An Unreasonable Man

The eulogy I delivered at my dad's memorial service:

==

My dad was an unreasonable man.

By that, I mean that when he got it in his head that something was the
right thing to do, he couldn't be bothered by silly questions like
whether or not it was feasible. He was a man of strong conviction. He
didn't just stand up for what he believed in -- he raised a flag,
walked to the front of the crowd, and called others to come along and
stand up for the right thing with him.

In a memory that he recounted to me many times over the years, my dad
heard a story when he was nine years old, a story that made his heart
glad, and have hope to a fatherless little boy who often felt alone in
the world. It was a story that lifted his spirit, gave him promise,
and and a vision for something great.

That story stayed with him as he became a man, and for nearly all my
life -- certainly as far back as my memories reach -- he spent nearly
every waking hour trying to figure out ways to share that story with
other people. Dad believed in something greater than this world, which
is so often dreary and difficult, and he wanted nothing more than to
share that vision with others. He wasn't content to nurture hope in
his own heart, not when there were lost, lonely, broken people out
there who needed to hear a good word of encouragement.

Over the years, I saw him more times than I can remember, in the dark
and quiet hours of the night, hunched over his desk, illuminated by
lamp light, his Bible and study guides spread out before him like road
maps. Or, more often, it was the church books and a table calculator,
as he wracked his brain, trying to figure out how to keep the damn
thing going. Most often, though, he was scheming, laying out new plans
for some crazy crusade, or concert, or revival meeting -- some new way
to reach out to the community. Unreasonable.

It's a legacy that I am reminded of all the time, when I run into
people at the grocery store, or the mall, or some public event --
people I barely remember, or don't remember at all -- stop me and ask,
"Aren't you Rich Glenn's son?" They go on to tell me how much he
impacted their lives. It's something that I just got used to over the
years, and something I too often took for granted.

I'll close with two of my favorite stories about my dad, two stories
that demonstrate what kind of man he was.

When I left for college, I was afforded many freedoms that I didn't
have at home, including the freedom to listen to any music I liked,
and I took full advantage of that freedom. One afternoon my parents
called to say they were coming for a visit, and I went into a frenzy,
cleaning my room of all "sinful" evidence. I hid all my worldly on my
closet shelf and closed the door. A few hours later, mom and dad were
standing in my room, and mom opened the closet to have a peek inside.
I nearly wet my pants. As she glanced around, exclaiming, "This is
nice and roomy," my dad leaned in next to her, glanced up, and
swiftly, silently, grabbed a couple of my folded sweatshirts and
pulled them over the stack of illicit CDs. He didn't look at me, and
never said a word about that moment, but I never forgot it.

The second story is one that took place while I was still living at
home, in the parish of that big old church on the corner of 8th and
"C." It was late, after dark and a there was a knock on our door.
There was a family outside who had been living in their car. They
needed help, and didn't know where else to turn. Just a couple of
desperate people with two children.

We had nothing. The church was going through a dry period, and there
was no money in the coffers. My dad went into his bedroom, reached
deep into his chest of drawers, and pulled out a couple of small
silver bars. I have no idea where they came from, or how he got them,
but that I saw him weigh that decision for only a moment. Then he took
those pieces of silver, and filled a grocery sack with whatever he
could find in the cupboards, and he handed them over to these
strangers, It was everything he had in the world. He prayed with this
couple and sent them on their way, and as far as I know, we never
heard from them again. That was the kind of guy my dad was.

I've known a lot of good people in my life, people far better than
myself. But I've never personally known anyone who spent so many
hours, so much sweat, worry, strain and tears, over so many years,
working to leave this world a better place than he found it.

My dad was a dreamer -- a trait that is often associated with
foolishness. He knew that, and he didn't care. Sometimes that traint
made me want to pull my hair out, but no matter how many times over
the years I wanted dad to *just be reasonable,* it was his ability to
keep dreaming that made him, to me, some kind of hero.

-- 
-pcg
 [email protected]

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