and facility with cooking that I took my cast-iron skillets across the ocean with me when I first traveled to Paris. He helped reveal to me some of life’s most enduring virtues: loyalty, hard work, independence, fortitude. Most importantly, as a woman every bit her father’s daughter in being proud, stubborn, outspoken and frank to a fault – my father showed me that everyone has vulnerabilities and that I would do well to be tender lest I deal a wound that is irreparable. By and by, often in trials by fire in which he bore the brunt of my flame, he helped me understand that it is not enough to be honest, but one must also be gentle so that the truth can be taken and held: he taught me how to speak truth – in love. And I will hold to that forever.

As I’ve listened to those of you who have so willingly shared your memories of my father these last few days – stories of his laughter, his tenacity, his penchant for managing to finagle his way out of tights spots created by his own mischief - each of you has offered a repeated refrain: I hope you know that your father loved you and was so very proud of you. Trust me, I do. I just hope that he knew how grateful I was to have had him as my father, protector and guide. For I loved him, I loved him fiercely.

As we gather here to reflect upon and celebrate my father’s life, we grieve at once for what was as well as what could have been. I hope you’ll all remember as I have, that God always provides… for while we will certainly note moments of his absence as we walk forward in our lives, we have to remember that those absences are so deeply felt only because we were blessed by his presence. You see, the last time I stood in this place, in this church, at this altar, I was watching my father get married. In remembering that day, I know that he won’t be with me when or if I ever walk down the aisle. Yet, I am comforted by the fact that while he can’t dance with me at my wedding - I got to dance with my daddy at his.

We meet my father now only in memories and dreams. I imagine that each of us has an image of his heaven and paradise. In mine there are green fields – well manicured, of course – dotted here and there with blooming flowers, rows and rows of fresh vegetables - greens, cabbage and tomatoes growing far off in the distance, and full trees casting shade in which he can rest. The field, of course, is on the water - sunlight casting its glow over the ripples, the peace of the waves broken occasionally by the sound of a jumping fish, the whirring whistle of line being cast. And somewhere distant, yet all around, the soothing sounds of soul music interwoven with an even more comforting laughter – yours, mine, his.

I see him standing right at the edge of the lake bidding us farewell. Baby girl, I can hear him say, don’t worry about me. I’m free; I’ve finally made it home.

I trust with an unwavering faith that I will seem my daddy again someday. I know that one day my father will come once again to the shore – he’ll act as my lighthouse and beacon – shining brightly to light my way home.