Saying Goodbye

My dad slipped from this life into the next on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon just as the month of August was making its entrance. My sister and I sat with him as he passed slowly into the place where mourning, crying and death are no more. With his final breath, he entered his eternal resting place. But, we stayed here; our feet grounded in a world where tears are real and death is shockingly disorienting. I remember looking out the hospital window at the low white clouds; the view of the parking lot incredibly familiar after months of sitting with him, and wondering how the world was still going on as if it were a normal Tuesday. He’d been sick for years, and we were thankful for an end to his suffering, but that thankfulness does not outweigh the heaviness that comes with grief.

My words about him have been slow to come as we have waited for the funeral and the honoring of his life. This weekend we finally laid him to rest in the Memorial Garden of my childhood church where my parents have been members for nearly 50 years. We gathered in the sanctuary where I spent every Sunday of my childhood; where I was baptized and later married; where parts of the old hallways still wind around and lead to rooms so familiar I could close my eyes and watch the memories replay in slow motion. I saw my dad around every corner and the air was thick with the goodness of roots planted so deep. Dear friends came to say goodbye and to show their love for us; ones who even remembered which pew we always sat in and filled it for us so the hole wouldn’t seem so big.

And I stood in that pulpit and said some words I wasn’t sure I’d be able to choke out. Below are the words that I shared; the ones the Lord placed on my heart and then gave me strength to say. I wanted to post them here because Dad always did love to read my blog. He’d laugh and say I got my love of English from him (right …) and that he just couldn’t figure out how I could come up so many words. Me neither, Dad. But these words, well, these are just for you.

Good morning and on behalf of my mom and my sisters and our families we would like to thank all of you for coming today to honor the life of my dad, Bruce Hogg.  My name is Leigh Sain and I am Bruce and Donna’s oldest daughter. Dad was a one of a kind and if he were here today, he would tell me to sit down and to quit being dramatic and making a production out of everything. He would insist that all we needed to do was just raise our glasses in a toast and enjoy a good laugh together and that there was no need to say all of these words. And we will do that. But- as he did for all of my life – he will have to indulge me just a bit here. Because we’ve got a few stories we need to tell. And Dad always was one to love a good story.

Now my dad was one of the hardest working people I have ever known. I never knew him to take a sick day or any more than week or two of vacation. He worked for over 30 years selling lockers and shelving for Scott Equipment company which was headquartered here in Atlanta. He sold shelving and lockers to companies, schools and places all over the Southeast. But growing up, my sisters and I never really knew what he did. We knew that at his office there was the biggest warehouse we had ever seen and that it was full of big trucks and forklifts and dirt – which much to our mother’s chagrin always seemed to cover our lovely white shoes every time we went to visit. I actually thought he drove those trucks and made the lockers. And I’m not gonna lie, It was a little disappointing to learn that he only sold them.

Being a salesman though was dad’s calling. He had the gift of gab and could talk to anyone and tell a story about anything. This was great until I had little boys running around and from the other room, I would hear my dad begin a sentence with “let me tell you a story about this time when I was in college…”  I knew I had to quickly intervene. Dad are we sure this is appropriate for a 10 year old?? My boys always had a lot of questions after G-daddy told a story.

Even in his final days as he endured long stays at the hospital – he kept the nurses laughing with is crazy comments and stories. They would always tell us, “your dad, he’s a funny one!”  I often wonder what kinds of stories he told them when we weren’t around.

But the true story that his life told was one of hard work for those he loved. He never quit working to make sure that we were taken care of. And I think that of all the work he did in his life, raising three girls was probably the hardest.

We were born only three years apart and the three of us were – and probably still are quite a force to be reckoned with. He was always outnumbered and no matter how hard he tried. And he did try. He never did learn the art of putting hair in a ponytail. When we were little, Mom taught him how to blow dry all of our hair and he would do this on Saturday night with the tunes of Hee-haw blaring into the den as he spent hours with a brush and blow dryer — most likely wondering how in the world he became a one man salon. Once our hair was dry though he’d say, Go see your mother that’s as much as I can do. Raising girls is a lot of hard work.

And we needed our hair to look good because on Sundays we came here; to church. Every Sunday of our growing up years was spent right over there in that pew by the window. Furman Bisher and his family seated in front of us and Mr. and Mrs. Hicks behind us. But dad was rarely ever sitting with us. He was hard at work ushering or running the crazy old tape recorder system back there behind that wall or calling Dr. Thorington on the weird phone that used to be up here. Or cooking breakfast. Back in the day, a full breakfast was served here at at 9am every Sunday. Eggs, grits, sausage, pancakes; the whole deal. And cooking breakfast at Northwest was one of Dad’s claim to fame around here. He was trained by the one and only Doug Cook.  And he made sure that all of us girls learned how to do it too.

I have a very specific memory of an early Sunday morning with my sisters and me all dressed in our Sunday best “helping” Mom and Dad crack the eggs into the enormous pot over there in the old kitchen. We wanted to see what 6 dozen eggs looked like in that pot; so one girl pulled one way, another girl another way and it didn’t long before we saw what 6 dozen eggs looked like all over the us and the kitchen. I can’t repeat what dad said when that happened. It was not church appropriate language. But somehow or another he and mom got it cleaned up and breakfast was served. I know that he was always thankful for all of the “help” that my sisters and I provided. Raising girls is a lot of hard work.

We were a part of a group of dads and daughters here at Northwest known as the Indian Princesses. I do realize that that is really not politically correct — but it was 1982. It was a whole thing—we had Indian names, t-shirts and the whole deal. A regular father daughter group. All of the dad’s in the group had one daughter – and our dad, well he had three. This made for some interesting camping trips, water skiing lessons and Callaway Garden excursions. Every dad would do his thing with his one sweet daughter and my dad had a regular three-ring circus he was chasing around all while trying to figure out how to get our hair in a ponytail. He was always thankful when one of the other dads would pitch in to help with us. Because they knew it too –-raising girls is a lot of hard work.

In the book of Colossians, Paul writes to the people at the church in Colossae to encourage them in the work that they are doing. In chapter 3 he writes this, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart as if working for the Lord and not for man.” There is no truer statement about Dad than that. He worked at it all with all of his heart. His life’s work was taking care of us.

He did sell lockers, but he built a life. He also built swing sets in the bitter cold of Christmas Eve night for his girls, taught us to ride bikes, taught my sisters how to swing bats and shoot baskets, and when he realized I’d never be able to do any of that, he learned to endure  my ballet costumes, drama productions and chorus concerts. He ran church finance meetings, organized ushers and made sure the pastor remembered to turn his microphone each week. He mowed the lawn, grew lots of vegetables in the garden, told stories and toasted the neighbors over the fence as they cooked out on the grill on the weekends. He loved my mom, was always amazed by all of his grandkids and he loved us, his girls.

Oswald Chambers, Scottish preacher and evangelist sums it up best when he writes this, ““It is ingrained in us that we have to do exceptional things for God – but we do not. Our call is actually to be exceptional in the ordinary things of life, on ordinary streets, loving ordinary people.” This is how the Lord calls us to live. Because the truth of it all is this. All of our hard work is only redeemed through the saving grace of the work that Jesus did for us on the cross. Otherwise it is all for nothing and none of it matters. So we do the best we can with the time that we have been given and we hand it all over to the Lord.

The legacy Dad leaves behind is one of hard work done with all of his heart. Ordinary life lived with extraordinary love. So dad, well done good and faithful servant – cheers to you. You can rest easy now. You did good work.

Amen.

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people and he will dwell with them. They will be his people and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who is seated on throne said, “I am making everything new” (Revelation 21:1-5).