Daddy, a Eulogy

Arne Kure, "daddy"

The imagery of bridges always featured strongly in dad's unique series of visions, that in their own way, comprehended his life's lessons. No matter how annoying he found anyone, it was always, in the end, a case of "water under the bridge", with him waving his arm to one side, as if warding off negativity, which I guess he was. 

His capacity for genuine forgiveness and tolerance was peerlessly, humanly matched by his great, idiosyncratic inability to "cross that bridge when he came to it", delaying always on the other side from sheer procrastination. he would say, "Oh!" and then think some more about it, utterly absorbed in total concentration, doing nothing. 

I am so heart-glad that when he did finally come to .that bridge too far, it was only on his fourth encounter with cancer that he actually made it to the other side. I am beginning to believe dad really lived two lifetimes in this one. Younger than I am now when first diagnosed with Hodgkinson's cancer, his survival. is testament to the miracles of modem medical technology, which he so delighted and believed in and to his indomitable,  gallant, pilgrim soul.

Towards the end it  became absolutely clear that what dad really breathed in was hope.  

These last few weeks, as I felt the presence of that dark angel draw ever closer, I could but cry out for comfort in his strong black wings, that he would lift my soul and carry me across dark waters, lift me, that I could sing for joy. 

A song of daddy, and for all he meant and did for us and of the world that he for us did make. For daddy's vocabulary of love was that of work. He worked so hard because he loved us that much. From when he was first informed upon the death of his father at a very young age., that he was to make his own way in this life, using that bright intelligence that was his gift, he strove to make us all happy with his quiet labours of love.

Once I had accessed this. entrance to my Norwegian daddy's heart, we delighted as co-conspirators in setting daddy various tasks, with which he could fill his already full days, but which provided the conduit through which he could express his great love.

If life is a series of lessons, then daddy was one of its consummate teachers, once he had righted himself from some initial stumbles in the dark. 

There were the missing years,  but I need to sing of the redemptive and healing power of love and celebrate that the years the locusts had eaten were given back to me, in full abundance. 

Relationships between fathers and children can be fraught with the fault-lines of love, but forgiveness provides the heal-all and soul’s balm. Because he was such an absence in my life in my growing years, we contracted when I was already an adult, that since it never was too late to have a happy childhood, we'd begin one then and there. And the best of it all is, I at least get to really remember mine!

Every weekday morning for years, it became daddy's duty to wake his non-morning girl child up by telephoning her at home - often having to set his alarm clock for the task. He kept a loving and interested check on my comings and goings, and all the long telephone calls from work were never disputed from any of my bosses - they considered them a cheap price for his consultancy, given that so many of my wise words and sage counsel were prefaced by, "My father says ..." 

My daddy rejoiced utterly, gladly and proudly in all his children's myriad and diverse achievements. In particular, I found he never disputed how hard it could be for his clever girl child to make her way in what is still largely a man's world. Many of the jokes he'd collect, and phone to tell me reflected this concern. He never said life was fair, but he loved me so much he gave me the weapon of laughter with which to deflect its woes.

He was a great stabiliser of energy, and humourist, with the quirkiest quips when life was tough. His listening was an active act, and he understood passion and rage, but his was transmuted to the passion of Christ, who asked that they be forgiven, those who knew not what they did do. 

He knew how to heal the shafts that political intrigue, compromise, paranoia and insane jealousies wreaked upon an idealistic heart. He taught me to take the long view of any given situation, take history's perspective, and laughed my tears away and turned my anger into action.

Dad's very vivid and most wondrously happy memory prefaced his largest loss. During the war, his siblings and mother were flown from Kenya across Africa, in tiny planes, taking days in the crossing thereof. His magical experience predated his father's death, and he never saw Kenya or his father again.

Knowing how his father's death seared his young soul,  I have to keep giving thanks that he kept on keeping on for all of us, for he, more than anyone knew how deep a wound a father's death at a young age is. During these last, long days when his soul departed, I kept willing his spirit on - on and on across the plains of Africa, going north, knowing that this time, he'd find his father there, waiting for him.  It is an image I am compelled to cling to, since -  truth be told -  I miss my daddy too.

Lesley, Kathryn and Arne Kure, Enid in the back