On this Father’s Day I remember my Father, John Lovett. He was born in 1898. He grew up in a hard a poor farm. When he was a little boy his ears ruptured and his family lived way out in the country and had no way to get to a Doctor. So their home remedies did not work. So my Daddy grew up with probably 90% hearing loss. I can only imagine how difficult were not only his growing up years but his whole life. Cut off. Not understanding those around him. He kept to himself most days because he could not hear. There were few if any hearing aids back then and when finally ordered hearing aids they hardly worked. They whistled all the time.
So he had a hard time communicating not only with his family but just about everybody. One heartbreaking scene I will never forget. The local Assembly of God Church (always suspect by us Baptists) advertised that a healing evangelist was coming to that church. So the night of the meeting my father told us about the service and that he hoped he would be healed that night. So he dressed in his suit and my brother, Mother and me went with him to the service. I don’t recall much of that evening but there came a time when people who needed healing would form a line some with crutches, some in wheelchairs, mothers with babies. They waited until their time came to meet the Evangelist. They came to be touched by the Evangelist. He would ask them their problem. And then he would touch their forehead and yell: “Be healed!” And almost every person in the line just collapsed as if in a trance. Ushers came forward to help those supposedly “slain in the spirit.”
When his time came he told the Evangelist he couldn’t hear and wanted to be healed. And the Evangelist touched his ears and screamed: ”Be healed." As he touched my Father’s forehead my Daddy collapsed and we were scared. This is all I remember about that service except that long winding line of sufferers wanting desperately to be healed.
After the service we asked Daddy if he could hear. “Yes,”I can hear.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. But the next day he said he could not hear quite as well and the next day he was back where he had always been. I don’t remember what happened after that. I have wondered how he felt when his hopes were dashed and his dream was shattered.
There is a religion that promises false hopes. That proclaims that God heals everybody if you stand in the line, trust the great Healer and repeat the right slogans. One of the worst things about holding out false hopes is what it does to the person who believes all things are possible. The false prophets have not gone way.
And so on this Father’s Day that sad night comes rushing back. Remarkably my Father went on. He was still Daddy. After a long hard week in the mill he would take me and my brother up the street to where the houses ended. We would walk through the woods next to the river. He would point out wild flowers and birds and wild animals and scary snakes. We didn’t say much but I didn’t think much about that dark night until years later. But here was a Father, despite whatever disappointments he may have had, he took his two boys and together they walked though the woods. Isn’t it strange the things you remember?
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
