dear mo ther , t he call came through his grief and held out to man, a man who might have been my Dad. Just as I was entering an un familiar office door, something about a man at a nearby desk caught my eye. I stopped and wondered if it could be a minis ter I’d known many years ago. I called out his name and put a question mark in the tone of my voice. He stopped in the middle of his menial task, turned and ques tioned back, “Yes?” “I’m Joyce,” I said, “Joyce Landorf, you remember, I mar ried Dick Landorf and my father is Pastor Clifford Miller.” “Oh, yes, how . . . ah, nice to see you . . . ah, after all these years.” His answer was stum bling and just as faltering as his steps toward me. He asked of my father but did not listen to my answer. He spoke of his life and activities in a strange detached way and most of his talk was of meaningless, distant things. Later, as I drove home, I couldn’t get the man out of my thoughts. Where had all the fire, enthusiasm and sureness gone? As a preacher he had been so out going, so winning. What had hap pened to drain him almost to the level of a vegetable? It was hard to believe this was the same warm, dedicated minister I’d once known. He had stood before me a shuffling, stammering shell of a man. We had talked and while nothing really personal was said, I caught from his defeated spir it that he’d stopped firing on the line, packed his bags and retired from active service. He’d won no medals or battles. He’d simply lost the war and didn’t much care about anything else. Actually, he had just the usual heartaches and problems in the ministry that my Dad had. Yet my Dad, when e xp e r i en c i ng heartaches, setbacks, c r i t i c i sm (just and unjust), illness, plain him not only comfort, but that dear, slim thread of hope. Cont. on Page 31
O v e r t a
C u p o fr
C o ( ^
To My Dad: THE MINISTER b y J o y c e L a n d o r f T h e f ir s t t im e I remember tell ing anyone out loud that my father was a minister was in
times ostracized him for some thing so terrible as wearing too bright a tie at Sunday's service. Now that I’ve grown up, mar ried and am away from the par sonage, I can be a little more ob jective about those days. There were many experiences of joy and downright miracles happen ing. There were deep sorrows and very little money was provided, yet there were rich contrasts in emotions, happiness and deep peace. Now I find I'm very proud of those times as a P.K. and the priceless lessons I learned. I write of my pride, knowing that Father’s Day is many months past because yesterday I saw a ghost — no, a gray shadow of a boredom and sometimes out-and- out failure, never stopped hearing that sweet clarion call of God to be a minister. Dad first heard that call almost 40 years ago and its gentle, yet penetrating and persuasive ring is still fresh and clear in his heart. In fact, even when he suffered the loss of my
the third grade during a “share and tell all” session. My pro nouncement was met with re spectful awe and lasted about three days (until the kids got to know me). However, it certain ly did something for my status in the early weeks of that semes ter. As I grew older and began un derstanding all the ramifications of Dad’s job, I remember a few times when I was not a bit happy over being a preacher’s kid. Al ways being an “example” and having 25 to 30 women in the church as my “other mothers” were just a few of the occupa tional hazards of my young life. I confess my attitude toward some of these situations was a great deal less than spiritual, but it got worse when some Christian (usually one Dad had spent many hours calling and comforting) criticized, antagonized or some
OCTOBER, 1969
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