The worst thing in your life may contain seeds
us of the best. When you can see crisis as an opportunity,
your life becomes not easier, more satisfying.

JOE KOGEL

For his eighty-second birthday I gave my father a rather expensive maple pool cue. The irony of the gift was not lost on any of us.

Back in the 1930s, Ying’s Pool Hall was the favorite hangout for teenagers in the riverside hamlet of Elora, Ontario, Canada. There my dad learned to smoke, drink, swear, chew, and hit a spittoon. Cold winter nights of my childhood were warmed by his stories of those days. Of winning a few bucks betting on billiards. Of cheating the blind owner out of small change.

One dark and memorable Halloween, Dad and a few cronies moved the pool hall outhouse back a few feet—much to the surprise of some dear inebriated soul and drawing the attention of the local constable. When he told me this story, my admiration grew as wide as my smile. Through the years I’ve attempted a little mischief myself, but I’m sorry to report that I never truly mastered it as Dad did.

Twenty-one years before I was born, God put an arm around my father and refused to let go. “I sipped my last beer and took a final drag from a cigarette,” he liked to say. “I threw the pack into the fireplace and slammed the door on the pool hall, never to return.”

One summer night at a hot-dog roast, Dad first set eyes on a shy brunette by the name of Bernice. She would become my mother, but as far as I know it was not something they discussed that evening. Instead, they sat and watched the clouds gather, knowing that Adolf Hitler was ransacking Europe, that Dad would soon join the troops and set out to chase him home.

Dad never did find Adolf, but he chased down my mother, and after the Allied victory parade, the two climbed aboard a train bound for western Canada to study for the ministry.

After poring over books of theology for several winters, he was ordained by the Evangelical Free Church. Following several brief forays with small congregations, he returned to the Bible school where he had studied and joined its staff. The regulations were strict there. Your hair could not touch your ears (unless you were a girl), and sleeves must end below the elbows (unless you were a boy). There were clear guidelines for abstaining from Sunday afternoon football, playing pool, listening to rock music, smoking, drinking, chewing, and the purchasing of spittoons.

I loved my childhood. Mischief was never far away. You didn’t need to steal a car or graffiti a building to get the attention of grownups. Winking at your girlfriend would do the trick.

Though Dad didn’t always agree with the rules, he was careful to keep one of them. When we visited friends with pool tables, Dad stood off to one side, enjoying the smiles on our faces as we played, but never picking a cue up himself. For him it characterized his old life, and he wanted no part of it. “You play pool, you play the fool,” he sometimes said.

When he and Mom moved into the Golden Hills Lodge, peers begged him to join in their pool games, which went on most evenings until someone fell asleep—sometimes on the table.

Dad told them he hadn’t picked up a cue in about sixty years. They couldn’t believe it. They stopped asking, perhaps reasoning that anyone this rusty wouldn’t be much fun to beat anyway.

One night while I sat eating from a candy dish he kept well stocked for the grandkids, Dad confided in me that he still experienced an uneasy feeling about the game. I asked him if they were placing wagers or cheating each other. He didn’t think so. I told him we could baptize the pool table, get it saved. He laughed.

And so it was that I presented him with his birthday gift and watched his face light up like he had just received a bike for his sixth birthday. “It’s left-handed, like you,” I said. That just added to his excitement.

Next thing I knew he was lining up shots and mowing down surprised opponents. And he was smoking again. And swearing. And drinking beer like a fish. I’m kidding. But the old guy was good.

At the age of eighty-two he would bend over that table, sight in the eightball, and take it down hard. Dad couldn’t remember his name sometimes, but he could play pool. My sons and I tried to beat him. We seldom succeeded. The years had been kind to his aim, and he smiled as he played. It was one thing he could do well, one card he could still play.

Dad smiled about other things too. For the most part, he enjoyed his new surroundings not far from our house. Some of the residents were friends he hadn’t talked to in years. I noticed as the days turned into months that he was afforded a more noticeable gentleness, and I’m convinced that it was grace once again. I guess God’s grace is there whatever the season; it has no expiration date, no statute of limitations.

Soon, however, Dad’s health and memory deteriorated further. A nurse sat me down to explain why we would have to move my parents to the long-term-care wing of a hospital. As she talked, the most amazing thing happened. She began to cry. “I’ll miss him,” she said. “He’s been so kind.”

If there is any blessing in Alzheimer’s, perhaps it is this: Sometimes you’re a little confused by the sorrow of others. Your children drive you to your new home a little farther away, and you point out the window at wheat fields and cows and elephants in the clouds, wondering why your child doesn’t share your enthusiasm during this Sunday afternoon drive on a Wednesday. You’ve got a pool cue in the backseat. It’s a great day to be alive.