For my Dad

My Dad, James J. Harmon Jr., died last Friday morning, Nov. 23, after a short bout with lung cancer. I wrote the following eulogy for him. Thanks to everyone for the many prayers. God heard you and supplied us with every consolation. -Bill

A man’s soul is a garden whose beauty is cultivated over the course of his life by the things he does while in his body. What we say about ourselves doesn’t matter nearly as much as what we do because we often don’t know ourselves very well. The person we imagine ourselves to be can be quite different than the person we actually are. It is the way we live and especially the way we treat people (loved ones and strangers alike) that determines the nature of the garden of our souls.

I knew my dad intuitively as a child since children tend to know things directly without the burden of overthinking them. I simply *knew* him. He was my world – a very safe garden where I knew I was loved and cared for. Of course, this was the work of God, Dad, and Mom, but today we are remembering Dad. Sadly, as is often the case, I forsook this safe garden during my “rebel without a clue” years, and wandered away. But God, in His great mercy, patiently led me back, and as a young adult I began to understand something of the beauty and depth of the soul of my father. I’ve spent the past 30 years or so observing his way of life in the various arenas of marriage, career, family life, spiritual life, countless projects around the house, lifelong friendships, and of course – his beloved game of golf. For the next few minutes I’d like to share with you three of the beautiful flowers I managed to pluck from the garden of his soul. These are just a few of the ones I have. Mom obviously has the largest collection, and my sisters and brother have their own distinct bouquets. And all of you, who got to know Dad a little or a lot, have your own collection. In my mind’s eye, I can see Dad’s Guardian Angel gathering all these flowers, from each one of us, and weaving them into a fragrant and beautiful set of clothes that Dad will wear as he comes before the great judgment seat of Christ. I am confident that whatever sins he committed, whether voluntary or involuntary, will be completely overwhelmed by the fragrance of his life which was lived by faith in His God and Savior Jesus Christ.

One of my earliest memories of him was when I was about four years old. I was earnestly informing him that my greatest ambition in life was to be a garbage man. To this day, I can feel the intensity of his response. He didn’t pat me on the head, tell me how cute I was and laugh, and he didn’t ignore me. He took me seriously. That’s what sticks with me – he took a four year old seriously. Can you comprehend the power that has in the life of a child? Of course he understood that I was a child and was thinking like a child – but he took the time to care for my soul that day. He took the time to transplant something beautiful from his soul to mine which he continued to water throughout his entire life. I’m not sure what to call it, but this plant has a beauty born of self-respect and a fragrance that reminds me that human worth comes from being created in God’s image, and can never be completely destroyed by our many sins. This plant has had a powerful healing power for me, enabling me to get up again and again after falling flat on my face. Because my Dad planted and nurtured this in me, my failures have never been able to keep me down for long. Thanks Dad.

The second flower was one I plucked during the 60’s. I learned a great deal about my Dad as I “helped” him transform our cold, dank basement into a comfy and warm living space. It was the early 60’s when we started because I remember Diana Ross, Sam the Sham, Herman’s Hermits, and even the Monkees – to name a few – spewing out of a poor little aluminum box which tried mightily to imitate an AM radio. And if I remember correctly, the Vietnam war was drawing to a close when we finally finished. (Dad is not one to rush). I use the word “helped”, and “we” figuratively because I did little more than hold wood while he cut it, hammer a few nails in, fill nail holes with putty-sticks, and nod my head in mock understanding as he would calculate the angle and length of the next cut in his head and ask me if he was right. “Uh-huh. Sounds good to me Dad”, I’d say, silently praying he wouldn’t ask me to repeat what he just said since I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. The fact that he asked me, and never embarrassed me with a follow-up question, astounded me. He made me feel like an assistant, even though I knew I really wasn’t. He demonstrated the value of measuring twice and cutting once. He demonstrated that the inside joint of wood molding located on the inside corner of a dark closet, which no one would ever see, needed to be mitered just as precisely as the most visible exterior wall molding. He demonstrated that it was important to always clean up after you work and return tools to their proper place so you could find them when you needed them again. And he demonstrated that satisfaction comes from the work itself and not from someone gushing about “what a beautiful job you’ve done!” He passed these things on to me amidst sweat, frustration, and big smiles when something fit “just right” rather than philosophizing about a good “work-ethic” or lecturing me about proper sawing techniques. He apprenticed me and though I still haven’t incorporated many of these things into my life, I will never stop trying because these memories of Dad nourish me and his scent is all over them. The fragrance of my Dad’s garden is ever with me, inspiring me to be a better person. Once again – thanks Dad.

The third flower I want to share with you is one I plucked just five short years ago. Dad and Mom flew out to Portland, OR to attend my wedding. It didn’t matter to them that this wasn’t my first marriage, or that I had recently become an Orthodox Christian and would be getting married in the midst of strange rituals, hundreds of icons, candles, incense and prayers intoned by an elderly priest that seemingly would never end. My dad was all smiles, happy for Sandy and me. I overheard him at our reception saying, “What a great day! This is really great!” His love and never-failing confidence in me (actually in God Who he had entrusted me to years ago) warmed my heart. But it was a question he asked me in the Sunday School room where we were getting dressed for the wedding that I remember most fondly. Let me set the stage a little.

