Read
Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.
1 John 3:18 (NLT)
Reflect
First off, an apology. I’ve been a little lax in my Christmas reflections this year, and last weekend found me a couple of devotions behind. I had planned to catch up on Monday. But then the first call came at 10:15 a.m., and the second one followed at 11:40, and life hasn’t been the same since.
Both calls came from my sister, Cheryl. At first, she told me that our Dad – my stepfather, Charles Fulton – was in critical condition. He was near Cumming, Ga., and I was hours away in Jacksonville, Fla., so I immediately started scouting flights to Atlanta, expecting to get there on the next day at the latest. But then the second call came. Cheryl was frantic and for good reason. What had likely happened was a massive heart attack, and Dad was gone. After 84 years, the Lord called him home unexpectedly and definitively.
In the days since then, I haven’t even thought about writing anything except his obituary, at least until now. Surprisingly, that didn’t take very long. But what has been more surprising is the lingering effect his death has had on me. I was in a funk for most of the week, and I couldn’t understand why. Eventually, it hit me. You see, I’ve been blessed to have two Dads. My birth father is a really good man, and I’ve learned a lot from him over the years.
But between ages 7 and 14, and then again in my senior year, I was raised by Charles Fulton. So much of what he tried to teach me didn’t take back then. We lived on a nine-acre farm, but I didn’t like the farm life. I really just wanted to read books, play baseball and watch television. And CBF (we’ll stick with that to avoid the confusion between Dad and Dad) wasn’t a big fan of the latter two. So I spent a lot of time outside, picking up pine cones, mucking horse stalls, picking weeds and mowing the lawn. It was good, honest work, but that was lost on me in my immaturity.
It wasn’t until years later that his lessons really began to sink in. After college, I went to work at a newspaper for a year as a copy editor, and I hated working on the copy desk. I quit that job and moved to Atlanta and ended up working for my stepdad for most of the next 20 years. For eight years I worked with him at ACTS 29 Ministries, which was at that time a significant ministry to the Episcopal Church. In 2008, I rejoined him as the administrator at St. Jude’s Episcopal Church, where he was the priest-in-charge. He mentored me in both situations and taught me so much about what it means to be successful. I learned leadership, management, vision casting, marketing, strategic planning, communications – all at a ministry that maybe brought in about $1 million a year.
But the greatest lessons I learned were in the private times with CBF. Meetings in his office. Lunches at a local Greek restaurant or, more often, at a nearby Waffle House where he was the unofficial chaplain. Regulars there seemed very unlikely to be attending church anywhere, but when he entered, everyone knew him. And he knew everyone, including their stories. One salty gentleman always called him “Padre,” and would share a problem he was having at the moment. And Dad would always encourage him and tell him that he’d be praying for him. A lot of people will tell you they’re praying for you but never do it. But I believe CBF actually did follow through on those prayers.
There are so many other things I learned from him, and one day I’ll probably set myself to writing about them and will post them here. But what I know now is that what I’m missing is the man who invested himself in me professionally and who spent the time to teach me invaluable truths about business, ministry, family and life. In recent years, our phone conversations had become shorter and more infrequent. He used to call me to check on me, and as his memory faded, those check-ins started to disappear. I would call him, but we tended to talk about the same things every time, and even several times within the same phone call. It became a bit monotonous. But what I wouldn’t give for just one more phone call to hear him say, “Jesus likes your style, and so do I.”
I’m still growing and maturing, and I’m not a priest (yet), but I am a teacher, and I’m hoping to invest myself in my students in a similar way as he invested himself in me. I do know that we are each here to touch the lives of others and to bring glory to the One who made us as we go through our lives. I can only hope that as I reach out with the love of Christ I can have even a fraction of an impact on others as my stepfather had on me and on countless others.
Rest in peace, Dad. And thank you for taking the time to mentor me. You’ll never know what a difference it’s made.
Reflection copyright © 2022 Doug DeBolt.
