Reconciliation

RECONCILIATION by Gary Cummings, M.Div. It was a cold March of 1970 that found me in the mountains of western Colorado. Near the small town of Hotchkiss stood a little country Church of Christ for which I was the local minister. Earlier that day, I had announced my resignation at the morning worship. The war in Viet Nam had driven me to this position, as I no longer believed that it was right for a minister to hide behind the shield of an IV-D deferment from the draft. When I picked up the phone to call my father to tell him I had volunteered for two years of alternative service as a conscientious objector, I rather suspected what his response would be. His name was Marshall Cummings and he was a retired Major from the Air Force and was proud of his service in World War II. The number had been dialed and the phone was ringing. My father finally answered. After a few minutes of conversation, I told him the news. There were several minutes of silence before I heard the words I never expected to hear: �You are no longer my son.� I knew the decision to be a C.O. would be costly, but I never dreamed that it would cost me the love of my father. I knew that he and I would never agree about the war, but now the disagreement had turned to painful loneliness. All I wanted was to be loved on the coldness of that late winter day. A month later, I loaded my Volkswagen and moved to Abilene, Texas to begin my two years of alternative service at the Abilene State School. A year later I entered the hospital for surgery. When I woke up from the surgery, my wife was not there. The first person I saw coming through the door was my father. He stayed there for the day and brought me ice water. We did not talk much. All I wanted was for him to tell me that he loved me and that I was his son. I never heard those words. When I was laid off from the Abilene State School due to my health, I looked for another alternative job in the Abilene area, but without success. I told my wife Sylvia that we were moving to Ft. Worth. She said that she would not move with me, had her bags already packed and left me. I never saw her again. I moved to Fort worth, close to home, where I got a job as a counselor at a home for boys in trouble. This work was approved by the Selective Service for Alternative Service. It was good to be closer to family and friends. I was hoping to restore my relationship to my father, and was broken by the loss of my wife. My father and I would eat supper at night with mom. We then watched the news together and talked around the war. He would not bring it up. He was shaken though by the pictures and news coming out about the My Lai Massacre and the murder of the students at Kent State by the National Guard. He just said that was wrong. I just looked at him and nodded my head. About that time my father began to fill weak and tired. He went to the hospital at Carswell Air Force Base near our home for an exam. He was told he was anemic and sent home with some iron tablets. He had always been an active man and very strong. Now he was fatigued continually. I came home one morning from the night shift at the boys� home and saw my sister and mother sitting at the kitchen table. They were waiting for me. This was unusual for Sue, whose two small children rarely allowed her to stop. She said they were asleep in the bedroom. I asked where Daddy was, but she could not answer. I got a cup of coffee and sat down. I knew something bad had happened. Perhaps Daddy had a fatal heart attack, I was thinking. Sue finally came out with the truth: �Daddy has leukemia!� I was stunned and walked to the sink and out

the rest of my coffee. She said that Daddy was to be airlifted to Lackland Air Force Base to the Cancer and Leukemia Center at Wilford Hall in San Antonio for special treatment. We got in daddy�s car and drove to the hospital. When we arrived at Carswell Hospital, they were already taking Daddy to the ambulance on a stretcher. I had never seen my father scared before. All I could do was stand there and yell; �Daddy!� As they closed the ambulance door, he called out: �I�m dying!� That afternoon I asked for a week off to be with my father. We drove to San Antonio in silence, and when we got there we went immediately to see Daddy. He was on the special cancer center ward, and was in the very best of hands. We walked in and saw him lying there with an oxygen mask over his face and an IV solution dripping into his arm. The name at the end of the bed said �Captain Marshall Cummings�. He was a Major at the end of the war, but his permanent retired rank was that of Captain. When he saw us, his face lit up and we all hugged him. I could tell he was really afraid from the panicked look on his face. I told him that I loved him and that I was sorry he had leukemia. He told me was trying to fight the disease with experimental chemotherapy. We stayed there a week, but had to return home for a few days to attend to family business, and I had to get an extended leave of absence from my job. I wrote to the Selective Service in Austin and told them of Daddy�s condition. The leave was granted and we returned to Wilford Hall on July 3. Dad�s fever had gone up sharply while we were gone and was now hovering at 105 degrees. The special chemotherapy was not proving effective, and Daddy was in a lot of pain. He and I sat by his window in the ward and watched the fireworks exploding in the sky during the evening of July 4. I did not know that this would be our last Independence Day together. Somehow we felt close, and I wanted him to take back what he had told me over the phone a year earlier. The words: �You are no longer my son.� were still in my head. I knew he could not find the words I needed to hear. The next morning, the doctor told me that Daddy�s condition was grave. When we went to the ward, Daddy insisted we leave and go back to Fort Worth. I told him we were staying. He became upset and started yelling. Mother left the room crying. I told him he should be so hard on mother. I repeated that we were staying. He warned me coldly not to make him mad, as it would be bad for his condition. I got up and walked out of the ward. That afternoon, when we went back to see daddy, he seemed to be in good spirits. Mother left for a while, and finally he blurted out: �You are right about this war!� I told him that right then I didn�t care about that, and that I loved him. He began to cry and told me: �I am proud of you. You are my son, and I do love you!� THE WORDS. The words I had longed to hear. All I could do was hug him. It seemed as if a giant rock had been lifted from my back, and I felt free and accepted. Daddy�s old friend ,Barney Hagen, was there from Spring town the next morning. They had been friends for over thirty years, ever since their time together in the service. I could tell that Daddy and happy and he and Barney talked of old biplanes called Jennies, and C-47's. Those were daddy two favorite airplanes. Then Daddy said he had to go to the bathroom. We stepped into the hallway. Suddenly, I heard a cry: �Momma, something�s wrong!� I heard a crash and the medic ran in. The doctor ran in a few minutes later. I turned to Barney and Mother and told them Daddy was dead. I knew. The doctor came out a few later with a blank face and said: �What can I say? He was an old man. He is gone.� The Air Force medic was still by the bed. When I went in and saw Daddy lying there, I watched him as he appeared only to be sleeping. When I bent down and kissed him, the coldness of his cheek jolted me back to reality. I repeated the 23rd Psalm, told him good bye and left the ward. I knew I would have to be strong. I kissed mother and held her while she

cried. I thanked Barney for coming to see Daddy on the last day of his life. Barney was worried that his trip to see Daddy caused this to happen. I assured him that this was not the case. It was Daddy�s time to die, I told him. Barney started crying and sat down next to his grandson. I went down the hall to call Sue. When she answered the phone in Houston, all I could say was: �Daddy�s dead.� She fell to pieces on the phone. Daddy had told her to go to Houston, as he knew it would be too hard for her to see him die. I was sad, but I also was at peace. I was certain of my father�s love. We were reconciled. Copyright �, Gary Cummings, February, 1981. Copyright �, Gary Cummings, October, 2005.