For those of you unacquainted with Orthodox Christianity, our churches are covered with icons (stylized paintings) of Christ and hundreds of saints that the Church remembers throughout the year in her services. Nearly all the men in icons have beards, mostly untrimmed and a little wild looking. As I was getting dressed in my tux I noticed Dad looking around at the icons hanging on the wall of the Sunday School room. The date was Nov 3, 2002 – just a little over a year after 9/11. He looked at me with a furrowed brow and sincerely asked, “Why do all these guys look like terrorists?” I thought it was a fair question, and frankly, one I didn’t have a quick answer for. Dad had the simple honesty and curiosity of a child. He never ceased asking questions and was single-minded in his pursuit of the truth. He wasn’t afraid of truth because he was confident that true truth (if you know what I mean) always provides a glimpse of the true God Who revealed himself most clearly in the person of Jesus, the Christ, the 2nd person of the Trinity. Dad could care less if his questions were perceived by others as being irreverent or impious. He knew his God well enough to know that the truth of a matter only made the vision of God clearer. I think he simply wanted to know if his son had gotten mixed up in some sort of religion that venerated terrorists. I didn’t mind him asking me at all. I do like to imagine that the saints who Dad accused of looking like terrorists will be teasing him a bit about his comment once he gets settled in to his new environment. Many of them were martyred because they shared Dad’s disdain for religiosity, false piety, and tyranny disguised as “love”. They too made impertinent comments and dared to speak up and ask embarrassing questions of those in power who were leading others astray. Thanks for looking out for me Dad.

I’ll end by quoting the lyrics of a song that I’m pretty sure Dad would “get”. It’s called “Shut it Tight” by T-Bone Burnett. Perhaps you recognize the name – he produced the music for the movie, “Brother Where Art Thou”. What you may not know is that T-Bone is a Christian and this song in particular sums up a Christian life pretty well I think.


I find it hard sometimes to say the way that I feel
I do the very things I hate to do
I act like a child and I'm afraid of what is real
And so I try to cover up the truth

I stumble like a drunk along this crazy path I walk
I have a hundred thousand questions too
I'll go to any length to prove that nothing is my fault
Then later on I will deny the proof

I don't like to win but then again I hate to lose
And in between is something I can't stand
I don't care what you think and I hope that you approve
I am just an ordinary man

Sometimes I want to stop and crawl back into the womb
And sometimes I cannot tell wrong from right
But I ain't gonna quit until I'm laid in my tomb
And even then they better shut it tight

We will be with each other again Dad, when Christ returns and raises us all from the dead. Continue to pray for those you have left behind until that day. We still need your prayers. I love you Dad.

Grant rest O Lord, to the soul of Thy servant James, who has fallen asleep.

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Obituary from the Bluefield Daily Telegraph, Nov. 26, 2007

James J. Harmon, Jr.

BLUEFIELD, Va. — James J. Harmon, Jr., 80, of 108 South Lane, Bluefield, Va., died Friday, Nov. 23, 2007 at Bluefield Regional Medical Center in Bluefield.

He was born at Jenkinjones and was a son of the late James J. Harmon, Sr., and Virginia White Harmon.

Mr. Harmon was a 1953 graduate of Virginia Tech, receiving his B.S. degree with honors in Electrical Engineering. He was a member of Phi Kappa Phi and Eta Kappa Nu fraternities at Va. Tech. He was retired from Appalachian Power Co. after 36 years of service, was a Licensed Professional Engineer (PE), member of the United States Golf Association and Virginia State Golf Association. He had served in the U.S. Army during the Korean War and was a member of the American Legion, and was a member of the Graham Presbyterian Church in Bluefield, Va.

In addition to his parents he was preceded in death by sisters, Evelyn Durham and Helen Shawver.

He is survived by his wife, Ruth Mae McGuire Harmon; two sons, Bill Harmon and wife Sandy of Vancouver, Wash., Mark Harmon and wife Cindy of Loomis, Calif.; two daughters, Mary Ruth Thomson and husband John of Crozet, Va., Susan Harmon of Crozet, Va.; brother, Ernie Harmon and wife Nellie of Chilhowie, Va.; sisters, Dorothy Kensinger and husband, Babe of Bluefield, Sue McCann and husband, Jim of Lansdale, Pa., Shirley Brooks of Bluefield, Va.; grandchildren, Brian Bechtolt and wife Denise, Matthew Harmon, Emily Templeton and husband, Mike, Ana Harmon and Dylan Harmon; two great-grandchildren, Eva Bechtolt and Vince Templeton.

Funeral services will be held Tuesday, Nov. 27, 2007 at 11:00 a.m. at the Dudley Memorial Chapel in Bluefield, Va., with the Rev. Curtis Murray officiating. Burial will follow in the Maple Hill Cemetery.

Pallbearers will be Herman St.Clair, Brad McIntosh, Dr. Dave Kovach, H.K. Cutlip, John Thomson and Mark Brewster.

Friends may call today from 6 to 8 p.m. at the Dudley Memorial Mortuary in Bluefield, Va.