Larry Garner, RIP

My Dad was a cowboy.

To my knowledge, he never owned a horse, except, perhaps, when he was a young boy growing up in Nebraska. He didn’t have a ranch, nor any cattle, and he hadn’t lived on more than a half acre of land for more than a half century. And yet, this is what I think of. In many ways, it even feels as if he rode slowly and quietly into the sunset.

I remembered many forgotten things over the last few weeks, most of them good things. I heard from some of my boyhood friends as they told me about his godly influence on their lives. I thought about our conflicts and resolutions, successes, mistakes, and failures.

One of my earliest memories is when I watched him trying to get a can of spray paint to work. I remember the nail…the hammer…and the plume of spray paint blowing up into his face. I am fairly certain I thought it was funny—at first.

I remember long drives to Canada, various vehicle and trailer breakdowns, cowboy hats, and Louis L’Amour westerns. I know everyone in my hometown knew when I got onto the field for a football game because of the hollering from the stands. The referees certainly knew during basketball games—I don’t think I need to tell you why.

We worked together: on the yard, on the swimming pool, on businesses. He seemed to have this thing for mixing and pouring concrete. I think he used it like weed killer in our back yard and patio.

He was always trying something new, without leaving his westerns and cowboy hats very far behind. He made things out of wood, leather, the ubiquitous cure-all Garna-Flex, and, of course, concrete. He always had another, better, new business idea; and some were better than others. But, he always had this faith that all of them would succeed.

The drive to win was a curious complexity. He was a fierce competitor, but at the same time, he wanted everyone to win. He was quick to encourage anyone that if they believed something firmly enough, passionately enough, they could win, too. And if that was true, there were no limits to what someone could do.

He often asked when I was going to run for a political office. And, if not that, when I was going to start coaching football at Kansas State—unless, of course, he had the next multi-million dollar business idea to talk about.

Although I know he didn’t always have faith, that faith is the most important thing he passed on to me. He led me to Jesus, and for that, I will, quite literally, be eternally grateful. Some of his heritage and his reward is sitting in this room, and I am certain even he is more aware of that now than ever before.

He was by no means perfect, as if any of us could ever approach that designation. But every one of us must recognize that we stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us.

I can only hope to move his heritage farther and deeper in faith. As he wrestled with his character, may I wrestle with and advance mine. May my son, and my daughters,  excel far beyond me in love, righteousness, justice, and faith.

Of all the comforting thoughts, I can see him now with the strivings ended, the questions answered, and his great, unseen Friend by his side. Strangely enough, I can’t quite picture him with a cowboy hat on—so I’m not sure how that works. As for horses, that will be for someone else to decide.

For him it will just be a moment before he sees everyone again. We, however, will have to wait a bit longer.

And that is just as it should be.