The Power of the Story: Daddy’s Story

It was the year Wonder Woman debuted in DC Comics; Citizen Kane was poised to make its mark on cinematic history; the faces of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Roosevelt gazed stoically from Mount Rushmore; World War II was in full swing; and the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. 1941. A year of conflict, chaos, and confrontation. 

But in the middle of Hitler’s cacophony of horrors, Sinatra sang, “Blue skies smiling at me/Nothing but blue skies do I see.” If you looked hard enough and high enough, those blue skies formed a canopy of clouds for a tall, lanky woman named Minnie Ellen Nunn Robertson to give birth to her tenth child, Olen Bruce. 

He entered the world within the heart of East River Mountain, on a cold Saturday in late November, far away from the European theater. That little boy with the curly hair, nervous stutter, and penchant for practical joking would grow up to be a pastor, evangelist, singer, husband, and my dad.

He was a spectacular storyteller! I remember sitting on the floor near the brown, wooden coffee table in our living room when company came to the house, spellbound at the stories my dad would tell. I heard them all at least 100 times, but I couldn’t get enough of them! Or maybe I couldn’t get enough of the way he told them—a little mischievous, a little hyperbolic—but the timing was perfect and the inflection matched the mood.

He practiced his sermons every Saturday night. I would hear him pacing back and forth across the floor in his study, almost shouting, almost whispering, in that Billy Graham cadence. I wanted him to hurry up so he could tuck my sister and me in bed and tell us a story. Sometimes our Saturday night stories got pushed to Sundays. If there was one thing I learned living with my dad, it was God always came first.

I used to think my childhood mirrored the life of Samuel the prophet—eating, sleeping, and breathing church—I practically lived there. And sometimes my sister and I would get a little tired and beg to go home. If we were really tired and extra brave, we might go hang off of Mom’s shirt sleeve like a sloth dangling from a tree limb and whine, “When are we leaving?” She would give us the same answer each time, “In a minute.” That’s where I grew up believing there were 2 hours in one minute. We asked Mom, but we didn’t dare ask Dad. I knew kids (my sister and I mainly) who had gotten a spanking for much less things. 

He taught me that church is essential, and the house of God is sacred.  I learned that lesson while trying to get into the church building, but Daddy couldn’t find his keys. I helped out by giving the door a karate kick. If Charlie’s Angels could do it, why not Olen’s Angel?  Wrong move. Oh, such a wrong move! Believe me when I say that I never disrespected the House of the Lord again!

I loved to hear him preach. I was proud to tell people, “That’s my dad!” He spoke during chapel at our Christian school. He spoke at my baccalaureate service when I graduated from high school. His message of the gospel crossed denominational lines. He preached anywhere the door opened. It started in the woods of East River Mountain with a tree trunk as a pulpit and expanded to Methodist, Baptist, Church of God, and Catholic churches. He loved telling people about Jesus. He would go into bars and share about a drink that would forever quench the thirst of your body and soul. Living water. He echoed the words of the Apostle Paul, “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ…”

Everything I’ve shared with you, I’ve shared in past tense. Not because my Dad is in heaven, but because he’s trapped inside his own mind. Dementia is a cruel thief stealing years, personalities, conversations, and memories. It strips you of everything that is you, like a buzzard ravaging roadkill. And it leaves behind a shell. 

But my dad is still with us, and that is a gift I don’t take lightly. He may not remember my name or that I’m his oldest daughter, but he knows that we belong to each other. On the good days, we take walks through the halls, sit outside in the gazebo, eat cheese balls and Little Debbie cakes, and sing those old songs like “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.” On the not-so-good days, we sit in silence watching Gunsmoke and Andy Griffith or look at old pictures. Love isn’t dependent on recognition or conversation. For either of us. I love him, and I know he loves me.

A few months ago when Daddy was in the hospital, I sat in silence, processing emotions and wondering what was going on behind those beautiful blue eyes. I wrote a poem, of sorts, and I never intended to share it with anyone. But then I thought of all the people struggling with losing a loved one too soon, being robbed by dementia, and I knew I had to share it. 

So this spoken word is for the Daddy who took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. Now the tables are turned. 

And this is for the individual living in the tension of what was, what is, and what can never be. Different doesn’t have to be devastating. But sometimes you have to wrestle with the pain. The bell sounds…the fight is on…And you can’t tap out. There’s too much to lose.