An Uncommon Man

First off I would like to thank Karen for her inspirational words; her and her family have meant so much to my father and my family. All of you gathered here today are so special to us. I feel like it’s a family reunion because Sam was such a father figure to so many, and I genuinely appreciate you taking time out of your busy lives to join us. Thank you in advance for indulging in my words and please forgive me if my message is interrupted a time or two along the way by this bottomless well of tears I’ve tapped into so often since Sunday night.

Those tears almost kept me from ascending this stage. I have a confession. When my mom delivered the hardest news I’ve ever received Sunday night, I crumpled to my kitchen floor and sobbed and sobbed as dinner burned and burned. Tater tots were baked into bits of charcoal. The sizzling mass on the stove top became forged forever to the supposedly nonstick surface of the skillet. But it’s not my culinary failures that I want to confess.

I have imagined this moment, being here in front of you, for the past five or six years. My father’s passing did catch me totally off guard, and I remain somewhat stunned by his earthly mortality. But, somewhere in the back of my consciousness, whispers of this day’s inevitability have been growing louder for years. And, when this day came, I was determined to speak, to somehow try to pull off this impossible task. It’s pretty daunting to try to be as good, even if it’s just for ten minutes, as my father was for nearly 74 years. But I feel like that’s what I’ve got to do: deliver a Sam Sanders-sized legend of a eulogy in order to do him justice.

So, my confession is that just minutes after I learned of his death, I was already chickening out. I was terrified by my tears. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we are all united today, brought together by our own tributaries of tears into one common pool of people with one purpose, and that purpose is to celebrate the life of a very uncommon man. There really is nothing uncommon about my grief. I know many of you have experienced the same range of emotions I have these past few days: I’ve been immobilized by the sort of spastic crying jags that I thought only existed in the movies. I’ve performed mindless, mundane tasks in a fog of disbelief and denial. I’ve been angry at my father for forcing me to suddenly grow up after all these years of spoiling me. And I’ve even had the audacity to questions God’s plan, His timing. But enough whoa is me. There is just one thing that makes my grief noteworthy, exceptional, uncommon, and that is that I am grieving–WE ARE ALL GRIEVING–an uncommon man.

My father honed the toughness that would characterize his entire life in backyard rumbles with brothers Tom and Adam at mom and pop’s house on 1025. He further developed his toughness on the football field. He would’ve run through walls for his revered coach at R. J. Reynolds, John Tandy. And he would’ve done it without all the pads, molded hard plastic helmets, and safety gear they wear nowadays. All he had was a leather helmet, and I remember him telling me how he hated to have to wear that. His gridiron exploits earned him much fanfare. He was all-city, all-state, All-American, and he received a full scholarship to continue his athletic and academic pursuits at the University of North Carolina. He participated in the Shrine Bowl and was inducted into the Winston-Salem/Forsyth County Sports Hall of Fame. That would be a pretty uncommon resume if I stopped there.

He was also an uncommon patriot. Throughout his life he took his right to vote very seriously and always exercised it, and he was very active in the campaigns of the candidates he supported. After football, he had planned on joining the Air Force to protect his nation’s freedoms as a fighter pilot. But polio set a new course for his life.

A majority of those afflicted by the polio epidemics of the late 40s and early 50s would fully recover, but the odds of surviving the rarer and more severe type of polio my father contracted were dire, and if it weren’t for the iron lung that he later jokingly blamed for his claustrophobia, someone else would’ve spoken at this service more than 50 years ago. My brother said it best when we spoke Sunday night: he, my sister and I could’ve very well never been born, and every day my father enjoyed after polio was a lucky day. But it was more than good medical care or luck, it was his toughness and his uncommon will to survive that preserved him. And I am so thankful for my father’s uncommon will to live whenever I think of my blessed life and all the years I have to look forward to with my spirited son.

I can best sum up my father’s attitude to this notion of being handicapped with an anecdote about a piece of legislation that was passed some years ago. We were watching the evening news when a story ran about a bill that would force businesses and public buildings to adopt a slew of handicapped-accessible standards. “This is great, dad,” I said. “This will make it so much easier for you to get around.” He told me he thought the bill was “Horse-” Wait a minute, we are in church. He said the bill was rather silly. My father believed that you don’t lower society’s standards to placate the lowest denominator, and that, no matter what obstacle is placed before you, you rise to meet it, to overcome it, rather than sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself. He could have used his polio-ravaged body as an excuse to syphon checks off the public trust, but my father had uncommon pride.

