A father's null curriculum of restraint

My father, whose tenuous grip on life has been slipping for awhile thanks to stage-four oral cancer, is coming around the final bend in his nearly 80-year journey. Dad is headed toward the finish line. In fact, since this column was submitted six days before today's publication, it is possible he's already crossed it.

I learned much from my dad -- a sentiment to which nearly everyone reading this prose can similarly attest. But it's what I observed from him, my father's null curriculum, that makes me doubly grateful to God that I am his direct descendant. Educators sometimes talk about the null curriculum, something not explicitly taught but which students pick up on anyway.

Case in point. Back in the early 1960s, a man married into our family who regularly pushed my dad's buttons. The provocation was so great on one occasion during my teenage years that I asked my father how he took it without lashing back. He told me he restrained himself for two reasons: No. 1 -- My step-grandfather would not have understood Dad's anger; and No. 2 -- Dad, above all, wanted to keep harmony in the family. You can't control the things that happen to you. You can entirely control how you respond. My father could take the verbal abuse -- and he did take it for decades. The maturity of not giving as good as you got, having oneself under control, was something Dad didn't intend to teach. But I learned nonetheless. It was an invaluable lesson that helped prepare me for two decades spent in the pastoral office. Parishioners are capable of great kindness and amazing cruelty. The way I found it possible to survive leading churches was to call upon Dad's unintended teaching, to practice equanimity -- to take it and not lash back. Dad's restraint echoes that of his Lord, whose control was noted in I Peter 2:23: "When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly."

I asked Dad a few weeks back to tell me the most exciting thing that happened in his life. His answer was also instructive and entirely in line with his values and his walk with Christ. He paused about 20 seconds and replied, "The most exciting thing has been discovering that God is real." Friends, that'll preach.

Cancer is one of the ugliest words ever created. This word, this malady, this sickness has been chasing my Dad for over a year -- and my father is about to be caught in its throes. When his oral surgeon told him he likely had an advanced form of the disease, Dad replied: "If I survive, I'll get to spend more time with my family. If I die, I'll get to be with the Lord. Either way, I win." That's who he is, my father, Cecil A.E. Long.

Some words about cancer to finish this column. They are not original with me but these phrases have a prominent place in my office at Chateau Girardeau:

What cancer cannot do:

Cancer is so limited ...

It cannot cripple love.

It cannot shatter hope.

It cannot dissolve faith.

It cannot destroy peace.

It cannot kill friendship.

It cannot suppress memories.

It cannot silence courage.

It cannot invade the soul.

It cannot steal eternal life.

It cannot conquer the spirit.

Dr. Jeff Long is executive director of the Chateau Girardeau Foundation and teaches religious studies at Southeast Missouri State University.