In the days right after my dad died we found an expression of his life on the floor of his closet: Half a dozen pairs of shoes lined up in the order of their age, laces methodically tucked inside. He catered to the same style, with the oldest shoes relegated to leisure wear (does a shopping trip to Brookstone count?) and the newest to preaching appointments. Travel and office shoes sat neatly in between. I know, because once when I complained that I felt tacky when I went to pastors' wives meetings he explained how he organized his wardrobe to save his best clothes for the most important occasions.
He polished all his shoes to a high gloss every Friday afternoon he was home. When he traveled, he packed an extra pair in a green plaid seersucker bag I handmade for him when I was eight. A white shoe string closed the bag tightly, safely. Bumpy, green embroidery thread identified the bag with "DHB"--I guess to make sure no one would mistake his shoes for theirs. No shoe was safer than when tied in his shoe bag, tucked tightly into the same spot in a suitcase that dangled with tags with his trademark handwriting: David H. Baasch, 2844 Shanandale Drive, Silver Spring, Maryland, USA. (Before the days of zip codes...)
I don't know if at his death Mommy sent his shoes to Goodwill, the local community service center or the GC janitor's family he'd befriended. But I guess after he was gone it doesn't matter who wore them. Because he had already walked the paths here at the Central University of Sao Paulo/Engenheiro Coelho, where Larry and I are studying for three weeks in preparation for our move.
In 1983, when the university was established, Daddy was an associate secretary for the Inter-American and South American Divisions. This part of the world was his ministry, his burden. What an associate secretary does is just a small sliver of all that happens in the network of Adventist institutions and organization, and most of it has to do with paperwork and editing, recruiting and processing. But his footprints are here with the people and countries he loved.
And now I'm here too, following him.
As part of our journey to Beirut, Larry and I have come here to prepare for our new world. A new culture. A new way of living and working and appreciating. For three weeks we'll take in lectures, group discussions, reading, field trips--and who knows what else--to help prepare us for the transition. We are already grateful for the opportunity to set our hearts toward this adventure--and it hasn't even begun!
I'm personally relieved for the chance to get away from the lists of things to do, the appointments, and the goodbyes so we can take time to consider what we're undertaking. This journey is both exciting and sobering for our entire family; we need the best support through the process. I feel I'll be reaping during these three weeks the benefits of what concerned Daddy the most about his work: The precious families he sent out.
I heard him worry about workers who had to leave their teenagers stateside; he knew what his invitation was costing "his" families. I saw him cry for the family of the bush pilot who flew a plane into a foggy mountainside; he'd recruited and assigned a worker to a high-risk mission. He told us the story, his voice choking, of the mother who died in childbirth because she couldn't get proper medical care in time; there should've been funds available for her to be airlifted.
In 1966, the year Daddy began his work as an associate secretary of the General Conference, the Institute of World Missions was formed at Andrews University in Berrien Springs. Even at that time, I knew the Institute was to help prepare families for life in a different culture far away from home. I was proud of what Daddy did.
I remember him coming to Berrien while we were in the seminary and spending time with the families he'd recruited. I remember attending a service with him at PMC where he challenged the group attending one of the institutes. I mostly remember, though, that he always left us his per-diem. He usually hid the cash in a book from our little library, with clues left on the kitchen table, "Look on page 129 of your Sears Catalog."
If he generously invested himself in us, he also invested himself in the very experience Larry and I are enjoying here in Brazil. He never knew what our family would need. He never knew we would benefit. He never knew we would follow the focus of his life. But he gave...and we're receiving!
Today is the 26th anniversary of his memorial service. Sixty-three is too young to die. But it's not too short to be a powerful influence for a long, long time. His footprints are still pressed into the red soil of Brazil and countless other countries of the Americas.
His life is still my blessing.
He polished all his shoes to a high gloss every Friday afternoon he was home. When he traveled, he packed an extra pair in a green plaid seersucker bag I handmade for him when I was eight. A white shoe string closed the bag tightly, safely. Bumpy, green embroidery thread identified the bag with "DHB"--I guess to make sure no one would mistake his shoes for theirs. No shoe was safer than when tied in his shoe bag, tucked tightly into the same spot in a suitcase that dangled with tags with his trademark handwriting: David H. Baasch, 2844 Shanandale Drive, Silver Spring, Maryland, USA. (Before the days of zip codes...)
I don't know if at his death Mommy sent his shoes to Goodwill, the local community service center or the GC janitor's family he'd befriended. But I guess after he was gone it doesn't matter who wore them. Because he had already walked the paths here at the Central University of Sao Paulo/Engenheiro Coelho, where Larry and I are studying for three weeks in preparation for our move.
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| Mom & Dad Baasch during our family reunion Christmas 1985 in Vermont |
And now I'm here too, following him.
As part of our journey to Beirut, Larry and I have come here to prepare for our new world. A new culture. A new way of living and working and appreciating. For three weeks we'll take in lectures, group discussions, reading, field trips--and who knows what else--to help prepare us for the transition. We are already grateful for the opportunity to set our hearts toward this adventure--and it hasn't even begun!
I'm personally relieved for the chance to get away from the lists of things to do, the appointments, and the goodbyes so we can take time to consider what we're undertaking. This journey is both exciting and sobering for our entire family; we need the best support through the process. I feel I'll be reaping during these three weeks the benefits of what concerned Daddy the most about his work: The precious families he sent out.
I heard him worry about workers who had to leave their teenagers stateside; he knew what his invitation was costing "his" families. I saw him cry for the family of the bush pilot who flew a plane into a foggy mountainside; he'd recruited and assigned a worker to a high-risk mission. He told us the story, his voice choking, of the mother who died in childbirth because she couldn't get proper medical care in time; there should've been funds available for her to be airlifted.
In 1966, the year Daddy began his work as an associate secretary of the General Conference, the Institute of World Missions was formed at Andrews University in Berrien Springs. Even at that time, I knew the Institute was to help prepare families for life in a different culture far away from home. I was proud of what Daddy did.
I remember him coming to Berrien while we were in the seminary and spending time with the families he'd recruited. I remember attending a service with him at PMC where he challenged the group attending one of the institutes. I mostly remember, though, that he always left us his per-diem. He usually hid the cash in a book from our little library, with clues left on the kitchen table, "Look on page 129 of your Sears Catalog."
If he generously invested himself in us, he also invested himself in the very experience Larry and I are enjoying here in Brazil. He never knew what our family would need. He never knew we would benefit. He never knew we would follow the focus of his life. But he gave...and we're receiving!
Today is the 26th anniversary of his memorial service. Sixty-three is too young to die. But it's not too short to be a powerful influence for a long, long time. His footprints are still pressed into the red soil of Brazil and countless other countries of the Americas.
His life is still my blessing.
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