June 8, 1997. Today is my father’s 75th birthday. We celebrated last night. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a simple meal with my mother and him, my family, and my sister’s family. My brother in California and his family will have to wait a month until they come for a visit. Meanwhile, those of us in Indiana did celebrate last night in typical Leichty family style--a sit-down meal with as many of the family as could come, a left-over cake, a few cards, and then some table games.
I am blessed, for Dad never got to celebrate a 75th birthday with his father. My grandfather, I am told, was a fairly big man for his day. He must have been adventurous too, going west around the turn of the century from Iowa to Oregon. There, he married the daughter of one of the pioneer Amish-Mennonite settlers in Oregon and they raised eight children. Times were tough at points. Their first child, a son, died in infancy. The next three children were girls. Then came my father. By this time all of love and concern that goes into raising a family had turned toward worrying--worrying about whether each child would make it and would survive with all of the dangers of farm life. They all did. My father inherited a big share of the worrying, being now the oldest son, the one to take the place of the brother who died.
But my father was also adventurous in his own way. Encouraged by his father to get an education, he got through high school and teacher’s training before World War II hit. As a conscientious objector, he served in Civilian Public Service Camps in various locations. While in the plains, he met my mother, finishing her nurses training in Kansas. Out of that experience, he never went back to Oregon to live. Spurred on by love and the desire of both of them to complete their bachelor’s degrees, they went to Goshen College, hardly endearing themselves to the community back in Oregon who by now identified themselves as “Old Mennonites” but who viewed their brothers and sisters in the faith back in Indiana as far too liberal. My mother, too was from Mennonite background, but not the “right” kind of Mennonite. Accordingly, it seemed wise for my father to ask for his church membership letter before the bishops decided that he was no longer in full fellowship upon marriage to this “Mennonite Brethren” woman. After their honeymoon, they settled in Indiana where my father resumed his career in teaching elementary school. My father was adventurous in his own way, to be sure, but never got away from the worrying either.
So on this eve of his 75th birthday, we celebrated...and he worried. Oh yes, he was past worrying about his health and when he would die. In earlier days he was convinced that he would die young (in his 60’s) like his father. Yet, had his father had the medical attention available today, he likely would have lived much longer also. Now my father was far past the age when his father died and still not near the ripe old age when his mother died. But there were other things to worry about. Three children had come along, I being the oldest, with a brother and a sister following at two year intervals. All of us had gotten married and now had our own families for for both us and him to worry about. Each of us had a son first, with each of those sons giving Grandpa plenty to worry about. Indeed, were it not for the miracles of modern medicine, at least one of those grandsons would certainly not be alive, being born very premature and kept alive in one of those wondrous neo-natal units that now are a part of all big-city hospitals.
Probably none of his grandsons got more attention or worrying than his oldest, my son Nathan. Thus, it was somehow fitting that the left-over cake at yesterday’s birthday celebration was actually from Nathan’s graduation, just two days before. My wife, Nancy, and I decided that Nathan might never have another bigger ceremony in his life. There were many times when we wondered whether he would ever get to this ceremony, this graduation event that seems so basic to the middle-class American world which we now inhabit. There were many reasons to celebrate on that Thursday evening. It was a blessed event. Our prayers were answered in a wonderful way! Nathan had actually made it through graduation.
I am a Leichty; I inherited the tendency to worry. It must be in the genes. As someone in a more psychologically aware generation and with the faith that I have been blessed with, I have learned to relax in many ways. I have learned to trust in God through many situations.
Nowhere has that faith been more needed than in relating to my own son, Nathan, our “gift of God.” My father has shared in the joy and the pain along the way in his own special way. It was quite a blow for both of my parents to be caring for 3-year-old Nathan and his baby sister and for Nancy and me to come home from a consultation with the child psychiatrist who had evaluated Nathan earlier. “You should consider your son as a problem child....He has possible brain damage...” We were almost too numb to think about it; it was almost a relief to know something about why our son was so delayed in his development. It was hard to share the news with the grandparents. Now there really was something to worry about. At the same time, the bond between Nathan and his grandfather was probably sealed at that moment. Worry always meant love, a special love. Always one to cheer the underdog, Grandpa became a special person for Nathan even after we moved first to Chicago and then to a suburb of Philadelphia.
