As I backed down the driveway, I felt like I was leaving my child on the first day of school. Instead, my husband, Jason, sat waiting for his father at his parent's kitchen table. I'd offered him a last, reassuring smile, only to meet the wide-eyed look of an awkward, young boy in return. A father-son outing scheduled for that afternoon stretched his comfort zone and transformed his outward demeanor. Animosity wasn't to blame. A canyon of silence simply kept the two apart. Although my husband was long grown, he seemed to turn into a teenager around his father. Regardless, they needed time together—time that was slipping away.
A brain stem tumor threatened my tall, lanky husband's life. We had lived with the challenge for years, but a month before, I noticed his gait widening and his balance faltering. Soon, my sandy-blonde, blue-eyed spouse required assistance walking across open rooms. Doctors offered little hope.
Still, when someone at church suggested Jason design a stained glass window for our new sanctuary, he readily agreed. Known for his creative talent, he earned a living s a freelance artist. He'd worked with many artistic mediums, from pastels to scratchboard, but he had never attempted stained glass work. He contacted a local store offering classes. When we told others about his new hobby, his family, including two sisters, agreed to pay for the class and tools as a birthday gift.
Then his dad surprised us by asking to tag along. We knew Papa, a medium-built, civilian Army employee, carried a similar creative spirit. He once kilned an entire nativity set for each of his three children. But we hadn't thought to include him in the class.
A man of few words, the graying senior citizen often retreated to the calm in front of a TV at days end. No one blamed him. Two years of intense combat duty in Vietnam explained his quiet manner. Years before, in the hazy glow of red and green lights on a Christmas Eve, he shared some war memories that grew our respect and admiration for his silent soul. Still, those emotional wounds distanced his son. Both longed for change, but busy lives continued the divide. A shared artistic curiosity brought them together on that first day of class.
"How'd it go?" I asked as Jason sauntered up our carport with his hand out, balancing against the brick wall. Papa waved from his truck.
"All right," my husband replied.
"How was the time with your dad?"
"OK. He didn't say much."
A worn out Jason retired to his studio. I let him be.
Papa came back two days later to escort Jason to class. Within a week, they came home with their first completed pieces. Jason presented me with a pink and green seashell design. Papa gave Jason's mom a butterfly in mottled blue and gold tones. Excitement grew. The sanctuary window awaited his creative touch.
As classes continued through the spring, however, Jason's brain tumor symptoms worsened. While Jason talked of closing our carport area to make a studio for future stained glass work, his motor skills began to fail. No longer able to sign his name legibly, simple tasks like dressing became major ordeals.
Still, he kept working. For Mother's Day, he presented me with a beautiful three-foot by one-foot stained glass piece designed and detailed mostly with his hands. Large, pink flower petals cradled in green stems rested against a blue-sky background. Papa had added finishing touches when the work became too difficult for Jason. Regardless, its vibrant colors hung above my kitchen window as a daily reminder of healing. My husband's body continued to deteriorate, but his art, completed by his father's hands, breathed a life-giving change. Together, the duo had created a masterpiece that would always hang in my home.
On Father's Day, a month later, we enjoyed brunch with his parents on their back porch. The morning sun filtered through the clouds, blanketing us with a warm glow.
Papa spoke. "You know, when I was a boy, I wanted to spend time with my dad. But he was never around."
I glanced at Jason. Almost blind in one eye, he tenderly observed his dad. Head bowed, the aging soldier continued. "When I played football in high school, I'd hoped he'd come to just one game But he never did." Birds chirped around us. Flowers straightened in the sun. Papa's next words bridged the silent gap.
"I know I don't talk very much. But I've tried to be with you. When you were growing up, I figured if you rode with me in the car, even if just to a gas station, we were together. That's what I'd wanted as a boy, to just be with my dad."
Jason's unsteady hands reached for his father's and embraced his love. There, in the silence, two souls were freed.
In mid-July, Papa purchased equipment for a stained glass studio, but opted to keep the machinery in his basement instead of our home. Talk of a window for the church continued, but the stark reality of Jason's weakening condition overshadowed what little enthusiasm remained.
When the classes ended, Papa continued his visits. Twice a week he'd help Jason o his truck and drive him to an indoor pool, where he exercised his weakening muscles. They stopped for milkshakes when symptoms compromised Jason's ability to swallow. And when slurred speech made conversation difficult, Papa's quiet support mattered more than words.
Prayers continued. Hope carried us through each day. Three months later, while visiting his parents, the onset of breathing difficulties indicated that only days or hours remained. With a shake of his head, Jason refused transport to a hospital. We laid him comfortably in their living room on a fold-out sofa bed. He slipped from here to eternity just after dark the next day. Family members gathered round his stilled form, sang old hymns, and read favorite Scriptures. His short life had touched many.
Paralyzing grief quieted the stained glass tools for several months. Then winter gave way to spring, and more than the frosty weather outside began to thaw.
Papa began work to finish a basement room that would house his own studio. Small, finished pieces appeared on his kitchen window. And as his retirement neared, he made plans to start a new company.
Through a mutual acquaintance at church, however, Papa met a local artist named Dale, who designs and builds award winning stained glass windows in churches. Dale invited Papa to observe his work. Papa woke early on Saturdays, eager to stand side by side with the talented man.
After a month of weekend visits, Dale asked Papa if he wanted to help. At first, Papa simply ground glass that Dale cut. In time, however, he proved his own abilities as he began to cut glass and to help design windows with Dale. While they've never installed a window in my home church, the two artists completed a beautiful wall of stained glass windows for a prayer chapel. And now, seven years later, their combined talents have completed stained glass works that adorn church and synagogues all over the metro Atlanta area.
Dale has offered to pay Papa more than once, but the resolute retiree refuses monetary compensation. The reason is obvious to me. When I heard him talk about their work, I know the gift he's received from his involvement with Dale and stained glass windows hold more value than all the silver and gold on earth.
Papa talks more now. He laughs with his seven grandchildren. And when he stands with Dale in the studio, he feels as though he's close to his son, completing the work they began together long ago.
Schreer, Susan. "A Stained Glass Healing" Journey June 2007: Lifeway.