Tribute February 1999
by Sally Klein Oconnor

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die,
A time to plant and a time to uproot,
A time to kill and a time to heal,
A time to tear down and a time to build,
A time to weep and a time to laugh,
A time to mourn and a time to dance,
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
A time to embrace and a time to refrain,
A time to search and a time to give up,
A time to keep and a time to throw away,
A time to tear and a time to mend,
A time to be silent and a time to speak,
A time to love and a time to hate,
A time for war and a time for peace." (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8)

I remember my father coming home from work when I was still small. Cold cigarette smoke and the scent of stale carnations seemed embedded forever in the lining of his jacket. A quick hug, a brush of day-old whiskers, the feel of grease and sweat gone cold on his cheek. He would head for the bath and sit and steam for an hour. Then dinner, the paper, and TV (black and white of course).

When I was older I went to the flower market with him. Just the idea of getting up at 3 AM excited me. Leaving the house without a sound in the dark, climbing into Dad’s old Econoline van, bundled up in my jacket and gloves. We’d back down the driveway with only the moon and stars watching, and practically fly down an almost empty freeway.

Downtown was all lit up. Semis loading and unloading. Coffee, cigarettes and the smell of roses and carnations pervaded the air. Hot chocolate at 4:00 to keep me awake, and then homemade tamales at 5 AM. It made me feel grown-up steering the cart and helping Dad buy the flowers. Almost all the growers knew Dad from when he sold in the subway. They liked to call him "Hollywood Dave" because he owned the flower shop on the corner of Hollywood and Vermont.

When Dad sold his shop and "retired", he went back to selling flowers on different corners in the San Fernando Valley. I often worked with him, especially when I was broke. We would cruise busy corners with gas stations or vacant lots and eyeball them to see if they might be good for business. Then he would "negotiate" with the owner for the opportunity to sell during the holidays.

It wasn’t for the money. Dad had done pretty well for himself. It was the wheeling and dealing he missed. His passion was hunting down the best deal in town, whether it was flowers or aspirin. If he could get anything for even a few cents less, he would drive clear across the valley rather than buy it around the corner.

Dad sampled a lot of trades before he landed in flowers. He sang and danced in vaudeville and even in a couple of early movies. He sold tires, walnuts, sandwiches, produce, elastic, and finally, flowers.

Just a week or so before Christmas Dad went into the hospital for intestinal problems. While he was there he started having trouble with his breathing and was diagnosed with pneumonia. Late in the evening, on January 4th, he went to sleep and his heart just stopped.

We buried Dad at the end of the valley, on a hill near a crooked tree. I filled up one of those old tin cans he kept from the flower shop and put a hundred carnations in there. We gave them away after the service. He loved carnations.

My father was a loner, or as he would say, "a character". Most of his life he took a rather cynical view of people. As a result, he had very few friends. During the time I lived in the house I don’t think I ever saw him cry and I never heard him say I love you. He was not an affectionate man. He didn’t know how to express love.

Dad was this strange mixture of cynic and dreamer. He told me that when he was young he was the kind of man who, when given too much change back, would run to return the extra money to the storekeeper. But when he realized that most people wouldn’t do the same he decided the world didn’t play fair—so neither would he.

Yet I think there was a lot more dreamer in him than he liked to admit. After my sister was on her own and my brother and I were still small, Dad bought 10 acres out in the desert near Adelanto, California. Soon after we drove up as a family to view his new acquisition. Stuck in the middle of some other people’s property it required an easement to obtain access to the land.

It was all sand and snakes, but Dad talked house & horses to us and all the possibilities between. As a child I believed him. But as an adult I knew better. Some twenty years later he finally sold those same ten acres exactly as he bought them.

While I was at college in Boston my mother and he parted company. It was thirty years into their marriage and a year before my brother died. I took Mom’s side. In my eyes, Dad was the sum total of all the wrongs he ever committed. Over the years all the emotional cuts and bruises had been properly labeled and catalogued. And everytime I laid eyes on him they all rose up in one accord to prosecute and condemn him.

But there came a day when I no longer saw him that way. I will always remember that moment. I was a brand new believer in Jesus. My father had come over to visit me at my mom’s where I was staying. We no sooner started talking when I realized where we were heading. Right into a fight. I couldn’t wait. I was practically licking my chops for the opportunity to verbally assault my father. I had never before understood how much I wanted to fight with Dad. It dawned on me that it was the only form of communication we had left.

At the same time I became aware that this was in direct opposition to what I purported to believe. But I found it very hard to tear myself away. Finally, I excused myself and walked out the door, through the garage and into my room. But every step I took away from him felt like it was in slow motion. Pleading with God that I could not do this every time I saw him, I suddenly felt released. It seemed as if in an instant all the things I blamed on Dad were lifted from my heart and I could see Dad as he really was—just a man, all too human like the rest of us. . . like me. He needed my forgiveness and love. Now I was able to give it to him.

