It's interesting how you get to see other sides of people at their funerals. Folks talk of their memories and you get to share in snippets of their lives that you weren't privy to before. Why do people tend to wait to do that until after they're gone? These two images of Maria's father struck me as two images showing sides of the guy I never knew.
When I first met him, he was in his early 60's, so in my mind he was always an older man and grey haired. The picture of this dashing man in his 30's, with the jet black hair and that pencil thin mustache caught me by surprise.
But the Robert Steeves I really wished I had known was the one in the top picture. The man standing in the prison corridor, Bible in hand. This is the minister who ran a prison ministry for 4 or 5 years in the 80's, who had an unrealized dream of a place for prisoner's families to stay when visiting. The man who opened his own home to a few of those families. I see a man with a vision, a passion and a ministry of his own.
But the man I knew didn't go to church regularly anymore. Oh, his faith was still real, I don't question that, but I wonder why the passion that would lead a man to preach in a prison wasn't there any more. He was no longer engaged in ministry the way I see him here.
I wonder what happened to that passion. Was it just the toils of aging that took it away? Was he burned out taking care of those in society who most would rather ignore? Was there no one else to share his passion and hold up his hands as he got weary? I'll never know and I never had, or took I guess, the opportunity to ask.
One thing I did know is his concern for his daughters' welfare. Each and every time we visited, from that first trip when we were either dating or engaged, as we were prepared to leave he'd shake my hand and tell me "You take good care of her now." This was no parting pleasantry, it was said with authority. Maybe it's just a trick of memory, but I remember those first few times before he really knew me, he wasn't about to release my hand until he had an acceptable answer of "I will". It was a serious question and it made an impression on me as a young man. I got the impression that there would be consequences if I failed.
Even as the years passed and he knew me better (and our daughters were born), each parting was still the same. "Take care of those girls" he'd say. The edge of his words were softened, but the seriousness was still there.
Last Wednesday, as we left Moberly MO, I felt a pang of sadness as there was no reminder to take care of these girls. But don't worry Dad, I will.
What a lovely story. And yes, it's too bad we don't know a lot of these things until someone is gone. We attended my husband's uncle's funeral a few years back. He was a quiet man who spoke little. Not until his funeral did we learn of his rich and meaningful life.
I suppose there are those who speak of their deeds with great bravado before their death and those who's deeds speak volumes of them after their deaths.
It sounds like he left his girls in good hands. How blessed we little girls are to have great dads.
I'm gonna call my daddy tonight to tell him I love him.
I'm praying for your family.
Very nice and a good reminder.
This story was a treasure. I haven't been by your site for a while, and you made me realize what I've been missing. Thanks so much...And I am sorry for your loss...