Son of Norman Ernest Helm

When I am called upon to speak at an event, I often introduce myself in biblical-genealogical fashion as “Barry, the son of Norman, the son of Ernest, the son of Fredrick.” It garners the odd laugh, yes, but it also has this ability to draw my thoughts into focus. It centers me. It grounds me. My dad is great. (My mother is great too, but that is for a later post.) This post is about him.

My dad is turning 80 today. (I am writing this on March 28th, 2020.)

Grandma Helm, Baby Norman, Grandpa Helm (and pup)

Eighty.

Born in 1940 in western Canada, my father and his generation have arguably seen the most technological change of any generation in human history. As a child, he went to school by horse. Now self-driving vehicles exist. When he helped his father farm, they stooked grain by hand and harvested it with a threshing machine. Now many farmers use GPS-guided autonomous farm equipment.

Norman, Grandpa Helm, Uncle Ken

When the need to talk to a faraway friend or family member arose, his parents used a rotary-dial phone on a party line that was shared with neighbors (this meant that if your neighbor was using their phone and you picked up your phone, you would be able to hear their conversation. You would need to wait until they were done their conversation before you could dial out). Now my dad FaceTime’s his grandchildren.

Norman at 20 years old, motorcycle

If you were to have a conversation with my father about what it was like to grow up in his home (and you should), he would state that it was a calm and peaceful household. His parents never raised their voices. I never heard my father raise his voice either.

I can recall perhaps only two occasions where he was “vocally assertive.” First, reprimanding our dog for chasing the family car as we were leaving for town one afternoon (we lived on a farm and were the dog to follow us, it would be to its peril). Second, was when my dad encountered two of his young grandchildren washing down the garage. On the inside. With a garden hose. Everything was soaked. The garage housed not only vehicles, but my dad’s workbench, coveralls, tools, and other garage-related sundries. His voice was uncommonly fortissimo as he exclaimed, “What are you kids doing?!” The ill-behaved children abruptly ceased their misdoings.

My father is one of the most patient people that I know.

Norman with Barry Diagnosing Truck

And diligent and industrious.

Intelligent and resourceful.

Kind and compassionate.

Wise and measured.

Gracious and loving.

His life – the essence of who he is – it guides me. I am proud to be his son. He is a good dad.

This is my sermon: The dead are eulogized at their funerals, but the good-words-spoken mean nothing to them. So then, let us say good things to those we love while they – and we – still draw breath. Encourage one another with your words and deeds. If you admire something about someone, tell them. Be gracious. Be kind. Be courageous. Be courageous enough to express your gratitude and love and appreciation. Do it today. For this moment – indeed this life – will soon be gone. Gone like the wisp of smoke from an extinguished birthday candle.