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I'm very confident that this post is every bit as comment-worthy as the previous five. Thank you. The end.

Tribute to my Dad

My dad died October 8, 1988. I wasn't quite yet 40. I have this image of him sidling up to Jesus a few days later and saying, "My son would really be happy if Eckersley would hang a backdoor slider to Gibson right now." Baseball fans would know what I mean. He had been ill for almost 10 years, and one of the reasons I retired early and spend money now, is that he never really had the chance to do either, working in fruit packing houses into his 70s. My sister and I both wrote eulogies, which were read by the pastor conducting the service. He must have liked mine, because Mom got a phone call some time later from someone who said they had heard my eulogy read over the radio at some station in Minnesota. So I thought I would publish what I wrote, having read it over and realizing that after almost 21 years, not a word needs to be changed. Here goes.

"On Friday morning, Arnold Falk died. On Friday night his son went to a football game. More importantly, on Sunday morning his son was in church. In both instances, the son was emulating the father. Oh, Dad wasn't a football fan, but he believed in honoring his commitments, and I was committed to working at the football game. And Dad was committed to his God and his church. So we went to church on Sunday because it was the right thing to do. We were the type of family who went to Sunday School and church when we were out of town on vacation because Sunday was the Lord's day and the Lord's people were in His house. And if there's ever a time when you need to be in the Lord's house, it's after the loss of a loved one. Many people in the church know of Dad's faithfulness. The thing they perhaps most remember is the way he took seriously his job as head usher, and the fastidious way he cleaned up discarded paper and bulletins among the pews on Sunday morning when church was over.
Those who worked with him in the packing sheds knew the joy he brought to those around him. Depending on the place and the fruit season, his nicknames included "Happy," "Jolly," and "Smiley.
But there are special memories between a father and son, and they, too, give insight as to the kind of man my father was. My earliest memories of Dad were his nightly Bible reading. He often fell asleep with his Bible in his lap, and Mom would have to wake him up to go to bed. He left most of my formal Christian education to Mom and my Sunday School teachers, but he always stressed to me the importance of tithing, and I think of Dad nearly every time I drop my envelope in the plate.
When I was in college, having already moved 200 miles away, I'd still come home once or twice a month. Before I left to go back to school, Dad would always find a time to be alone with me, ask me if I needed anything, and slip me a $20 bill from some private reserve he probably had set aside for that purpose.
His devotion to his son was never more evident than the way he handled my infatuation with the game of baseball. Dad never liked baseball, probably because it consumed too much time, and he never had that kind of time, trying to put two kids through college. But baseball consumed me a minimum of 12 hours a day during the summer. Summer also meant 12-14 hour workdays for Dad in the packing sheds. He would get home late, dead tired, greeted by the words, "Dad, take me to the game in Fresno?" Most of the time he would, often going without dinner so we wouldn't miss the first pitch. Once at the game (we usually took at least one of my friends) I would go running off around the ballpark, leaving Dad to sit alone for 3 hours watching a game in which he had no interest. At game's end I would usually sleep all the way home while he drove the 35 miles, probably anticipating having to go through the same thing the next night. Today, when my 11-year-old son asks me to take him someplace I don't want to go (he inherited his grandfather's "love" for sports) I try to remember the example my father set. I doubt that Dad felt like much of a martyr at the time. He was doing what he believed dads ought to do, and no sacrifice was too great for his son. I believe it when psychologists tell us it is impossible to overestimate the impact of a father who is willing to give his children his time, not just "things".
Dad hasn't really been himself the last few years, so I asked my kids if they were old enough to remember Grandpa before he got sick. They both thought of Saturday morning cartoons. The five grandkids would get up and Grandpa would get up with them, admonishing them not to laugh so loud or they would, "wake up the birdies." Usually it was Dad's laughter that would wake up the rest of the house. My 15-year-old, Jennifer, perhaps put it best: "Grandpa was the reason we looked forward to going to Grandma's house."
So, Arnold Falk left a legacy of love, laughter and unselfishness that all of us remember. But, best of all, he took me to a church where I was taught these words: "Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here. He is risen. Come see the place where they have laid him."
I am just beginning to realize that Dad is gone, and I will not hear his belly-laugh again as long as I live. But I know the final resting place of the dust that was my father is as empty as the tomb that held my Lord.
On the night when my sister called and informed me of Dad's stroke, sleep would not come. As Dad would have done, I turned to God's word for comfort. He led me to Isaiah 43:1, and it seemed as if the Lord was telling me this was Dad's verse. "Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name. You are mine." The word "redeemed" translated literally means, "released from bondage", and though his death would not come until 8 days later, my Dad was being released from the bondage of this earthly body. Someday we will all be released, hopefully to the same reward that Dad has begun to enjoy. His death only deepens my resolve to lot anything in my life jeopardize my chances of seeing him again someday. I love my father (present tense), will love him all my life, and will someday get to tell him again--face to face."

