6.6: Example Narration Essay

Please note that the following essay is in MLA format, excepting that it does not include page numbers with the author's last name and the font is in 11.5 font instead of 12 pt.

Jason Miller

Professor Berg-Reece

November 10, 2019

EG101

Oatmeal, Courage, and Macho Man

Steve Chapman once said, “Becoming a dad is one thing, being a dad is many things.” I remember standing up behind that podium at my church three years ago, shaking like the Kansas wind was going to knock me over and wondering if my dad was going to be ashamed of me because I was going to fall over or if he was going to look at me and be proud when I stumbled back to my seat. I remember that I had to pull this off but I didn’t know if I could. I remember a lot of things from that day and I remember almost nothing; for instance, I recall looking out at a sea of 600 faces and thinking I was absolutely going to puke that gray oatmeal my mom had forced me to eat when I vehemently told her I didn’t want one bite of it! That would teach her a lesson or two about force feeding her kids. I remember seeing my kid sister swinging her legs back and forth, back and forth, on the front row and thinking, “Sissy, could you just give it a rest for two minutes?” I’m surprised I didn’t just yell at her in that moment, but I couldn’t. After all, I was the ‘man of the house’ now. So, standing up in front of nearly a million and a half people and screaming at my kid sister wasn’t a good way to kick off adulthood, was it? I remember thinking, for one crazy moment, “There’s a side door, right over here on my left. I could just run away from home and never come back.” But then I also remembered, “Nope, my dad’s counting on me to stand in for him.” So, I took a deep, shuddering breath, and I opened my mouth and started talking. . .

“Thank you all for coming today as we tell my dad goodbye and as we welcome him into God’s loving arms.” Now let’s be clear. Those weren’t exactly my words, as you can probably guess, since I was 16 years old at the time. Pastor Ronnie, helped me write that opening line to help me get me started. He called it, “Priming the pump,” whatever that meant (I have yet to prime any pump). It did get the first words out of my mouth though and I didn’t puke the oatmeal, so I guess it worked. Of course, from that point on, I got choked up and totally lost it for a minute, so I was pretty much failing at the “tough-guy, taking charge” part I had planned on playing when I stood up. I also remember thinking (and yes, I realize this is totally ludicrous), “Maybe if I break out singing, ‘Macho, macho man, I want to be a macho man!’ No one will notice I’m up here bawling like a two year old.” Thank heaven I didn’t follow through on that one, because I don’t think it would have played well in a Baptist church in Winfield, KS.

There were many days I wondered just how in the name of heaven any of us would get through it without imploding like a huge bag of microwaved marshmallows, but we made it. Watching my dad go through that disease and suffer as he did was a nightmare; and of course, we can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for him. I was determined, as much as I possibly could to stand up on the day of his funeral to tell his story, not mine.

It began with him finding out at his doctor’s office. All. By. Himself. And then in he walks in the front door of our house, silently goes into his office, and sits down at his desk, taking less than ten minutes to absorb the news, before calling us all into the room. My mom had cooked one of his favorite dinners that night (the rest of us absolutely detest it to this day) and it was sitting on the dining room table getting cold; she kept saying, “Clarence, can’t this wait until we have dinner?” And he just stoically said, “Doris, we need to get together as a family and read this passage from the Bible, then we’re going to eat your wonderful stuffed green peppers and mashed potatoes and celebrate what a great cook you are.” Then the next thing we know, we’re all sitting down and without another word, he started reading us this passage from II Samuel:

For thou art my lamp, O LORD: and the LORD will lighten my darkness.30 For by thee I have run through a troop: by my God have I leaped over a wall.31 As for God, his way is perfect; the word of the LORD is tried: he is a buckler to all them that trust in him.32 For who is God, save the LORD? and who is a rock, save our God?33 God is my strength and power: and he maketh my way perfect.34 He maketh my feet like hinds' feet: and setteth me upon my high places.35 He teacheth my hands to war; so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms.36 Thou hast also given me the shield of thy salvation: and thy gentleness hath made me great.

And then, he started in with the acronym. A.L.S. Followed by Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Yup, I remember it like it was yesterday. The next three years things moved in both slow motion and fast forward, simultaneously. That sounds ludicrous, but it’s so true. And suddenly, there I was, standing there behind that pulpit, thinking I had these gigantic shoes to fill that I couldn’t begin to ever fill in my lifetime. Yet, I also knew that he had spent 16 years teaching me lessons that many sons never got to learn in 40. He taught me about sticking together when times really get tough. He taught me about standing up behind a pulpit when my knees were buckling and I was ready to puke oatmeal from the front of the altar all the way to the back of the church. I stood there that day because I wanted to, not because I had to; I stood there because my dad prepared me to stand up and count for something. The three years between the day he was diagnosed and the time that he died were really tough. In fact, they were tragic. I hate it that this happened to my dad and to my family but I’m glad we got to go through those days together. Many families would have fallen apart. We became closer as a result of what we went through and I got a chance to learn things and prepare for what was coming.

My dad’s life counted for so much more than A.L.S. It counted for his faith, his life as a Christian, his life as a father and a man and a husband. I intend to be the man I told him I would be and between the day we found out and the day he died, we had some time to “suit up and practice.” That’s what we used to call it when things were really tough. Some of the time we’d have my closest friends over and he’d gather them around his room and he’d call it “running plays.” Before he got too sick he had my closest friends come over and he talked to them in the same way he was talking to me . . . about how we were going to live our lives, how we were going to stick together, and how we were going to get through things when they got really rough.

My dad and I made a playbook and a lot of contingency plans for when I screw up and he set me up for both success and for failure. He realized I wasn’t going to win every game I ever played once he was gone but he sure put a lot of great coaches in my pathway so I wasn’t out there trying to coach myself and running into blind spots. He figured out that I’d be making mistakes and needing to forgive myself, regroup, and ask for forgiveness. I plan on going to college, falling in love, keeping my commitments and doing what is right. I intend to follow in his footsteps. I will remember him and I will tell my children about their grandfather. He will always be remembered, not because he died, but because he lived.