A Hero’s Birthday

It was a dark, rainy night on Third Street. The drumroll of the rain against the roof was only interrupted by the occasional sound of heavy breathing in the main bedroom. In Washington, D.C., the White House focused its attention on the commotion surrounding the war, celebrating the resignation of the Fascist dictator Benito Mussolini and the bombing of Hamburg by British forces. Yet in the small town of Canton, MO, in this white house, there was a different celebration. The sound of a newborn baby filled the air as Golda welcomed her sixth child into the world.

The first decision the new mother had to make was what to name the child. With his older brothers tagged Harry J Kenneth and Harold Aaron, I imagine that she must have wanted to break from a pattern. Rumor has it she borrowed the first name from Mr. Peebles, a local convenience store owner (I may be misspelling his name). Where the middle name came from I don’t know. Regardless, on July 28, 1943 Weldon Herschell Williams would be the sixth child of Harry and Golda Williams. It wouldn’t be until 20 years later that I would meet him, although for obvious reasons, I don’t remember that first encounter. Since that day he has indelibly shaped my life as well as others.

As I acknowledge my father’s birthday I have been reflecting upon his life and his impact on the lives of those who have crossed his path. As a young man, he watched over his youngest brother, my Uncle Larry, the two of them like “peas in a pod”. I often wondered why. Close proximity in age must have had a lot to do with it. Uncle Larry was three years younger than my father. Harold, the next brother, was five years older and most likely didn’t have a lot of time for the littlest one. However, some of it must have been the result of losing their father at a young age. My grandfather Harry died when my father was 13 and my uncle was 10. Yet, I think it was more so who my father is. My father will tell you that he felt responsible for Larry. The two of them would become inseparable. They would do everything together, even get married, with my uncle and aunt getting married the day after my parents. Our two families would be tightly knit together, so much so that now when we plan family reunions, it is the responsibility of each family to sponsor a year. All of the older siblings’ families have a reunion year to themselves. Weldon and Larry’s families, to this day, share the year.

My father, whom my grandfather and great-uncle Orville affectionately called “Sparky” is and was always busy. At a young age he worked (I’ve marveled at some of the jobs he had), owned his first car at 14, and dealt with difficulties head-on (legend has it he was the one who found Uncle Orville after he died). With his older brother Harold following in Harry’s footsteps and going off to the Air Force, my father became the “man of the house” at 16, and I believe he relished that responsibility. Every time we visited my grandmother in Canton my father always fixed something around the house for his mother. I remember visiting my grandmother after she moved to Labelle and her mentioning she wanted a tree out front. My father packed us boys up and we drove into the country, found a tree (silver maple), dug it up and planted it for my grandmother in her front yard. Who does that? That’s who he is…

For those of you who do not know, my father was supposed to be the first college graduate. The story is told of him going to the Air Force recruiting office to sign up. My grandmother caught wind of it (I believe the recruiter called her) and went down to the center and stopped him in his tracks. She scolded him and informed my father then that he was supposed to go to college. Obediently, he attended Culver-Stockton College where he played basketball. Soon, however, he would marry my mother, have my sister, and his instinct to “take care of his business” would kick in and he would drop out of school and find more gainful employment. Yet, the impact my grandmother had on him would not be lost. From early childhood my Father stressed education in our family. He helped us with our schoolwork and pushed us to read, requiring that we go to the library everyday in the summer while other kids were outside playing. It was understood that we were going to college. Because of his influence (and if you ask my mom it was strictly his), all of his children and – when his youngest grandchild Evan finishes up at Iowa State – all of his grandchildren, will have college degrees. And if you ask him, this is his greatest legacy.

Yet, I would propose to you that it is not.

My father’s greatest legacy are the many lives that have been impacted by his love and leadership. I have had the privilege of not only being a recipient, but more importantly having witnessed it first hand. I have seen him open the doors of our home to many family members who had lost their way or needed someplace to gain a foothold when their lives were in turmoil. At the time I was too young and immature to understand what my father was doing. Troubled teens or adults looking for new starts found their way to our home. My father, with the partnership of my mother, were there for them. Everyone knew they could go to Uncle Weldon and Aunt Beanie. If their parents didn’t understand them, Uncle Weldon and Aunt Beanie would. If they needed a fresh start to break from the past, Uncle Weldon and Aunt Beanie could help. If they had no place else to turn, Uncle Weldon and Aunt Beanie would be there. This did not stop with cousins, but even with my nephews, nieces and children, their Papa and Granny are there. The anchor of my family has been my father. His family first attitude has resulted in a legacy of love that will stand the test to time. He has impacted every life that has crossed his path. He has been a protector, provider, counselor, companion, friend and confidante.

Today is my father’s birthday. He celebrates 72 years of impacting lives. I have many stories that I can relay of how he has made a difference to those who love him. Yet, I would rather leave that to others. I think it is important for people to let folks know what they think about those who have aided them in their journey. How do we say it, “Give them their roses while they can smell them.” What resonates with my soul today is a conversation I had with my father 22 years ago when we were preparing for his 50th birthday party. I asked him what was his favorite Bible verse. He directed me to Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians where Paul says,

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.
2 Corinthians 1:3-7

This verse epitomizes my father’s life. My father’s selfless love for us and our family has resulted in our personal transformation. He has embraced the ideal of pouring himself into others in order that their lives might be better and that they may learn from his life. I can attest to the fact that I am a better son, brother, husband, father and man because of him. I want to declare today to the world how much I love this man. I am so proud not only to be his son but also to carry his good name.

Dad, you are my hero.

Happy birthday!