Dad and I became friends. There were still fights now and then, but they were quickly resolved. Forgiveness came quickly and relatively easily to both of us for each other. He realized that our newfound friendship came about as a result of my faith and we had many conversations over the issue of Jesus as the Messiah.

There came a time when Dad began to think if anyone could be the Messiah, it had to be Jesus. But it wasn’t until he read the Gospel of Matthew that his heart was touched. Dad grew up being called a "Christ killer" and a "dirty Jew" by people who counted themselves Christians. He had never considered the claims of Jesus for himself. That was considered taboo, outside his faith. Being a Jew and believing in Jesus carried the unspoken warning of excommunication from family and the Jewish community at large. Yet as Dad read about what Jesus actually said and did he was deeply moved. Despite his protestations that he was too old to change there came a day when he was able to pray with me and ask Jesus to come into his life.

He did change. He softened. There was a tenderness to him that I had never known growing up. He had been praying at night before he went to bed, but now he began to pray during the day, just to talk to God when he was in need and to thank Him for his goodness and provision. He decided to go to a little church nearby his house and he was baptized. The people there took a real shine to him and treasured him. And for the first time in years Dad had friends.

A couple of years ago I asked my dad to write in his own words what he felt about his search for God, and why he believed in Jesus. But like so many things Dad started, he never finished:

"I was utterly confused. A large question mark stood out clearly in my mind as I looked up at the sky, why it did not fall, or out over the ocean, and why it did not over-run and flood the land. So many whys. I guessed there was some super power, Godly, which I knew nothing about, but heard mentioned, now and then.

"As my years extended I learned of God’s son, Jesus. The torture he endured, physically, mentally, ridicule—nails driven through flesh and blood—all for humans, to rid us of our sins."

Three or four years ago Dad went into the hospital and was pretty sick. His doctor made me aware that he needed some serious care and shouldn’t live alone anymore. It was such a fearful thought to me. On one hand I wanted to be there for him, on the other it seemed overwhelming. The Lord spoke to my heart soon after and impressed on me that I was to wash his feet by caring for him. I can’t even count the times I failed. Even under the grace of God there were so many broken places between us. But each time I fell the Lord would gently pick me up and help me start again.

The last night I came back to the hospital Dad was doing pretty well, sitting up in a chair. The Lord again impressed on me to wash his feet, only this time it was literal. So I filled up a basin with water, set out some towels and explained to Dad that I wanted to bless him. No heavenly light filled the room. I can’t even say I felt the presence of the Lord.

My dad’s feet were severely callused and swollen, stained with eighty seven years of living. As I washed each foot I found myself praying, saying things I thought I would never say. Among them, I thanked God for him being my father and prayed that God would bless him. He cried.

And I cry now when I think of it. After I was all done I dried his feet and put lotion on them. Then I kissed him goodnight and said: "I’ll see you in the morning."

And I know I will.

©Copyright 1999 Improbable People Ministries

IN REMEMBRANCE
OF DAVE KLEIN
1911-1999

Voice In The Wind
Let there be no foe, only friend
And find what we are looking for
Just around the bend
Let’s not deny them their rights
Stare down upon them with those haughty airs
As if they were dirt... scum...
Swept from the winding stairs
Two arms, two legs
A hand, a brain
A conscious soul within
The chains that bind him
A collar tag marked "contaminated goods"
Had dropped him off on streets of sin
Ah, to free myself of these painful shackles
There must be a way in as there is a way out
The hammer, the saw,
The chisel, the clout
He was a strong fearsome man
One of my kind with fire heated chopper
My brain soon made aware
There is only the devil to reach ... to touch...to care
Free if only in body at last
There is plentiful callings to move the drugs
Prostitutes and more...
Was I born to be a sinner?
In cahoots with the devil for the rest of my time?
There is that soft powerful inner voice
That lifts and sets me down
Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Where is your Holy Hill?
Is it only for the righteous?
Forgive your sinners
Oh Lord, before I was afflicted I went astray
Like a ship battling the storm to stay afloat
I was sucked down with it.
I have a vision of this beautiful bearded man
Nailed to the cross
A Heavenly Holy Light encompasses Him
(I pause in question)
What brought this painful tragedy about?
When an inner voice rises to shout
"Hosanna... Hosanna!"
Beautiful soft string music touches my ear
So distant ... yet so near
"Hosanna... Hosanna!"
At last I am saved
At last I am free.

©Copyright 1997 Dave Klein

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