And though his body betrayed him, his mind never did, and that’s where he turned to make his way in this world. Growing up I never wanted for anything, and I never felt neglected by my father’s attention to his business affairs, but I also understood that his job was 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and 365 days a year. Athletes often talk about work ethic. They know that if they’re not lifting weights, running the extra lap, or shooting the extra 100 free throws after practice, someone else is. Someone is getting better, getting ahead, while they’re slacking off. My father’s mind, whether at home or at the office, never slacked off. And the dedication he had shown as an athlete, the uncommon worth ethic, translated into uncommon success in the realm of business.

And his business was a labor of love; it was the family business. It took uncommon courage for him to leave a steady paycheck at Integon, to take this huge risk with a wife and three mouths at home to feed, and join with his brothers to try to revive their parents’ struggling company. Lentz was more than revived; it thrived, and not only did it feed my wordy mouth and the mouths of my siblings, but his hard work, inspired by his uncommon dedication to provide for his family, feeds my son and will some day put him through college.

But as well all know, my father provided for more than just his kin. In 2007 alone, he gave to over 20 charities, churches, and academic institutions. His steadfast support of the American Cancer Society and the V Foundation might help save the life of someone you love. He has supported charities for the elderly, charities for wounded soldiers returning from overseas, and charities for the impoverished. His work with the Winston-Salem Foundation will send a deserving R. J. Reynolds student to college. He even donated the funds necessary to break ground for the new playground at my son’s school. But it’s not just the breadth of his generosity that is uncommon, it’s also the spirit that guided his giving. I know when I give gifts it’s tainted by extrinsic motivation; it makes me feel good. But I truly believe my father’s motivation was always purely intrinsic; he gave to make a difference and to make others happy. He never wondered what was in it for him.

It would be remiss of me not to mention the support my mother gave my father through the years. He never wanted to have to be waited on, and that stubbornness I’m sure at times made him unpleasant to serve, but even simple tasks like getting a tumbler of water or refilling his empty wine glass became increasingly painstaking as his mobility declined, and my mother was always there to serve him. But that’s understating it; she stood behind him. And I ask that as we honor him we also remain cognizant of the difficult time she has ahead of her; let’s remember to stand behind her.

Words have always come easily to me, some of you who are eager for me to shut up so we can go eat might think they come too easily and too often, but words fail me when I try to capture what an uncommon father Sam Sanders has been not only to me, but to all of us. Growing up I felt this tremendous pressure to follow in my father’s considerable footsteps. It seemed logical to me that I should take all that he had done one step further. But I’ve long ago come to grips with the fact that I’ll never be an All-American; I’ll never persevere and triumph over what, for a lesser man than my father, would’ve been insurmountable obstacles; I love my job as a humble school teacher but I know it will never pave the way to riches; and I know that I’ll never give so much and touch as many lives as he did; but, as a father, I will strive every day to live up to the example he set for me. And that’s the most uncommon praise I can offer this uncommon man.

Unfortunately, I was born too late to truly appreciate how great a man my father’s father was. I have a couple of grainy images of my grandfather in my mind’s eye, and I seem to remember that even as a toddler I understood that he commanded respect. When he spoke, I listened, even if I am unable to recall now just what he said. Since the birth of my own son I have had one recurring prayer request: I pleaded with God to let my father hold on for long enough so that my son could form a lasting bond with him. When he is my age, I want Silas to remember his grandfather. And these last few days I’ve really struggled to come to grips with why God didn’t grant my prayer request. And the words my mother spoke through a cracking voice on the phone, “He’s gone,” echo endlessly through my mind. But I know that my father loathed the prospect of losing his independence, of deteriorating to the point where he was completely beholden to others to function day to day. And I know he never wanted to lose the sharp clarity of his mind. So I am going to have to trust God’s judgment on this one. I don’t think my father would’ve wanted his grandchildren to know him as weak or confused. And yes, literally he is gone. That’s a reality I am sure I will never fully come to grips with. But yet he’s not gone so long as we keep him alive with our stories. So whenever your paths cross with Silas, or my brother’s beautiful daughter, Stephanie, I ask you to keep their grandfather alive with your stories, so they can know, like we know, what an uncommon man their grandfather is.

I teach writing. I know from listening to my students that introductions and conclusions are the hardest part. It wasn’t hard for me to get started talking about my father, but I honestly have no idea how to get to the end. I want to mention Karen Rollins again because she was so instrumental in my father’s walk of faith over his last few years. I know my dad was always a believer, but I witnessed such a change in him, a softening of his heart that I attribute largely to the spiritual search Karen shepherded him through. I was always very close to my father, but in his later years our relationship grew tremendously. The best example of this I can offer is that, rather than a rare treat doled out at a safe, manly distance, the words “I love you” became a ritualized ending to every visit home or telephone call I shared with my father. So I’ll leave you with this, proof that as stubborn as I am I did listen to my father and I learned from him. You will never regret the times you tell those close to you that you love them, but you may regret it if you don’t. I love you, dad. And I love all of you, too.