Home at Last

Rodney D Stortz
December 23 1949 - March 9 2003

Seven years ago today, my dad went home.

This last weekend my husband and I attended a Mission's Banquet at a church where my dad used to be the Pastor. I was tired and by the end of the evening was more than ready to go home. Just as I was heading out the door, I felt a tug on my arm. Reluctantly, I turned around to meet a teary-eyed woman.

“Katie, you probably don’t remember me. The last time I saw you, you were about five years old. But I wanted to let you know that your dad led me to the Lord. He also married my husband and me,” at which time she turned to point out a man that I recognized from years back.

This short encounter warmed my heart in a way like nothing else does. And this sort of encounter happens often, in two different ways.

First, like many others, my paths cross several times during the year with people who remember me as a child. They remember me running around our church sanctuary. They remember me sneaking into the basement and finishing off the bread and grape juice from communion. I run into people who remember that crayons and a whole lot of gum were the only ways I could make it through a sermon. People who remember that in 5^th grade I suggested we put a leadership team in place for our children’s church. And I elected myself president. I also run into people who remember my sister’s and I playing “nobody can see us” around the church. A game that had a clear and definite objective – sneak into the sanctuary while the Korean church (who used our sanctuary in the afternoons) had their services. The first one to be “seen” was out. Somehow I always pulled out a win.

And yes, these people still, somewhat surprisingly, extend a hand or even a hug. In fact, as I sat down at the Missions Banquet Saturday evening, I extended my hand to greet an elderly couple sitting with us. In return she put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “It’s so good to see you, Katie! I was figuring out that I have lived through four generations of the Stortz family.”

I smiled (with what some have referred to as my “pastorly-wife smile”) and asked her to kindly remind me who she was. Still, I didn’t recognize the name, the face, or even the stories, but her sweet memories of my family made me smile. I just hoped she didn’t remember things like “nobody can see us.” However, I became curiously suspicious that she remembered these sort of on goings when she said: “My how you’ve grown and matured.”

But another part of this encounter happens equally as often - encounters with dear people who were touched by my dad. Most often their stories are about how his passion and love for the Lord affected their own spiritual journeys. I hear stories about how the radio program, Oaks of Righteousness, made an impact in one way or another. In fact, during the last visit I had to the ER, the nurse recognized the name on my license (I have taken Stortz as my middle name) and began what seemed like a long story about a question that she had answered from my father through the radio program. I don’t remember the details; I just remember my pain.

My relationship with my dad was special. As public of a figure as he was, I always felt like my family had our fun little secret….what dad was really like.

When I was in Jr. High, I had a friend ask me this question: “Just how long does your dad pray at the dinner table?” I’m sure she imagined us at home, on our knees, reciting the Lord’s Prayer, the Nicene Creed, and other corporate confessions. Of course, this wasn’t what it was really like. Here is what I remember most about my dad:

Dad was one of the most optimistic people I have ever known. When I’d be up late studying for a test, dad was the one who would enter my room and say, “you know, in twenty years, you’ll never remember the grade.” And he was right.

Dad was funny. He was very funny. His dry sense of humor came out mostly around his family. And Dad had a unique way of just saying it like it was. There was no beating around the bush with him. On my wedding day, dad drove me to the church and we had one of our “last” father to daughter talks: “Honey, just remember, you must always forgive the man [yes, he referred to Chris as “the man”]. He’s going to totally screw up. So start forgiving now.” I can laugh knowing that my Dad loved Chris as much as I do.

Dad was a character. He would take pictures of the new members in our church, print them out, and have me quiz him in the car. If he got one wrong, we had to start all over. Needless to say, I knew every cottin’-pickin’ name in our church.

Dad was a hard-worker. He never stopped. He really never stopped. He was late to bed and early to rise. I would find him in the mornings on his knees in his office praying for us and for the church. He would, however, slip in the occasional 30 second nap at stop lights. Friends, strange as it was, this memory is nothing but factual: We’d hit a stoplight. Dad would say “wake me up when it’s green,” put his seat back, and immediately he’d be out.

But of all the memories I have of my dad growing up and of all the lessons he taught me, there are two that will remain imbedded in my heart: His love for the Lord and His love for the Church.

In fact, he would be nothing short of embarrassed by all the attention I have given him in this little blog. He wanted nothing more than his life to point others to Christ. At one point during his three year battle with cancer, he took a walk outside and began praying. He recorded a prayer in his book, A Diary of A Cancer, asking God that if the end of his earthly life would mean further spiritual growth for his family and loved ones, then he would be grateful.

My dad and I were close and we talked about everything from sports to boys to politics. I knew with everything in my how much my Dad loved me, but I also knew I was not everything to him. Jesus was. He could not have left me with a better memory of someone who truly lived and breathed Jesus.

Dad also loved the church. Oh how he loved to be with God’s people in God’s house. He loved to worship and he loved to plan worship. This heart for Christ’s Bride affected me. I saw the delight in his heart for the ministries in the local church and it affected me. I also watched as my dad seized any and every opportunity to share the gospel – even with the cop who was writing out his ticket. Yep, dad led people to the Lord in strange but God-ordained circumstances. And all this affected me. It was through his example that the Lord brought me to Himself.

I am sitting writing this while my daughter has a piano lesson, from the same teacher who taught me. I’m sitting on the same couch where my dad used to sit and work on his sermons during my piano lessons. From one generation to the next, God is faithful. Lord, I thank you for the fifty-three years you gave my father and I thank you for the tremendous influence he had in my life. May we all strive to live each day in faithful obedience to our Savior, and may our eyes be consumed not with the earthly things that surround us, but by that which awaits us….our glorious and eternal home.