A Remembrance of
John W. Stroop
November 7, 1921 - December 28, 2004
By The Rev. William G. Stroop, Ph.D.

     In the recent movie, Big Fish, William Bloom travels home to be with his father in the final days of his life.  As his father, Edward, lay dying, William realizes that his dad is really a mystery to him.  His dad was always a man of big appetites, enormous passions, and very tall tales.  As the film unfolds before us, we are invited to join with William on his quest to understand and really know his father.

     Over the past several months, I have found myself in a similar position.  Like the fictional son, I too have come to realize that my father’s life cannot be reduced to a collection of biographical details, incidental stories, memorabilia, photographs, scrap books, and old newspaper clippings.  Rather, our father, and our friend, and our co-worker exists in the gestalt, in the mythic nature of his life. 

     My parents and my sister, Marge, moved to Klamath Falls during the late 1940’s, and mostly lived in the house on Greensprings Drive.  My parents were not wealthy people; my mother did not work outside of the home until I was in grade school.  But growing up, I never really knew that this was the case.  As far as I could tell, we had everything we needed.  At meals, food was plentiful and good.  My parents loved food, and I can remember that shopping for food, preparing it, and especially eating it was almost a religious experience.  It was certainly a form of entertainment!  Even as recently as last month, and despite the effects of prostate cancer and the chemotherapy, my father relished food.  And I cannot imagine – for my father at least – a more wonderful metaphorical image of the heaven in which he now resides as “ a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear” (Isa 25:6).

     My father was among the most patient and generous people I have ever known.  No matter whether he was teaching me to paint a fence, cast a lure, or fly a kite, he was a paragon of patience.  Oh, that is not to say that he never became exasperated or lost his temper.  Marge and I can well remember those occasions.  But when it really mattered, he was patient and kind, and exceedingly generous.  Dad often gave of himself selflessly and with great humility, whether it was to member of our immediate family or his friends.  The ancient Hebrews wrote in proverbs, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight.  In all your ways acknowledge God, and God will make straight your paths.”[1]  Dad seemed instinctively to know this.

     Dad was generous with his time, his talent, and his treasure.  He was a good steward, and he taught stewardship to us.  Indeed his faith in something beyond this earthly existence was probably more evident in the generosity of his actions and his spirit than in anything he said.  Dad was not an overtly religious man.  Indeed, I think it is fair to call him a rationalist or a skeptic.  But that is not to say that he did not have a healthy, firm connection to the divine.  It is just that instead of talking about spiritual matters much, he showed his deep conviction in the things unseen through his actions.  He was a doer of the Word. 

     After many fishing trips to 7 Mile Creek, Lost River, or Howard Prairie, we would come home tired, and with a mess of fish.  I was often dead tired.  And although tired himself, it was Dad who put away most of the gear, and most often cleaned the fish.  Dad was generous and patient.  And eventually, I did my share of the work, as he knew I would.

     When I became a teenager, Dad told me exciting tales of how he and Ed Charas and other buddies from the post office hiked and fished the wilderness area of the Cascades.  He wanted to take me there, and so one year we hiked to Lake Isherwood.  The hike is about 6 miles.  And in those days, we had wood and canvas back packs, heavy sleeping bags, and even heavier cookware.  Dad got me a new pair of Red Wing hiking boots, which I had dutifully oiled and tried to break in before the trip.  When we got to camp, I took off my new boots, and tugged to pull off my socks. 

     You see, I have peculiar skin that blisters very easily; one trip around the yard with the self-propelled lawnmower and my hands are blistered.  On this trip, my feet had blistered and then bled, and my socks were glued to my feet.  Dad, who was a letter carrier and particularly careful about his feet, was horrified.  For the next four days, he kept my feet cleaned and dressed with ointment.  When we left camp, I made it about half way before the pain became unbearable.  Dad then carried my backpack to the car, and then came back and carried me down the mountain. 

     When my sister, who is about 10 years older than me, went to nursing school, my Dad had the opportunity to engage in a hobby that would influence him greatly in his retirement.  The upstairs of our house at that time had one bedroom and a loft.  Dad, who had a bit of Peter Pan Syndrome, decided that we needed an HO train layout. 

     Not having a lot of money to spare, Dad was amazingly resourceful in using scraps of lumber and chicken wire to create hills, valleys, and rivers out of plaster-of-Paris.  I of course was more interested in running the trains than in the creating.  But for Dad, it was all about process.  And it was a beautiful process with an amazing outcome.  We made trees from small twigs and moss that we collected on camping trips.  Houses and buildings were made from balsa wood.  Everything was done inexpensively but ended up magnificently.  Like his artwork of later years, it had a lifelike quality that made you believe you were actually in the train or on the tiny streets.  