I composed a few final sentences after finishing copying that down, erased them all and decided they stand on their own pretty well.

The Best Laid Plans.

So, here was my plan: Last day of finals, only one final to go, so I had to give the final, turn in my keys, turn in my grades, and on the road by 10:30. But it was not to be.

1. My desktop monitor died, so I had no way of printing out my grades during class time. My laptop is not connected to a printer.
2. Went to get my room signed off. Was asked, "Is your computer ready for the summer school teacher? Are your desks lined up for the summer school teacher instead of finals?" No, my monitor died and I had my desks stacked. Over to our tech teacher, get new used monitor, carry it to my room, exchange it for the old one, wait ten minutes for it to boot up to make sure it works. While waiting, unstacked all 41 of my desks, started putting them back in rows. Dropped a desk on my toe. The one that was already black and blue from dropping a stack of record albums (ask your parents what those are) on my foot. Put sign on computer for summer school teacher to remind them not to reboot computer unless they wanted to wait 10 minutes.
3. Went to athletic office to print out my grades from flash drive. Grades done, but our registrar walked out the door to lunch. Turned in keys, turned in emergency envelope, got room signed off. Since my choices at that point were to wait for registrar or come back Monday, I went to lunch.
4 Favorite mexican restaurant in Orange--Los Cabos at Tustin and Collins. Soup watery for a change, salsa too hot for a change. One benefit: Araceli, my waitress, comped my diet coke in honor of my retirement.
5. Back to school to turn in grades and sign out with principal. Finally done about 12:30. Since all finals were now done now, made rounds of friends for goodbyes.
6. Finally got in the car about 1:10. Then the tears came. Not sorrowful. Joyful ones at the realization that God got me to this point. 36 years of holding my hand every step of the way. When he wasn't carrying me.

Revisiting my Life, Part 1

At my math department retirement party last week, a couple of our teachers were talking about student friendships and facebook. One has a policy that no one can be called her friend until they turn 21. Another said, and this is a paraphrase, "I don't want anything to do with them once they leave high school." I was thinking to myself, "Wow, I couldn't live like that." Now both of these teachers are great teachers and extremely popular with their students. They are both math majors and they do a much better job of delivering curriculum and holding students accountable than I do. Maybe it's because of my coaching background, but I was (at least in 3 days it will be "was") in education for the relationships.

I was thinking of their conversation last night at Souplantation as Jan and I had dinner with a girl from the class of '85 and two of her children. I never had her in class, but she was on our national championship cross country team in '85. I wasn't her primary coach, but my function was to keep these quality athletes from assaulting their coach! She was a strong Christian then, and it is obvious her spiritual life has continued to grow and mature. She's currently living in Spokane, having moved there 3 years ago for a slower pace of life. She has a boy, 6, and girls, 4 and 3, and is looking, so far unsuccessfully, to adopt another little boy. They are down for a couple of weeks while her husband works on his Doctorate in Christian Education at Biola. I caught up on her siblings, parents, and told her when I said goodbye, "You turned out just like I thought you would." Every time one of my former students seems genuinely happy to reconnect with me, I get this indescribable sense of joy and validation. Friends ARE friends forever.

I mentioned this dinner on my fb status last night. I already have a comment from another former student, asking, "When's my turn?" Stay tuned for further installments.

