Pain, Perseverance, and Purpose

Some of you may remember that my dad passed away one year ago today. Though it was not unexpected, and though it did relieve him of much discouragement and physical pain, it was obviously still sad for us.

In honor of him, my mom created three large notebooks of memories of my dad’s life for me (and I assume three similar ones for my sister, who posted her own memories today as well). Starting with a copy of his birth certificate all the way through to a copy of his death certificate, she included facts and pictures and letters and other significant things that described and defined his life. I cannot imagine the amount of time and effort she spent filling these notebooks, and I can only imagine both the joys and sorrows she relived throughout the process.

Her introduction and conclusion of these albums included a personal exhortation to me to learn from my dad, both to follow the good and avoid the bad. To be sure, there are many good things I learned from him, some of which I shared at his funeral service and wrote in my post, The Precious Possession of Diligence. But as is the case for all of us, there are other things I inherited from him that are not valuable in the same way. In particular there are things that were part of his life that I learned I don’t want to define mine.

The following lines were written by my dad. Though he wasn’t a verbose man, he did actually write a number of poems, many of which my mom included in the notebooks. Some were romantic, some were just for fun, and a few were sober reflections on life. I’m not sure when he wrote this, but knowing the difficulties he endured the final 13 years of his life I can only assume it was nearer to the end of his life. My mom included this untitled poem on the final page.

I don’t know whether the stone can feel
The cutting edge of the chisel steel;
So still it stays that I cannot know
If pain is dealt by a mallet blow.
But this I know when the work is done,
By the cutting edge the statue was won.

I’ve wondered oft if the rose of June
Cries out in pain when I come to prune;
So still it stays, neath the biting steel
That no man knows what a bush must feel.
But this unto all gardeners is known,
Tis by cutting back are roses grown.

And this I know, and have wondered why
Man’s very first sound is an infant’s cry;
A boy is known by the pain he bears,
And a man by the way he shoulders cares;
The soul is shaped, and a life made great
As the years go on by the blows of fate.

Of course most of the poem is probably not something we need to learn, it is something we need to remember. Much of my dad’s life was defined by the pain he carried and I value his example of endurance. But this is not enough, and in particular the last word in the last line of his poem spoils the truth and leaves the discouragement unrelieved. If the painful blows are dealt by “fate,” this is no true motivation to persevere. The idea that “a life is made great” through pain is actually a hateful deception if there is no love or purpose behind it.

This is the thing I wished most for my dad: that he would have joy in the midst of his sorrow because of trust in the Sculptor. I wanted him to see that what made his life “great” was not endurance for endurance’s sake, but endurance as it made him more like Christ. That is motivation; that is something to live for…and even to die for.

So I hope he won’t mind if I change his poem just a bit. I would rewrite the end:

The soul is shaped, and a life made useful
As God fashions sons by blows, loving yet painful.

It may not have quite the same rhythm to it, but I think the result is a better song. We can be assured that love and purpose are behind the blows of God as He makes us truly useful and as He fits us to better praise His Son.