When I was very little, I thought my daddy was a bit like God.
And I felt very special because he was my daddy.
He was just daddy to me, whether he was preaching from the platform at church, teaching me how to grow stuff in one of his gardens, or coming in from work and sticking his cold hands down my neck.
He had stories about Jesus, and stories about himself, and I knew them all. How Jesus raised the dead, turned water into wine, and then the things he expected of us.
How he himself was in the RAF for a while, eating green bread and having a laugh with the guys, and how Jesus saved him one time when he woke up with a demon sitting on his chest.
Then I was older, and noticing things other people said about daddy.
That he was like Hitler because he stated his views so strongly, and would not broach any argument or discussion – it was his way or the highway. These days he would probably be described as a hardline fundamentalist. This to me seemed like both a good thing and a bad thing, because having a strong minded parent made me feel protected and secure, and in general he was well respected for his opinions, but it was also a bad thing, in that I could not discuss my own thoughts with him if they differed from his beleifs.
Yet also that he was an excellent Bible teacher, confirmed by him being in demand for itinerant preaching. For a long time this made me proud to be his daughter, but as I became a young woman, I felt stuck in the mould of being just his daughter in the eyes of most people I knew, and if I hadn’t been his daughter, nobody would have wanted to know me. Which was entirely reasonable, because I didn’t know me, in a sense there wasn’t really a ‘me’ to know, because I was so busy being who everyone around me wanted me to be.
So when I was 16, I set out on a voyage of self discovery, on a mission to get myself some opinions of my own, and become a proper person, rather than just an extension of my father.
There followed differences of opinion, as I began to assert myself in ways that he did not agree with, and he saw me in a different and less favourable light.
I felt let down by him, and I’m sure he also felt let down by me.
Then he was taken ill, and I became very aware of his mortality. Remembering his love of all things botanical, herbal and scented, I bought bags and boxes of smellies, unusual and interesting houseplants, and gift sets of herbal teas and infusions at every present buying opportunity, and started taking him out every week to a garden centre, where we would walk around looking at the plants before having coffee and cake and a long chat, almost always theological in nature.
Dad was a very educated man; he was born in East Africa where his father was a station master, brought up by his Ayah to the age of 5, and speaking Swahili as a first language. Then he was brought back to Scotland, and left here in the care of his aunt and uncle, in a house bought for them by his father, so he could benefit from a private education.
After finishing school he became an apprentice to a well known Dundee printer, but before completing this he converted to Evangelical Christianity, and moved to England to attend Bible college. There he studied Divinity and Theology, and went on to become a Pentecostal Pastor.
He was always interesting to talk to on these subjects, because he was so knowledgable and passionate about them, and to this day I adore interacting with anyone who is educated and passionate about what they do.
Language and communication was his thing; he read Hebrew and Greek, often translating original remnants of scripture for his sermons, extrapolating angles others couldn’t see. He had a lifetime of his own knowledge and Biblical research, both in his head, written down in his and other people’s notes, and also recorded.
Dad was artistic; he had an excellent eye for colour, indicating that he is tetrachromatic, as am I. He enjoyed oil painting for a few years in his spare time, and produced a few peices of excellent work, but it was never his passion.
Dad is very musical; he was a self taught pianist, and I spent many happy hours as a child lying on the front room rug in front of the fire, listening to him playing the piano. As well as preaching in the church, he would often accompany or lead the worship from the piano, or later the hammond organ. Again he was self taught, and he taught me to play. Both of us enjoyed the opportunity to play the pipe organ at another local church from time to time as well.
There was always music playing in the house, usually either classical or religious, but sometimes Bing Crosby or Johnny Cash would sneak in!
So these were the things he did and enjoyed, but who actually is my dad?
Since his dementia has progressed, he has become less and less communicative, and for some years he has only spoken on rare occasions. He can go days or weeks without uttering a word. Yet occasionally he will be seemingly completely normal, chatty and compus mentus, for several hours at a time. I guess this is part of the nature of the illness, and we as his family just take each day as it comes.
As he nears his final days, mum is talking about him more, and I feel I am getting to know him more.
Last week she told me a story that opened my eyes to something. Something that completely resonates with me.
She said dad used to drive his Elders mad because he would never be at the church in time to welcome the congregation as they came in; he would always arrive at the last minute; after everyone was seated, and either go to the vestry to pray, (and the congregation would have to wait) or go straight up to the platform to preach. Seems arrogant, but no, I don’t think so.
This to me is more than the MO of a gifted musician or entertainer; this is the hallmark of someone who has been shut in the study ‘downloading’ information from a spiritual source, and who then has to take that inspiration fresh and clear to his congregation, unsullied by small talk along the way. Someone who won’t settle for second best, who had to be in the ‘zone’, so to speak, in the Spirit as he would say, when he was delivering the Word of God.
When my dad preached, the hairs on the back of people’s necks stood up. His best sermons were delivered to silent congregations who were focused on his every word, because he spoke into their souls, and every nuance was meaningful for them. I would go so far as to say he was a channel from the divine straight to the hearts and minds of his listeners. This I beleive was his life’s purpose and mission, and he had to be a particular kind of person to fulfill it – on a human level to have enough faillings to keep him humble, a sinner, and yet to not only be able to access the Spiritual realm, but to be able to bring that inspired word to others – a saint. Someone who could access that point in space and time where human can touch Divine.
Some may find it controversial and I know he would disagree with it, but having had my eyes opened by having moved in different circles, I beleive this gift my dad had and shared is something which is also carried by others whose practices he is strongly opposed to. I have seen this same energy at work through pratitioners of other beleif systems; going under the names of the Awen, or Reiki for example, and delivered by someone in a ‘state of Grace’ – I know that’s a Christian term, but I don’t know another that conveys it.
And yet; this common practice across different beleif systems speaks to me of the all encompassing Grace of God – whatever name you know God by, and whether you acknowledge one God, a Trinity or a many aspected God, that God wants to interact with us, help us, heal us, and lift us up every time we will allow it, and wants that enough, cares about us enough, that he/she/they will use the spiritual language we can understand, whatever our culture, to relate to us and heal us.
Across the world there are pastors, ministers, priests, druids, psychic mediums, magicians, witches, shamens and many others of countless religious persuasions and none, who facilitate this in the way that works for them – and this to me is a demonstration of the grace of God, to reach out to us through whatever means we can receive it through.
My daddy is a magic man!
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