My Dad

My father was Robert R. Schmoll. He hated his middle name, so Bob it is.

He was one of those rare men who could do almost anything, and do it well. A professional musician, he played piano, organ, and electric accordion with skill and panache. Even the accordionists on Lawrence Welk would have had to work to keep up with him. For decades he played every Sunday at our Baptist church, accompanying hymns and cantatas, sometimes slipping a quiet touch of classical music into the offertory.

Bob earned a PhD in Education through distance learning long before computers or online classes existed. He invented educational games and donated the profits to missionaries. He taught himself stained glass, progressing from small lampshades to designing and installing a large window for our church, one that still floods the sanctuary with color today.

He was a gifted gardener and amateur landscape architect. He built a retaining wall from chopped-up telephone poles so he could grow espaliered apple trees. My arms still remember the creosote itch from hauling those heavy segments. He was the family mechanic too: oil changes, brake jobs, carburetor rebuilds, all done in the garage because, to him, that was simply what a man did. I grew up assuming every father had that same set of skills. Pulling into Jiffy Lube still gives me a slight twinge of guilt.

At the center of everything was his faith. He taught Sunday school for years with warmth, humility, and a gentle spirit that drew people in rather than pushing them away. Decades later, people still stop me to tell me how deeply he touched their lives.

Cancer took him far too early. Near the end, I sat beside his hospital bed watching the light fade from his eyes from pain, death approaching. Suddenly, his eyes cleared, his mind cleared, and he was there, all the way there. He looked straight at me, gave a small half-smile and a wink, as if to say, all is well, son. Don’t worry. He died a few days later.

That is how I remember him: capable, steady, faithful, and full of life. His spirit and deep faith still shape me. Thanks, Dad. All is well.