Sixty years ago my father decided to go to grad school. He already had a masters from U Penn, but after launching a successful career in the auto industry he decided he wanted to serve in the ministry. 

The witnesses are all gone but I think my mom was shocked. She liked the income and stability of his career, and the prospect of living on half his salary for three years while they saved the rest to carry a family of six through thirty six months below the poverty line did not sound like an adventure. 

The administration was dubious as well, or so my mother told me. Entering theological school at the advanced age of thirty five was highly unorthodox. There were no promises of employment, and warnings outnumbered words of encouragement.

“Let the cards fall where they may.” 

His choices certainly bore a cost for my family. And yet it pressed upon me the life altering worth of leaping into your dream. Added to that upheaval was the idea to earn a diploma in counseling, when such things were considered fringy.

Three advanced degrees, and yet not enough collateral to buy a house until they were in their sixties. I never connected the dots before. 

Looking back it seems obvious that his bravado fueled my own fool hearty decision to go back to grad school after the twins were born. Perhaps by association it added steam to John's dramatic choice to try to plant a church back in Albuquerque. An effort which failed by most metrics, but at the same time became part of who we are. 

My father loved being a pastor by the way. Sometimes I wander through the archive of recorded sermons just so I can hear his mellow voice again. He was a good man. A loving man. 

I can barely wait to see what he has been up to.