Fuzzy

The Rev. Nancy E. Gossling

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?

Fifteen years ago, on May 30, 2006, my father, affectionately known as Fuzzy, died of pulmonary fibrosis at the age of 86. He lived a long and fruitful life and taught me many lessons even on the day he died. “Thank you for being a part of my life,” he said to family members gathered around his bedside. “I love you and good-bye.”

He was never one to share his emotions like that. When he was angry, he went radio silent. We called it “The Grunge.” When he was saddened by the death of his dog, he poured himself a few hefty tumblers of whiskey, went out into the backyard, dug a hole, and buried her. When he was happiest, he loosened his work clothes, lay back on the couch, and watched his favorite movies or listened to Jazz music.

I was Fuzzy’s middle child. I remember his church youth group leadership when we climbed Stone Mountain for an overnight camping trip. Sleeping soundly through the night, I was unaware of him overseeing some of the “party-goers” that needed some adult supervision. He was a man of quiet faith, occasionally quoting scripture to me without saying so. He supported me in one way or another, especially in sports and church. When I was struggling with deep sadness over a break-up and some choices I needed to make, he stayed home from work for a few days, just to provide me with a listening ear. 

When he entered hospice care, he left his Book of Common Prayer on the coffee table, visible to all who visited him. Not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, he was a unique beloved child of God, and my only Dad. I still miss him.

Why do I remember Fuzzy today? Because it’s Sunday, the feast of the Resurrection, the day he died and the day he rose to new life. Because it’s Memorial Day weekend and I’m grateful for him. Because I want to end my life someday like he did, saying “Thank you for being a part of my life. I love you and goodbye.”