By then there was a whole family to worry about, doing pastoral ministry in the heart of the city. It was not exactly the friendliest of environments to begin with, but knowing that we had little money and a special-needs son, it was hard to see his two grandchildren move so far away. But there were other grandchildren coming along as well and a way was found to spend more time with them. After his retirement, the visits once or twice a year were always eagerly anticipated for all of us, whether in Pennsylvania or Indiana or, as was the case for my brother and family, in California.
There were plenty of adventures along the way for all of us, but probably no more adventurous year than the 1990-91 school year. It was that year that Dad was persuaded to come out of retirement and become an interim principal in a Christian school not far from us in Pennsylvania. It was the year I began one of the biggest adventures of my life, building a new church out of three small ethnically diverse churches. Before the year was half over, my role in the future of that church was already being called into question.
It was also the year that we finally discovered the cause of Nathan’s seemingly unique disabilities. The new pediatrician sent Nathan to her neurologist friend in Philadelphia. After examining Nathan and asking us multitudes of questions, he sent his medical students scurrying for a special textbook and sat them down for an explanation. A genetic test confirmed it. Nathan had Fragile X Syndrome, a little-known condition that nevertheless was already considered the leading inherited cause of mental retardation. Grandpa was one of the first to know. He was also there as the new diagnosis spurred more doctors than we care to count into their own pet theories of how to treat this increasingly problematic child. Grandpa was around as the school year deteriorated for Nathan. He was there as Nathan was turned from a moderately hyperactive youngster into a zombie as we reluctantly permitted experiments with a new medication. My Dad was there for me as I struggled to make sense of the calls to seemingly abandon the church for which I more than any other human being was responsible for creating. It was an awful year. It was a year for worrying. But it was a year for love and concern expressed in the little actions that made it bearable. When nobody else could handle Nathan so that his parents could regain their sanity, Grandpa could. His presence for that one year alone was providential; there is no other way to explain it.
Ending up in Indiana a year later, just an hour and a quarter away seemed providential as well. The visits could be more frequent; the ties could become stronger. Yet, here we were in a situation strangely reminiscent of the one six years earlier. In February, I finally saw the writing on the wall and announced my resignation from the pastorate I had assumed less than five years earlier. I have struggled on that edge between worry (out of love, I hope) and trust in God. As spring arrived, we knew the great day was approaching. At age 19, Nathan was ready to graduate from high school. Despite being in special education all of these years, he was on track to receive a regular diploma from a public high school. It also appeared that a job was opening up in the community for Nathan. It was an exciting adventure, but in the middle of it all was the uncertainty about what I was going to do for a job and how that would affect the whole family.
So, of course, there was worrying. Most of my worry, shared by my wife, Nancy, revolved around getting Nathan through graduation. Nathan didn’t want to graduate. Being the focus of attention even for a brief moment in big crowd in a big echoey building was close to the epitome of torture for this sensory-challenged young man. To leave the familiarity of school and the familiar teachers, friends, and routines was more than Nathan could fathom. Throughout the year, we worked gradually to introduce the concept of what graduation would mean and how he could respond appropriately. It seemed to be working; he seemed to accept it to some degree, but not without the usual signs of anxiety, including emotional outbursts, throwing away school assignments, and toiletting accidents.
Two days before graduation, Nathan came home, obviously impressed by his teacher on the importance of doing a particular assignment and of studying for his last spelling test. He admitted that he had already started the assignment, but had crumpled it up and thrown it in the wastebasket. He reported that his teacher, whom we knew to be well aware of his anxiety but nevertheless firm in her expectations, had said that if he didn’t do the assignment and pass the spelling test, he might fail and not be able to graduate. I immediately recognized that this was probably simply a ploy to get him to finish out the year, but also thought that this probably was not the right approach for Nathan. Nevertheless, I made sure he did the assignment, and just before bedtime, we went over the spelling words, much to Nathan’s consternation.