     When my sister came back from school, we needed two bedrooms upstairs.  Without so much as a word, Dad began disassembling the miniature world he had created, and began creating another one:  a room for me.  It must have pained him to see the plaster hills broken into pieces, and the track disappear into boxes, but he never said a word.  He was a man who met the responsibilities and challenges of life with generosity of spirit and concern for others.

     When Mom and Dad retired, my sister and I were living in separate communities in California.  About a year later, their grandson, David, was born, giving them a perfect excuse to drive frequently to our homes.  This was a happy time for Mom and Dad.  They got to spend time with their grandson, and to visit with us in San Francisco where they had also spent the first few happy years of their married life together, and where Marge was born. 

     When Dad retired from the post office, he took up painting full time.  Dad was always an artist; as a teenager, he used to go to the Milwaukee, Wisconsin museum of natural history and draw what he saw.  I still have his sketch book from the late 1930’s.[2]  Dad liked nature scenes, and painted mainly with oils and acrylics, but also did some water colors.  He sold many of his works here in town, and he won many awards for his work.  He was a member of the Klamath art gallery, and generously gave of his time and talent.  He sat at the gallery, and took lessons there.  He had several close friends – mostly women – who cared about him, and for whom he cared. 

     These relationships he had with many of you here today were important to him, because it was during retirement that he developed the prostate cancer that eventually killed him.  His relationships kept him grounded in community. 

     Dad had cancer for nearly 30 years, and as far as I can tell from my conversations with him, and from stories related by Marge, he took his illness in stride, although I think he resented not being able to make the religious pilgrimages to the Holy City of Slot Machines he and Mom enjoyed so much.

     But that resentment was soon replaced by another far more profound situation when our mother developed dementia.  Dad’s generosity and patience were tried to the limit as he watched his wife metamorphose into the empty shell of a human being.  And when she died two years ago, he grieved very deeply for the loss of his life companion.  Like Job, he wondered how a good God could let such things happen. 

     As the treatment options for Dad’s cancer ran out, he had little choice but to face the questions that we will all address at the ends of our lives.  He told me more than once that while he was not exactly afraid of death, he wasn’t looking forward to it either.  He was unsure of what happens when one closes one’s eyes for the last time.  That was the rationalist and the skeptic in him.  

     And I think his uncertainty about these profoundly important issues lies at the root of his patience and deep generosity.  Dad was a man of strong opinions which were borne out of his own experience.  He was a man who knew what he knew.  But, he was also a man who also knew when he didn’t have the Truth in hand.  As a result, he was willing to be patient.  He was willing to wait for things unseen to become manifest.  He would wait for the Truth. 

     Dad was also someone who did not always see the world in black and white terms.  Rather, he recognized that most things in the world are various shades of grey.  Dad saw that there weren’t a lot of absolute Truths out there, although he wanted them just as much as many of us do.  Because the world was mostly grey, Dad did not have to categorize, label, or judge all things.  He could afford to be generous.  Generous in spirit; generous with time, and most of all generous with his love.  That is not to say that he didn’t have his judgmental side.  He was a human being after all. 

     Dad’s patience and generosity spoke volumes about his love of family – including his parents who lived in Klamath Falls until their deaths some 25 years ago.  Dad was not overly demonstrative about his feelings.  I think he was always a little embarrassed to say “I love you.”  The kind of love Dad had was not unlike that described by St. Paul who wrote, “Love is patient, love is kind.  It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” (1 Cor 13:1-7). 

     Although many things about Dad will remain a mystery, one thing is certain.  Dad’s love was a love that was always there, just under the surface.  Dad was my best friend and my biggest fan.  And I loved him.  We all loved him, and we will miss him.  I am grateful for his life, and for his love of me.  I am proud to be his son. 

     And I know that my father’s influence on me continue to enrich my life.  That is the nature of the mythic:  it has the power transform. 

     It may seem surprising that someone who was patient and loved generously would have trouble sensing God’s presence and love for him.  But I think the skeptic, rational, and exceedingly practical part of Dad kept him from fully feeling the throb of God’s love in his chest, even as his actions and words so fully reflected God’s presence in him. 

      But fortunately, God is more persistent and patient than we can imagine.  Two lines of 1 Corinthians come to mind, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known” (1 Cor 12). 

     Dad now sees.  He now knows.  And he is now at peace.