SubscribeThinking about a good man
Daddy came home from working at the steel foundry one day and sat in his seat at the head of the dining room table. Mom was in the kitchen and I was passing by the refrigerator.
“Von, would you get me a glass of water?” he requested wearily.
I don’t remember if the words, “Why can’t he get his own water?,”actually slipped out of my mouth or if the sentiment spilled out in the shrug of my shoulders or roll of my eyes. But my mother spun around. “He is your father,” she scolded and then said something to the effect of “if he asks you for a glass of water you get it. He works hard all day… Respect your father…if I ever heard you….”
Something clicked that day that still causes me to reflect on that moment when I think of what it means to honor your father and your mother as the Bible commands. Looking back, I know there was no reason, save being a touchy teenage, for my behavior toward my father, a quiet, hard-working man who gave the best of what he had to his wife and six children. He was a patient man who taught me how to drive and who complimented both my good meals and my bad attempts when I was learning to cook as a teenager.
Growing up, I watched Daddy polish his shoes on Saturday evenings before settling down at the dining room table with his Bible and concordance. He always studied for the Sunday school class he taught, always prepared himself for the day ahead at Thankful Baptist Church.
I didn’t think much then about having a father who loved to go to church, who enjoyed singing in the choir, who counted it a privilege to be a church deacon and trustee. I grew up in a time and place where the family men on my working-class street went to church faithfully. Neighbors who didn’t call my daddy Mr. Willie called him Deacon Shinhoster.
On Sundays, my family would gather around the breakfast table and daddy would say the blessing. We would eat and then get ready for church. My younger sister, older brother and I –the last three of my parent’s six children—piled into the backseat of Daddy’s old Buick, while Mom commanded the front passenger seat. Daddy would then take us to the church we attended in West Savannah, Solomon Temple Church of God in Christ, and then hurry across town to be on time for his own church service. He came back after his service, which always got out before ours, to pick us up.
It was a ritual that played itself out for years, without any fuss or fanfare. Sometime after I left home for college, daddy decided to leave his long-time church and to join my mom at Solomon Temple. I know that gave her much joy and brought them closer together as the last of their children went off to college.
For years, I lived with the false impression that daddy has abdicated his role as head of the household to my mother. Every time, I would ask him something, he would say “have you asked your mother.” And she would say, “Have you asked your father?” I couldn’t seem to get a direct answer from him.
What I learned later, however, was that they were always working together as a unit to raise us, always consulting each other. I was surprised years ago when one of my brothers mentioned how daddy was always instructing the three boys in what to takes to become a man. He told them what was expected of them when they were away from home, to always save some of the money they made from work and to make sure they completed their education.
Daddy helped raise three boys who became good men and leaders in their spheres of influence. He also encouraged his daughters to go to college and to pursue their dreams, which all of us did and are doing. For me, he became a role model for what a husband and father should be.
Daddy was a good man, a godly man, and not just because he attended church. But because he lived those attributes every day that I knew him until his death in 1993. He led by example and taught us all to live our lives with faith and trust in God.
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Thanks Von. This story and pictures brought tears to my soul. Love you.