The next evening as we celebrated his last day of school with a meal out, he announced in the middle of the meal that he had crumpled up his paper, failed his spelling test, and now he didn’t have to graduate and we could cancel the party we had planned for him. Resisting the urge to panic, we assured him that if there was any problem, his teacher would have called us and that indeed he would go through graduation and the party. It certainly set us up for a day of worrying, though. All along, we had these horrible fantasies of what Nathan might do at graduation. Would he understand how to stay in line, marching in and out and up to the front at the right time? His teacher set him up to be out of alphabetical order with a classmate by his side. She also found us as a family special seating nearby and she herself stood by the doorway through the whole ceremony. Would he keep his graduation cap on? We had him practice wearing it as he watched his favorite nightly news show. Would he shake hands appropriately with the principal and other dignitaries while receiving his diploma. We practiced handshakes, emphasized the importance of respect for both the people and the diploma. Would the timing of his Ritalin dosage coincide with his greatest need for controlling his anxiety? We had him take it the last thing out the door before leaving for the graduation ceremony. Would he follow through with all of the things he had learned in the morning rehearsal? I went and sat through the rehearsal myself to reinforce what was said. Most of all, we worried about whether something unusual and upsetting would tip the level of anxiety toward some kind of awful scene, anything from throwing something to slapping the principal in the face to destroying some symbol of this momentous event? We could only be there with eye contact and gestures of support and affirmation. And we could pray. All day, I did the Leichty thing; I worried. I’ll admit it. But like my father, it was worrying out of love. All of us so much wanted the day to be an affirmation of Nathan and his tremendous accomplishment against all odds of actually graduating from high school. So I also prayed. I prayed for Nathan. I prayed that the day be a positive and memorable one for him. I prayed that I might handle anything that came up with lots of love.
I basically took the day off from work to help make it happen. So did Nancy. As it turned out, all the time was needed. After the morning rehearsal, we discovered some school obligations he had forgotten to take care of. So, as we had so often done when he left assignments in his locker, we got in the car and headed off, this one final time, to Snider High School. There we encountered his teacher who had just been wondering who it was that didn’t turn in the lock on their locker and not the least bit surprised to discover it was Nathan. When I wondered aloud whether he had given her a hard time the day before, she just grinned and chalked it up to “senioritis.” She said that Nathan had taken back her invitation to his party saying it was canceled and he wasn’t going to graduate. Later he apologized, she said. She assured us again of her presence in the evening, and holding back the emotion, I thanked her.
Getting Nathan cleaned up and prepared for the evening took most of the rest of the afternoon, as Nancy focused on last minute party arrangements which didn’t get her home until a half hour from the time we were to leave. A quick supper and change of clothes, and we were off to the Allen County Memorial Coliseum, the site of graduation exercises. Ms. A. was on the spot as I handed Nathan over to her care after getting his gown on and his tie and hat adjusted. There was still an hour left before the ceremony. We found our parents who were to sit with us on the coliseum floor. There we were straight out from Nathan’s row, six of us worrying and yet waiting to rejoice.
As the graduation march began, the tears welled up in my eyes. Nathan eyed us as he entered the arena and walked in good style as the music continued. Next, he got his cap off for the national anthem and then back on. During the opening speeches, we could see him fidgeting, but seemingly coping and doing well, his friend by his side. Finally, the moment arrived for his row to stand to go up for their diplomas. As he stood awaiting his turn, he looked at us again and gave us discreet thumbs up sign. We knew it would be fine. As the schools’ head counselor who had helped us get through some difficult situations called out, “Nathan Paul Leichty,” he marched across, shook hands with the principal, turned the corner and shook hands with the deputy superintendent, and then (an added bonus as far as we were concerned) actually moved his tassel as he made his way back to the seat. Only the solemn instructions from the assistant principal about not cheering individual students kept us quiet. The tears of joy welled up inside of us, but we kept it together. He had done it!
