My father was a man of few words. He had attended and supported churches all his life. He lived a moral life. He was a good husband and father and a kind and gentle man. He said grace before meals. But economic circumstances had limited his formal education, and he was hesitant to articulate his faith.

I do remember that once he heard some children in our neighborhood mocking another child for being Roman Catholic. My father took his children aside and told us never to do that, never to make fun of someone else.

Because he rarely articulated it, it was hard to know exactly what my father believed. But occasionally I caught glimpses.

One evening at bedtime when I was quite young, I wanted to ask my parents something. I walked into their bedroom and there saw my father kneeling humbly and quietly at his bedside, praying. I was struck deeply by the humility and reverence evident in that scene.

My mother was a lifelong Sunday school teacher. She taught all ages, from young children to senior adults. On Sunday mornings, my father would drive my mother and the children to Sunday school at our church a few blocks away and then return home. There was no adult Sunday school class he felt comfortable in. After Sunday school was over, my father would drive back and join us for the church service.

I don’t think we ever questioned what my father did during the time when we were in Sunday school. Later, I went away to university, coming home now and then on weekends. There was no college and career Sunday school class in my home church, so one Sunday during Sunday school, I stayed home with my father. This gave me an opportunity to see what he did. He did not watch television. He did not do any chores. He just sat quietly in the living room. There was an overwhelming sense of reverence and peace in that silent place.

I don’t know how much my father read the Bible. I do know that after retirement he read the Bible all the way through, twice.

In his last few months, my father was hospitalized with a brain tumor. He did not want to die and was tearful when we visited with him for the last time. My mother visited him every day. She read the Bible with him, and he said that helped. Finally, she said that it was similar to what often happened in their house—my father would go to bed first and my mother would stay up a little while longer to do some chores. That also helped. My father passed away silently and peacefully. I have every expectation of seeing him again.