Thankful for John

John H. Edinger, Jr., my stepfather
(Jan 5, 1940 - Dec 24, 2010)

Forty Christmases ago, I was given a new father.  John Edinger, my stepfather since December 26, 1970, entered my life when I was twelve years old.

For Christmas this past year, John was taken away. Quite suddenly so.  Gone in a flash, in an incident no one saw coming, two hundred and sixty-three miles away, at his home in Mount Airy, North Carolina.  I learned of it in a Christmas Day phone call from my brother, Jack.

We had his funeral to start the new year.  In four more days, John would have turned 71.

How fortunate I have been to have enjoyed these last 40 years knowing this man.  Selfless is one of the best words that describes him.  He gave me so much, taught me so much more, and left before I could hardly even begin to repay him.

He was the anchor of our family, our splintered family.  When we were broken, he put us back together again.  He set the example.  He was patient with us -- without hiding his impatience.  In this time of shock and grief, it is a comfort to think back on things, little things that John did with us, things that he taught us, and things that he said.

I remember that huge Buick LeSaber he was driving back when he and Mom were married, big as a battleship.  I remember the family trips we took, the cigars he smoked (which made me sick to my stomach as a rode along in the back seat).   John let me drive that when I got my learner's permit.  John told me that a car could kill me faster than a bullet.  That was his way of telling me to drive carefully.

John taught me how to play chess, and what a great sense of accomplishment I had the day I finally beat him for the first time!  He taught me about golf, especially the rules.  He taught me baseball.  John probably knew more inside baseball stuff than any man on Earth who was not professionally involved in the sport.  He subscribed to Sports Illustrated, when I was younger.  His knowledge, which he willingly and selflessly shared with me, opened to me the whole world of sports -- each game, the personalities, the rules, the history.

He was my math tutor, my reading teacher, and my guide through so many things.  He taught me stamp and coin collecting.  We talked military stuff when we were together. He was always opening new doors for me.  And when I left home, he didn't stop being a father to me.  He was interested in my Army career, always wanting to know about my assignments, my training, and my experiences.  He visited me at Fort Gordon and at Fort Huachuca.  We had many a long conversation, sometimes by phone, sometimes in his office, and sometimes--the best times--when we went out for breakfast together.  We bought books for each other.  It was because of John that I learned to love reading.  He knew so much about so many things.

Death puts a sudden and final stop to these things.  Death operates entirely on its own schedule.  Death has no conscience and thinks nothing of snatching loved ones away from us before we can even think to say good-by to them.  How glad I am, therefore, that I told John, in a letter several years ago, a little bit of how thankful I was that he came into our life.  I told him of how fortunate I felt that my I and my brothers (and my mother, also) were to have had him all the years up until then.  I would write the same thing to him today, only it would require me to recount many more things for which, by his hand, we might feel grateful for.  And I told him that it was always his face that came to mind whenever I read that passage in the first chapter of the Gospel of John, that "there was a man sent from God, whose name was John."

There will never be another Christmas to share with John.  All the Christmases from now on will be spent, to some degree, in trying to be more like him.

                            (Thanksgiving, by George Winston)