15 Years Ago

John Leo Bittner, February 20, 1928 - August 24, 1990

I have never forgotten the shock I received the morning of August 24, 1990.

I was excessively immature, far too dependent for my age, far too arrogant and undisciplined, far too clueless about how the world works. I was 24, but I had the naiveté and irresponsibility of a 15-year-old.

That day set in motion many things that changed my life.

When the doctor and the ICU staff walked in that morning to tell us Dad was gone, I was in disbelief. I fully expected him to recover from his heart surgery. He couldn’t go. I still needed him too much, and I didn’t appreciate him nearly enough.

To his fault, Dad coddled us all too much, however unintentionally. He kept the safety net too close. He was too quick to pay our bills for us. He diminished the impact of my mistakes, and bore the brunt of my poor decisions.

Dad himself, on the other hand, was a hard worker and exceptionally responsible. He willingly sacrificed things he wanted to do for what he knew he had to do. That’s how he provided for his family. He was faithful to his first duties. I, somehow, failed to take up his work ethic.

Dad’s death was the kick in the pants that I so desperately needed.

I was barely employed, disillusioned over a failed career in photography, stubbornly resisting the need for more education, and frustrated at being out of options. Most of my old friends were two years out of college, settled in careers, and I could no longer relate to them. I was angry at people who made good decisions and were successful. I was clearly not on the path to independence and self-sufficiency that I thought would just come to me.

What I had not yet learned was that adulthood is not a point at which someone hands you a bankroll and keys and opens up a magical door to the world for you. Adulthood is a process that begins the moment you start learning. Somehow I always thought it was a point when you stop learning and start living, but that attitude is what stunted my growth. It was time to grow up.

In the fall of 1990, two weeks after Dad died, I started college over again. Inside, part of me was still kicking and screaming, but my inner adult beat it back. To my great surprise (and, I think, to the bewilderment of my mother), I learned to really enjoy chemistry, thanks largely in part to my patient and tenacious coach who, before long, became my wife.

It still took seven years and two changes in major before I finally finished my degree. And, I daresay, it took even more years before I really learned to embrace learning as a lifelong process. Perhaps it was fatherhood that finally brought that revelation. Whatever it was, I am now resolved to being a lifelong learner, a fundamental change that I believe began the day my father died.

This is not conceit, but surrender. If you stop learning, you stop living. It is a truth to which I humbly and joyfully submit. The single most important thing I learned in college is that I know nothing. Were I to spend my entire life learning, I could never gain a discernible fraction of the store of knowledge attained by man, much less of that knowledge which is yet undiscovered. The process of learning is itself the destination. Dad never said this, nor did he have a college education, but I think he knew this, and it showed in the subtlest ways.

He was not a disaffected bystander in the world. He watched the news every night, but preferred uninterrupted reading time. He collected everything he heard or read in a series of file drawers in his head. When you opened one of the drawers, you got the full contents of it. In conversation, he was prone to rambling because once he got started on a train of thought, the train pretty much kept rolling until a nudge from Mom derailed it.


Christmas 1989, the last we spent with Dad. (Back: My brother John, Dad, Mom. Middle: Grandma and Grandpa. Front: My sister Beth and me.)

Dad knew how to appreciate life but didn’t have nearly enough opportunities to do so. He knew how to savor good music, how to sit still and rest in a quiet place, how to enjoy nature, how to rely on God, and how to be grateful. He recognized his personal demons, such as his temper and the need to forgive his own father. His life was a quest for peace and contentment, and he knew the Source of these things. He strove admirably to maintain that focus.

It often seems to me that I am becoming my father, for better or worse. I find myself thinking more like him all the time, saying things he said or might have said.

Despite his own frustrations in managing his home and making ends meet, we were always secure. It was his hope that we would all marry and raise families. Now that I have a son of my own, I understand more than ever the desire to provide him security and hope, and to do whatever I can to make life happy and easy for him, but therein lies the lesson of my life. I don’t want my son to have a rude awakening at age 24. Of course my dad loved me and I will never fault him for his provision. He never intended that I should have such a hard lesson, or that I be so obstinate in resisting it. But my son is showing himself to be much like me, a dreamer prone to distraction. For his sake, I won’t let history repeat itself.

I’m so sorry my Dad had to die to teach me to get a life. I realize that’s rather harsh to say, and I know he didn’t plan it that way. I could probably have learned these lessons had Dad lived, but I'm thankful that God used this event to instill a major course correction in my life. Still, I would much rather have Dad around, especially now that I understand him better. I love him and miss him more all the time. I would love to relate with him over his interests in history and the arts. I can’t say how many times I’ve wished I could talk to him about something I read that I think he would have enjoyed. As of late, I’ve even taken up his interest in mysteries. (Dad was quite the mystery buff, apparently, judging from some of his old army photos and how he wouldn’t miss the Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries back in the ‘70s.)

I could go on with these recollections, but they will become even more disjointed. On this 15th anniversary of Dad’s death, I can’t help thinking about the man he was and the things he taught me that I was shamefully slow to see. I’ve gotten too used to his being gone. Refreshing these faded memories is comforting, and in doing so, I’m remembering his voice again, and his warm smile. He was a good dad and a humble servant of God. The chance to make up lost time with him is one reason I look forward to Eternity. Thanks, Dad. You always wanted to walk with God, so I’m glad you are now. I’ll be seeing you again soon enough.