For My Dad

William Frederick Busse

August 26, 1930 – November 16, 2019

            Dad once told me that he hated going to funerals where the person who had died was lauded and praised as being this perfect and saintly being – especially when everyone sitting in the pews knew full well that the deceased was definitely not perfect or saintly.

            So to honor my sweet dad, I thought I would tell you a few of the ways that he was not perfect.

            Dad was a terrible speller. I suspect that many of us here already know the story about when he worked for Pillsbury and had to turn in a report. Thankfully, my mom, who is a good speller, proofread it for him or else he would have turned in an entire report about angle food cake.

            The last time he let me read their Christmas letter was many years ago, and the reason that was the last time was because I teased him about spelling the word grateful as greatful. He swore up and down that he had spellchecked the letter, and it hadn’t caught greatful. But I assured him that it was not spelled that way. I don’t think he appreciated my teasing, because he never let me look at the Christmas letter before it was sent out again.

            My sister called my dad, “One Trip Busse.” Our mom said he would carry Jill, Brad and two bags of groceries into the house rather than make two trips.

            My dad was obsessively early – to everything. I too would rather be early than late, but Dad took this to an extreme. We learned to stall when we were getting ready to go some place so we wouldn’t arrive at whatever our destination was quite so painfully early. That would make him impatient – another one of his less than perfect character traits – and he would do his dramatic Bill Busse sigh. It was a sigh that I have inherited. Or he would do his signature puffing out of his cheeks and blow the air out slowly. But even though it bugged him, we would stall anyway.

            I don’t know if this particular story is based on fact or if it is family legend, or maybe I just dreamed it, but one time my parents were so early to a party the hostess was still in the bathtub. Dad wanted to be early.

            But for all of the things that made him less than perfect, he was also so many things that made him, if not perfect, than pretty darn close.

            He was kind. Dad was shy and reserved, so to people who did not know him very well, he could come across as stern, even imposing. But that stern exterior was misleading. Dad was kind. Since he died, I have had several friends reach out to me to tell me that Dad was always so kind to them.

            For any impatience he showed when we weren’t moving out of the door fast enough, he could also be incredibly patient. When I was a very little girl, I used to wear my baby locket to church on Sundays. It was a small necklace with a fine gold chain that would get tangled up in knots if you looked at it wrong. But Dad would sit on Sunday mornings and untangle it, one knot at a time. Maybe he muttered impatiently or sighed while he did it, I don’t remember, but he got it done.

            Dad wanted to get things done. One of the things that made our dad who he was, was that he took responsibility seriously. It might be because he was the oldest child and the oldest son. It might be just how he was made. But he never, not to my knowledge, failed in his responsibilities to his family, to his work and so on. He took care of things. He took care of us. That’s what made these last years so hard and so challenging for him. He was used to taking care of things. If Bill Busse saw something that needed to be done, he did it. He didn’t wait for others to step up. He just did it.

            But as his health failed and his body slowed down, he couldn’t do that anymore. He couldn’t take care of things like he wanted to, and I know that frustrated him. It frustrated him because one of his best character traits was that he showed his love for us by taking care of us. And he loved us all so much. He loved his immediate family. He loved his extended family. He loved his grandkids. He loved his great grandkids. And he and my mom loved our friends. Our friends, whether they were Jill’s, Brad’s or mine, always felt like they were at home in our home. My friend, Ellen, said she felt like his third daughter.

            He loved us and he was so proud of us. Every accomplishment, no matter how small or seemingly infinitesimal, made him so proud. When I was serving the church in Minnesota, Dad was the treasurer, and I would invite him to attend my elder training sessions. He would always provoke me with some argumentative question. I realized that it wasn’t because he wanted to argue with me; he wanted me to push back and teach. He was proud of my teaching. He was so proud of all of us.

            When I posted on social media that Dad died, Shannon, another dear friend from seminary days and who met Dad several times, wrote to me that he delighted in all of us. Jill’s friend, Karen, said the same thing. He delighted in us. It was obvious. He delighted in his family, his wife and children and grandchildren and great grandchildren and his extended family. He delighted in all of us.

            Our dad wasn’t perfect, none of us are, but he loved us more than he could show or even express. He was proud of us. He delighted in us. He loved us. He was a good man and he loved us. At 89 he lived a good, long, full life. And I know that where he is now, it doesn’t matter if you can spell or if you are a One Trip Busse or a Fussy Busse, because now his strength is restored, and he is mounted up with wings like eagles. He can once more run and not be weary, he can walk and not faint.

            But Dad you did it again. We stalled and stalled and stalled, but you went earlier than any of us were ready for; no matter how we tried to slow you down, you still went too early. But I know you’ll be waiting for us to hurry up and arrive. You’ll be waiting for us. Thanks be to God.