Then as we got our chance to clap vigorously for the whole class, our moment of terror struck. Despite all of the threats and warnings to the class throughout the last months and at the rehearsal in the morning, a few students couldn’t resist creating a scene. Graduation hats started flying into the air in all directions. Security guards with walkie-talkies in hand descended onto the scene. I panicked to think that Nathan might surely freak out and do something that would cause special attention. Why, oh why, did a few students have to disrupt our proudest moment, Nathan’s shining hour? Amidst the din, we searched the sea of black to see how Nathan was handling it. Remarkably, he kept his composure, the assistant principal restored order, and we finally breathed again.
The next worry was whether his teacher would move from the opposite doorway around the arena to greet him when he marched out. We had been assured by her that she would do it; otherwise, she had joked, we might never find him again. We knew that any moments of celebratory chaos without the calming presence of someone who knew him well would be too much for Nathan. This was most important, so that he didn’t panic amidst the crowd and lose control. Remarkably, Nancy was more upset about the teacher not moving than I was. Ms. A. knew just what she was doing. When the last student was out, Nancy and I rushed for the door as fast as proper decorum would permit. There we found Nathan, Ms. A. and his two special education classmates who had also graduated. I barely managed to control my tears so as not to upset Nathan, gave him a big hug and assured him how proud we were of him. He was very attuned to my emotions, and was about to cry himself. We held it together. It was a truly memorable moment!
The party was also memorable. Nancy had prepared well and our prayers were answered with key insights on just what to do to make it a good evening for Nathan. Fearing that he would feel cramped by all the people, we had the party in the spacious church basement rather than our small home. Fearing that Nathan would try to escape all of the people and run upstairs to watch TV, we set him at his own moon-shaped table, with swivel chair and his sister Renita’s CD-player. He could play the disc jockey for the party, giving him something to occupy the time and helping him to feel that he had his own safe space. At the same time, people were able to approach him and offer congratulations.
We bought two cakes for the occasion, a two-for-one deal at the bakery. One of them had his senior picture on it, probably the nicest picture we have of him. Everyone remarked how unique it was to have frosting sprayed onto the cake direct from a computer-scanned image showing Nathan at his best. As it turned out, the cake wasn’t needed; the other one would have sufficed. So, two days later, we stuck a few candles on it and sang “Happy Birthday” as we celebrated my Dad’s birthday.
Mercifully, and perhaps fittingly, there was one more thing to worry about at the party. All week, as we prepared for Nathan’s graduation, we also waited for a phone call that would offer me an interview for what seemed like the perfect job after Fort Wayne, something that would actually cause us to move. It never came. Instead, an e-mail message on the morning after graduation informed me that I would not be called for an interview. In all of the nervousness leading up to graduation I don’t know if I could have handled it the day before. So I gave thanks to God for the timing.
But, of course, as we celebrated his birthday, my dad had another thing to worry about. Dad did crack a few jokes; he really tried. However, it was obvious that he was worried. He was worried about his oldest son and his family. He was worried, because the job that seemed so promising a week earlier has now all but evaporated and there are no good prospects on the horizon, only resumes “out there” in somebody’s office.
It is Sunday, morning, the actual day on which, 75 years ago, this saga of worry and love began. By now, I struggle again with the feelings that I don’t fit anywhere. Yes, I suppose I can land a job doing something or another. I suppose that job could be in Fort Wayne, even though I have now felt the urge to leave and start afresh elsewhere. But the feelings of inadequacy, of failure, of concern, and even worry are strong.
I’m preaching this morning on success and failure, the dual outcomes of this life of adventure. The bottom line is faith. I’m preaching to myself, for I certainly need faith right now. “We walk by faith, not by sight,” says the apostle Paul. Maybe that is the point where love and worry come together. For overshadowing and undergirding these four generations of Leichty sons has been a Heavenly Father who is in control, who brings us through even the toughest of times, and who promises to be there in love for whatever adventures the future holds.
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