Memories of my father

Dad Nate Note Dave (high)My father (Richard C. Lamb, senior) passed away yesterday (Feb 10, 2018). 

While it wasn’t a shock, he was 84 and in hospice, we are still really sad.

I have hundreds, but I’ll share only three memories of dad here.

When I was young Dad would play ping-pong with me and my brothers.  Most fathers in these situations would show compassion to their young children as they learned the basics of the game, letting them win points, get close, perhaps even “win” the game.  In this regard, Dad was not like most fathers.  He would say, “I’m going to beat you 21-0!”  He would then proceed to beat me…21-0.  Perhaps not compassionate in this regard, but honest.  I learned about competition from my father.

When I was in grade school, my father switched fields of research, from high energy physics (think quarks) to gamma ray astrophysics (think quasars).  When I told people what my dad did, I liked to say, “It’s not rocket science.  It’s far more complicated than that.”  At the time of my dad’s research transition, I didn’t really understand why he did it, but I knew it was a big deal, highly risky professionally.  For biblical scholars, it would be like switching from the Old Testament to the New Testament.  Mom later explained it me.  Dad’s high energy research required him to make a lot of trips back to Argonne National Lab (outside Chicago), which meant he was traveling a lot, far more than he wanted to.  Doing astrophysics gave him more time at home, more time with his family (more time to beat his sons in ping-pong).  I loved having time with dad growing up.  I learned about fathering from my father.

When mom was battling Alzheimer’s, dad took care of her for years at their home, until it became dangerous for mom.  Finally, mom moved over to Richmond Place (in Lexington, KY) where they had more resources.  Whenever my family and I would go to visit them, dad would often say, “Let’s go over to Richmond Place and visit Jane.”  He would drive over to see her 2-3 times a day, seven days a week.  At the end of her life he would feed her, tease her, sing to her–some how make her smile.  Dad’s college roommate at MIT was from Northfield, Minnesota, so dad learned the St. Olaf fight song, which he taught to mom.  Because of the development of her Alzheimer’s, at their 50th anniversary celebration mom could no longer converse, interact, or really engage with anyone.  But she could still stare into dad’s eyes and sing harmony, to his melody.  They sang,
We come from St. Olaf…
Um Ya Ya, Um Ya Ya,
Um Ya Ya, Um Ya Ya,
Um Ya Ya, Um Ya Ya,
Um Ya Ya, Ya.

They really loved each other.  I learned about husbanding from my father.

Dad loved competition.  He loved his children.  He loved his wife.  But most significantly, he loved Jesus.  We’re sad and we miss him.


The Uncle I Never Met

Robert Maurice Oldham Grave MarkerIn November of 1944, in the US, Franklin Roosevelt had just won his fourth term as president. In Western Europe, Allied forces were gradually retaking land from the Nazis (the Battle of the Bulge began the following month). In the South Pacific, US planes were bombing Singapore and Tokyo while US aircraft carriers (Lexington, Intrepid) were being attacked by kamikazes.

Also, in November 1944, a Private (First Class) in the US Army Signal Corp died in an accident, a gas explosion in the South Pacific (a not uncommon occurrence in military contexts). His name was Robert Maurice Oldham. He had just turned 21 (his birthday was Sept. 11).

He was also my uncle, my mom’s older brother.  I was born in 1962, so I never met him. He is buried in the Lexington Cemetery in Lexington, Kentucky, next to my mom’s parents.

Dad at Oldham Grave SiteSeventy years after his death, in November of 2014, my father and I visited his grave site and that’s when I took these photos.

On Memorial Day, my family and I remember his service to our country.

Noah’s Trip to Haiti (Part 2)

Noah on ground with kidsMy son Noah spent 9 days in Haiti last month with friends from our church, working at an orphanage. I posted the first half of his letter yesterday to donors (click here for post).  Here is the 2nd half of his letter.  

I wished we had gone back to the disabled orphanage, but we had other things planned.  We spent most of our days visiting another larger orphanage in the mountains. The team would drive up in the morning, spend the day, and then return to the compound for dinner. I became very close to many of the kids there. Evens would borrow my sunglasses and watch every morning, and make sure I got them back at the end of every day. Lele and Bebe were brothers, but I probably spent more time with Lele. Lele and Kenn loved to be carried and they loved to make me carry both of them at the same time and walk around staggering with their weight. Cynthia loved to play tag and get into tickle fights. Roberto and Robinson were tricksters. When I first met them, they kept saying they were the other person. I also enjoyed a game of “basketball” with Robinson by seeing who could throw a ball highest against a wall. Eveloude liked to be given high speed piggyback rides. I found out late in the week that she had been a restavec, or a slave girl, and escaped to the orphanage not long before our arrival. She was not yet a Christian and at twelve years old, she could not read. By the end of the week she said “Jesus loves you” in English.

One of my favorite ways to connect to the kids was to push them on the swings. I developed an elaborate routine. I would raise a child up, and ruthlessly blow on the back of their necks until they were giggling uncontrollably, and then release them pushing them as needed. Next I would stand in front of them in the path of the swing, and run out of the way right before their feet hit me. The kids loved it. Too much even, and I would need to maintain up to six swing at a time. Looking back on it, I realized my dad played with me in the same way. When I was very young he would push me down a hill in a stroller and screaming “out of control baby stroller,” or when I was a little older he would swing me upside-down and yelling “pendulum research.” I had been given an opportunity to be a father to the fatherless. I could only show love for a few of the seventy kids there, and I was only there for a week, but I like to think I showed some kids that they were loved, by us and by God.

Thank you again, – Noah

Noah w Eveloude

Noah’s Trip to Haiti (Part 1)

Noah and kids 1Our son Noah (17) spent 9 days in Haiti last month with a group from our church helping at an orphanage (Our older son, Nathan, went there 2 years ago.)  Some of these children became orphans after the 2010 earthquake (see my blog on Aftershock).  Here is the first half of the letter he sent to people who supported him.  I hope you are as moved as I was.

I wanted thank you so much for your prayer and support for my trip to Haiti. God protected us, and my team enjoyed safety and health. It was an amazing experience that changed my life and reached out to the lives of 68 orphaned children. Without you, this would not have been possible.  Thank you.

As soon as we arrived, I was hit by two things: heat and poverty. People crowded us at the airport asking to help us carry our bags, looking for whatever work they could find. After a ride in a Haitian style bus called a Tap-tap on roads with crazy driving, we arrived at the compound. We arrived before dinner and had time to unpack, unwind, and talk to the missionary who ran the orphanages, Greg Barshaw.

The next day we visited the disabled orphanage. The kids were very interested in my watch; they crowded around and wanted to push the buttons. They were content with the simple things, just standing there pushing a button, hearing a beep, and seeing a number change. I wish I could be as happy as these children over a little thing like that. After playing with the kids for a few minutes, Greg told us to gather around one orphan in a wheel chair. He looked barely responsive, and had a large cast around one leg. Greg said his name was Daniel, and he suffered from cerebral palsy. But as if being a poor orphaned child with a disability wasn’t enough, Daniel broke his femur when a therapist was trying to stretch it out. They operated on him without pain medicine and set the bone. I looked at Daniel and thought of the all the pain and loss, and wondered how it could be worth it. How could it be worth it to pull through all that pain to live in a wheel chair, unable to speak, unable to control your own body? Most of the group moved on to entertain other kids, but I stayed with Daniel and wrestled with this question.

One of our leaders, Andrew, began to hold his hand. After a little while, Daniel smiled. He was happy. In his horrible condition, he was happy, holding Andrew’s hand. In that moment, I knew why God put me in Haiti.