Life, Dirt, Dust and Jesus – Part 2 – by Ken Williams

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What I learned from dad and how I applied his lessons.

Dad died April 17, 1982. His body was buried in the dirt, has returned to the dust he came from, and his bones are resting in his grave in the Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Shortly before he died, he predicted he would die soon after he turned 82, like his parents before him. I heard him but was reluctant to let him go and reminded him that Nancy was pregnant, and his youngest grandchild would be born in four months. He was confident, sensing Jesus’ gift of peace but assured me he would die before this grandson would breathe his breath of life.

Grandson?

I asked dad why he thought our third child was going to be a boy. This was 1982 and we didn’t know the gender of our child. He said, “You will see, Kenny.” I replied, “Dad, you’re a mathematician and decent gambler, the odds are 50/50 here.” He replied, “Nancy’s child is a boy! You will see.” Michael Edward Williams was born August 13, 1982. Did Jesus tell him these things? I don’t know but dad was not worried or afraid, and he was right!

Dad’s college major in advanced calculus opened the doors for employment as an accountant, a math teacher, a short-term politician in his community in Kansas, and a gambler. He was an entrepreneur and played the odds in creating businesses. His poker face and knowledge of the odds enabled him to win at the poker table. He also made a little money at the Santa Anita Racetrack in Arcadia, California. He studied the Los Angeles Times weekly reviews of winning jockeys and horses. His favorite sport was betting on the surreys.

I was nine or ten when I tagged along with dad visiting the beautiful Santa Anita racetrack. We visited the stalls where the air was heavy with horse manure and hay. This added to the environment I learned to love. Highly spirited, well-groomed horses were fascinating. I loved them! The jockey’s colorful costumes, the royal regalia of various people such as the bugler with his elongated brass horn, the wealthy owners of the thoroughbreds, dressed as royals, all fascinated me. Dad was dressed in khakis and his work boots. I wore my Levis and tea-shirt. We stood by the fence while all the elevated box seat people sat behind us with our fellow commoners. Neither of us cared. Dad won sufficiently to cover the day’s expenses, including the aromatic hotdogs covered with relish, onions, and mustard, and, of course, the ice-cream cones. We enjoyed these outings and that’s all that mattered.

Dad love animals.

During the 18^th and 19^th centuries our line of Williams survived by working in the dirt as common laborers and small farm owners. Dad grew up with this. He loved the dirt, and he loved animals. He had a dream of owning some dirt and his own farm. During the Roaring 20s he earned an associate’s degree at a Junior College, worked hard, and saved his money. In the late 1920s he invested his savings of $16,000.00 in a Herford cattle ranch near Liberty Kansas.

When I was nine or ten, dad told me about his best friend, a German Shepherd. They lived next to a farmer that raised sheep. One day his neighbor came to dad and accused dad’s dog of killing one of his sheep. Both men were working long hours to provide for their animals and had little time to investigate the allegation. Dad defended his dog, but his neighbor insisted that the dog could not be trusted after tasting blood. Dad gave his neighbor the benefit of the doubt and reluctantly shot his dog. Indignantly, I interrupted my dad’s story and asked him why he didn’t just tie the dog up. Dad said he couldn’t guarantee that his dog would not get loose and kill another animal. What dad told me next broke both our hearts. Two days after shooting his dog his neighbor reported another sheep was killed, and they spotted the wolf that did it. My child’s mind and heart were too wounded to see my poker-faced father’s sorrow, his love for his dog.

He later told me about the Great Dust Bowl destroying his farm, creating a famine. He shared that he took the last of his savings to pay cattle ranchers in Texas to accept and feed his cattle. He paid the shipping fees as well. Dad put the wellbeing of these animals ahead of his own needs. He was 6’ 2” and weighed 135 lbs. He was starving to death. I have kept these memories but only now that I’m elderly see my father for the man God made him to be.

What I learned from dad and how I applied his lessons will be continued in later blogs.

Ken and Nancy Williams served for some 25 years in pastoral ministry, and then almost another 20 years serving and mentoring other pastors.  With the heart of a pastor Ken continues to write and blog from upstate New York where he and Nancy live close to their grandchildren.