Memories of my father are as vivid in my heart and mind today, thirty years beyond his going home, as on the day those memories were in the making. Mother is included, too, but for my purpose here, I mention Dad especially. To my youthful mind he always seemed to be on top of it. He was down to earth, lived in the midst of life’s realities, and never soared on clouds with spiritual fanaticism. The gospel according to Dad included frequent trips with us to Green Bay Packer football games and Milwaukee Brewer baseball games, batting fly balls to the boys (he was denied the special privilege of girls) out on his rural church lawn, soft-spoken but incisive comments on world news events, gardening and chicken farming on the parsonage acreage, and foremost a faithful pastor’s ministry.

Frequent…