Twenty-five Years Later

Richard Wayne Butterick, graduation 1963

"You left, just as you were becoming interesting."
Sunday, May 12, 1991, my own personal day of infamy. My childhood was suddenly, and in a sense deliberately attacked, by a combination of forces and powers that have had a long history in my family tree. Your heart, from birth given a murmur, and unknown to us at the time, already suffering from previous cardiovascular "incidents," stopped its work. You apparently suffered very little in the end, but those who have survived these last twenty-five years have suffered the unreachable separation created in a moment one early Sunday morning.

You were only 46 years old.
Mom was 35.
Brian was 23.
I was 15.
Nathan was 12, turning 13 in just 3 days.
Our lives had only just begun their journey from childhood into adulthood. And now my adulthood has its own birthday: May 12, 1991.

Standing shell-shocked in the sanctuary of First Christian Church of Bement as both Nathan's and my own classmates visited. Emotionally numb sitting next to Mom at your graveside. Forever altering how I respond to the Mother's Day holiday, since it was on Sunday, May 12, 1991. Casting a long shadow on Nathan's birthday, even though Mom was careful to not have any of your funeral or graveside service on the day.

Each significant event to come into our lives had a felt absence. Learning to drive your beloved 1991 Ford Ranger truck with its stick shift. Graduating high school. You would probably be happy to see the son who wanted to be an attorney on May 11, 1991 transformed his career path towards music instead, keeping up the talent you were so proud to watch and grow. And then into ministry, which at an early age you also explored as a possible career, but hesitated when you thought about the necessity of speaking in public and at funerals.

You loved each of your sons as the individuals they were, and never had a favorite one. Each one of us were your favorite in our own way. Since your high school prophecy predicted a career in automobile repair, you would be delighted that Nathan has his own business doing something he loves; fixing automobiles. But he probably wouldn't be able to finish any jobs with you sitting or standing next to him while he worked! Brian acquired your love-hate talents in home repair and remodeling.

And you always desired a bit of the country as a place to live. Mom and Nathan live into that dream.

But these twenty five years without you have not been without unexpected blessings. Mom met a remarkable man to be another companion for her and a fatherly figure for your teenage and twenty-something sons. Norman Harpster was the best fit we could have asked for in a step father. He never put himself into your shoes, because he knew he could never fill them anyway. He believed what you believed: each of your sons were a unique bundle of talent and skills, and he encouraged us to be whatever our talents and skills took us. I hope you two have already met and traded stories.

Richard Wayne Butterick, around 13 years old

Your fondness for redheads probably unduly influenced my preferences and I married one.
Both of your grandsons carry parts of your name as part of theirs.
Our musical tastes were greatly influenced by the massive record collection you took such joy in setting upon the turntable. And yes, we all have Roy Orbison in our own collections.

The same icy finger which stilled your heart at last has touched one of your son's hearts. It now has a lifetime injury upon it, but it still beats. There are much better outcomes in cardiovascular health and treatment than in 1991. And I benefited from these improvements.

Each of us catches a glimpse of you in our bathroom mirrors every day. There are certain behaviors, both good and bad, that are clearly drawn from you as their source. Sometimes we are consciously aware of your presence, other times we subconsciously respond.

And as long as each one of your survivors live, share your stories, share our memories of you, in a sense, you never leave us. We still talk to you from time to time. There are times when I find myself repeating my first written sentence to you: IMADATYOUDAD. Our day of mortality is yet concealed from us, when we will also separate our life from living on this blessed earthly home. I only hope that my custody of your rich legacy has been adequate, and passes into the third, fourth, fifth generation of those who will forever claim you as their common ancestor.

And you are still proud of your widow and your sons.