No blues at this car wash

Saturday was Jeff and Jen's 11th Anniversary, but Jeff was playing guitar at church so they couldn't celebrate until today. So they dropped the girls off with us at lunch at Azteca, and then went off to celebrate. We had the girls until about 3:30, and then Jan and I headed out for our end-of-the-year choir party. Jan decided that both of our cars were greatly in need of a wash (the word she used was "filthy"), and my math brain realized I could save $40 by doing them myself. She then enlisted the girls to help, they being young enough to still believe washing cars is fun.

(The picture to the left is a reenactment using a standin grandchild. No labor laws were violated while filming.)

Jolie helped with my car. She soaped everything below window level, and I had the high parts. Drying held the same responsibilities. Jeslyn came in at this point and the only job left was to wash the rims. It was obvious that this job was beneath her. So then we started on grandma's car. Jolie took the port side below the windows, Jeslyn the starboard. The main topic of conversation during this time was their criticism of mama birds for failing to potty train their children. When we finished, they came to 3 conclusions why the "old-fashioned" method of washing cars is superior to a professional carwash: 1) This way is much more fun 2) This way is free (definitely grampa's girls) 3) This way is quieter.
Grandma was suitably impressed with our work, finding fault only with the top of her car--which of course was my responsibility. Jolie then proceeded to wipe down the stair rails to our back door (definitely daddy's girl), and wanted other fun stuff to do. I showed her how to use the dustbuster to vacuum the inside of my car, feeling more like Tom Sawyer with each passing moment. So, paying to have your car washed in the OC: $20. Washing it yourself with the help of your grandchildren--a priceless preview of retirement.

One final note. When it comes to debate over the holiest form of washing cars, I am definitely an advocate of sprinkling over immersion.

The Ultimate Compliment

I often eavesdrop on student conversations in class. This morning the kids in my 3rd period were making not-so-complimentary comments about the personal hygeine of another teacher. I asked, "What do you guys say about me when I'M not around." One boy said, "You are one of our coolest teachers, Mr. Falk. We'd rather have you than a sub." The ultimate compliment. I think.

Amazed by God--Again!!

I wonder if there will ever come a time in my life when I cease to be amazed by the hand of God in my life. I hope not. Had another instance of that last night, and I want to point out ahead of time that I am bragging on God, not me.

I had a friend invitation on facebook from a girl whose name I didn't recognize, but since girls have a tendency to change their names and I can use all the friends I can get, I confirmed the friendship. The picture didn't ring a bell. I hate it when that happens. She had asked if I was the only former Tustin teacher on facebook, and I replied that I hadn't seen any others. I then asked if she was using her maiden name on facebook, and what year she graduated, pleading a senior moment. What I really was saying, was "Help me remember you." Here is a paraphrase of her reply: "I am using my maiden name, I graduated in 1983. I never had you for a class, but was in the school's Christian club when you were the sponsor. You were always very nice to me at a time when I was very much picked on by other students." We then chatted for about an hour or so.

I hope I can convey in words the emotion I was feeling at the time. Apparently God used me as a source of comfort for her at a time in her life when she needed comforting. I had no idea. I thought of the sermon series our high school pastor Scott Martin is presenting about the early church. One of the things that came to mind is Scott reminded us that when we determine to represent God, his Holy Spirit will put the words in our mouth. I have always thought of that in an evangelistic setting, but I think this is a different type of example. The emotion comes from the realization that through this voice from a quarter century ago, God was telling me what I need to hear. See, I'm a couple of weeks from retirement. I really don't think my light shined as bright as it could have these past 36 years. Apparently I was wrong, and God knew I needed to hear that. From our conversation during the next hour she made it clear that she had many friends with the same memories of me.

It was a time of joy for me, and a time of reflection. A boost for my ego in this area in case it takes a hit in another. But it wasn't me, it was all God's timing. For reinforcement, there was another note from a 1986 student who said, "I knew you were a Christian. I became a believer in 1991."

We hear all the time about how God is being legislated out of our schools. Why does that upset us? If we know anything about church history, we know that times of oppression are when God shows His power the most. I just laugh now instead of getting upset at the people who think they can make God illegal. He uses those times to most dramatically demonstrate His power.

"Let your light so shine before men that they can see your good works and glorify your father in heaven." God reminded me yesterday of the truth of that verse, and He did it in just the way I needed.