March 2012

WR Corvin: A Big Oak

Like so many of his generation, my dad was scarred from his service in World War 2. As I wrote in my book, Footprints in the Sea, “To his three little boys Dad was often a warrior with no war. We loved him, he was the finest man we ever knew, and we were terrified of him. Like many World War II vets, Dad brought the war home.”

Although I later found friendship with Dad, in those early years, soon after the war, I kept a healthy distance from him. That’s the main reason I left home when I was fifteen. The 218 miles from Pratt, Kansas to 4700 NW 10th in Oklahoma City seemed about right.

I enrolled in our denomination’s Southwestern Bible School (which combined a high school, junior college, and school of theology) in Oklahoma City. And that is where I met W. R. Corvin, the President of the school.

Dr. Corvin was exactly the same age as Dad. But, because of a deformed foot, he missed World War 2. And through that little twist of my history, he became to me what Jack Chinn could not be. In short, he paid attention to me. He took me and my writing seriously. At a perplexing and lonely time in my life, God delivered essential encouragement to me through W. R. Corvin. I often showed him essays and stories I had written. He received every one of them as a gift. And I think he gave me feedback on every one.

His attention elevated me. Because of that, he has remained one of the largest people on the landscape of my life.

One day in his speech class, he suddenly said in front of everyone, “Ed, someday you will write for the glory of God.” I later asked him why he said that. He seemed puzzled: “I don’t know. I just knew I had to say it.” I still don’t know why he said it or if I will ever do it. But I do know what that voice engraved in me.

Because of his great responsibilities, he took several years to complete his dissertation for his Ph.D at OU. Someone once said to him, “W.R., why do you want to do this? You’ll be forty years old before your get your doctorate.” I can still hear that gentle Ada, Oklahoma farm boy twang, “Well, you know, I’m gonna be forty anyway. I’d rather be forty with a Ph.D.”

That wisdom, applicable to everything worth doing, has served me for almost fifty years.

The last time I heard that distinctive nasal vibrato was five and a half years ago at a Southwestern alumni function. The eyes were bright, the smile beaming, and the handshake firm; he could still work a room as he had for decades in his various fundraising roles. But Alzheimer’s had wiped the names and memories away. He introduced himself to me three times.

Dr. Corvin died a few days ago. And his death recalls a line from a letter that Tommy (the Cork) Corcoran wrote to Lyndon Johnson in 1961, on the occasion of Sam Rayburn’s death:

“You and I have had both the advantages and now the disadvantages of early being proteges of big men before us. Once our world was full of older men who were magnificent individuals in the grand manner: many big oaks sheltered us. In this November, they fall fast: we are now ourselves our own front line.”

God, I miss those men.

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Legacy of Laughter

I watched as my Dad prepared to dismantle and remove an old house from a newly acquired piece of property. Because the house contained a large piano, he began by tearing out an eight-foot section of exterior wall in order to load the piano straight onto a truck bed.

An old man, walking past the property, stopped to watch the work. “Taking the old house out, are ya?” he called out to Dad.

Dad looked at him for a moment and shook his head. “Nah. I’m just moving a piano.”

I laughed that day and many days since. One of Dad’s greatest gifts to his family was his wonderfully dry sense of humor.

Even as he began slipping into Alzheimer’s, his humor often pushed up through his disease like roses budding in the snow. While talking to him several months after his diagnosis, I had trouble remembering the name of an old friend. He wrinkled his forehead, leaned toward me and said so earnestly, “Son, you want me to make you an appointment with my doctor?”

More than once, I’ve watched my Mom struggle to hide her shaking laughter in church because something in a sermon or song struck her funny; I’m sure those around her just thought Mary was moved by the Spirit.

A few years ago, she absentmindedly backed the car right through the garage door. She laughed right to the edge of emotional meltdown. And, when Dad couldn’t quite grasp the humor of the situation, his good-natured stoicism drove her back into the deep caverns of convulsive laughter.

I will always be grateful for the fine example of wholesome living Dad and Mom gave me. One of the finest jewels in that treasure chest is their legacy of wholesome and full-throttle laughter. That heritage of humor will always lift and refresh our family.

No one really knows the essential ingredients of “funny.” That’s because humor, like sorrow, is a deep mystery. It churns down in the depths of our humanness, bubbles up through our chest and then tugs at the corners of our mouth. Sometimes the laughter is too strong; it snorts or tumbles or gushes out in great rolling waves.

A healthy sense of humor is more the result of being properly aligned with life than in knowing what is funny. I’ve noticed that people who live in the extremes of taking life too seriously or not seriously enough usually have a humor deficiency. One has to be centered in life in order to catch those fine glimpses of irony or to see through life’s absurdities.

In fact, the great Bishop Fulton Sheen believed that the foundation of humor is the ability to “see through things.” What a wonderful insight. Most comedians know that surprise is a crucial element in humor; it is the suddenness of seeing through something that causes laughter to erupt like a geyser. In fact, Bishop Sheen said that, “God made the world with a sense of humor, in the sense that we were to see Him through His creation . . .”

We don’t often think of laughter as part of an inheritance; but what better gift could you or I bequeath our descendants?

Doing so doesn’t mean that we must become comedians. A great sense of humor is primarily the result of trust, confidence and resilience. I personally think that a good sense of humor flows from a clear perspective on roles: God’s, mine, yours, as well as those of the various institutions and relationships in society.

Even faced with the crushing issues of our times, people who have ultimate trust in God tend to have a beautiful and appropriate sense of humor. Their reliance on Him enables them to have a light touch. They always seem to see the whimsy or caprice in a moment.

People are especially refreshed and encouraged by the good humor of leadership. Historical leaders like Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill and John Kennedy were known for their fine humor in the face of adversity. I think that humor is a vital attribute of leadership; it imparts a subtle confidence that ultimate success is already won. So, we can do our work with joy, not anxiety.

That’s why humor and laughter are essentials in the parenting and grandparenting toolbox. So, go ahead, lighten up. Let God do the heavy lifting. Enjoy the journey. And, may you find the graces and attitudes that will enable you to leave a legacy of laughter.

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