Digging In: An HGBM Contributing Author Spotlight

Father's Day can stir many emotions. For some, it is a time of celebration and gratitude. For others, it is a reminder of loss, regret, or the passage of time.

In this deeply personal reflection, Rev. Jerry Crossley shares memories of a father who quietly demonstrated love through his presence, support, and sacrifice. He also offers insight into the grief that followed his father's death and the lessons he learned about loss, faith, and God's sustaining grace.

As we celebrate Father's Day, we invite you to spend a few moments with Jerry's story and reflect on the people who have shaped your own life along the way.

Death of a Dad

By HGBM Contributing Author, Rev. Jerry C. Crossley

It’s often been said that you cannot pick your ancestors, but I was blessed to be the son of two very loving, magnanimous, generous parents. Whereas my mother, a school teacher, tended to be the social butterfly, my father was a quiet and reflective man. He was an electrician, but my mom was the live wire. I loved and depended on both of them. My father seldom communicated with me through his words, but always through his presence. My hero and protector, Dad championed me through all my years of schooling, supporting me in my decisions. I eventually became a minister, a husband, and a father.

My wife and I went on a vacation with my parents. We spent a couple of weeks together in Ocean City, Maryland. I remember lying in bed, saying to myself, “This is a ridiculous hour to get up out of bed. It’s only 5 a.m. It’s too early. I like it here, under the sheets, all warm and cozy and cushy. I want to stay under the covers!”

I tried returning to my fetal position, all curled up, but I knew that – for me – the night was over and I had to extricate myself from my bed. As a young pastor, I still had a responsibility to my church members back home. One of them had died, and I was to have his funeral in Philadelphia later this morning. Deep down in my heart I was not looking forward to the four-hour trip that would race me away from the sun, sand, and surf.

As I scrambled into my clothes, I could smell something emanating from the kitchen: a familiar smell of bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. My immediate thought was, “Someone’s already up, making breakfast!” Walking into the kitchen, I saw my father laboring at the stove. “Dad, what are you doing up? What are you doing?” “I’m making breakfast for us. I’m going with you. You have a long drive back to the church this morning, through rush hour traffic. I don’t want you making that drive alone.”

He was always taking care of me, always there for me. Once, at our home in Northeast Philadelphia, I – who have no mechanical ability whatsoever – was attempting to paint the outside of my house. The task proved to be both intimidating and bewildering because, while standing almost at the top of a tall ladder, I was obliged to stretch my hands through some electric wires strung across the home’s exterior.

As we were eating our breakfast, my wife was looking out the kitchen window where the ladder was carefully positioned. She said, “Don’t look now, but your seventy five year-old father just climbed the ladder and is reaching under the wires to paint the barge board.” Dad later remarked, “You’re a pastor, but I’m an electrician. I can take an electrical shock, but you can’t!” He laughed quietly, but that chuckle echoed and reverberated in my memory through the years.

Yet this particular electrician developed myelofibrosis, a sinister blood disease something like leukemia. I resisted the thoughts of his dying and not being there for us. One day my mother called me to say that Dad had contracted a G.I. virus. To me, it seemed to be only the garden variety of flu, sure to vanish in a few days. Was this conclusion just a form of denial? Yes. I failed to comprehend the seriousness of his condition, failed to recognize that it could amount to “the last straw,” “the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

My wife and I lived only about ten miles from my parent’s home. I did not even go to see him. I even made some hospital calls in his neighborhood. Still, I did not stop in. I rationalized, “I don’t want to become a ‘carrier’. Besides, this ‘bug’ will likely be over in a few days.” Instead, it got worse, and Dad was hospitalized. Now he was losing blood. I finally arrived at the hospital to be with him and pray for him. During the long, long night, he passed away.

My mother and I stood beside his body. I wanted, and intended, to be a pillar of strength for her, but I wasn’t. Instead, I was struggling with a terrible mix of feelings: grief and guilt. Almost paralyzed, I just stood there helplessly. It was then that my saintly mother became a pillar of strength for me, repeating words from the 46th Psalm: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear...” The psalmist concludes with these words, “Be still, and know that I am God... The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.” I stood still before the footstool of His throne of grace.

The Apostle Paul had written, “We do not want you...to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.” (1 Thessalonians 4:13 NIV). That admonition presumably did not mean that we should never grieve; only that we should not grieve hopelessly since we have the hope of Heaven. One of the lessons I have learned is that bereavement just takes time. Be still and wait and listen. Secondly, don’t walk around looking for “closure”. We don’t get closure. We don’t get over loss; we just get through it. Thirdly, we keep going, knowing deep inside that the same God our loved one is with, is the God who is with us. “The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.”

Days later, my mother would speak these excruciating words to me, “You know, every time your father heard a car stop outside and the car door open, he’d say, ‘That must be Jerry...That must be Jerry!’” But it never was. With heavy heart I realized that I could never now repay my Dad for his many kindnesses. He was no longer here. Remorseful, filled with guilt and grief, I knew, all too well, that I would never have the opportunity for a re-do. All that I did – or failed to do – was irrevocably, irretrievably past. The salient truth is that, in every critical situation, Dad had been there for me. But in his own crisis, I – his son and a pastor – was not there for him. All I could possibly do was to pay it forward, to help someone else in their moment of crisis, to be like my Dad.