Eulogy to Rev. Wayne E. Wattman

By Rick Wattman, Eldest Son, 26 March 2019
Delivered at Gladwin Heights United Church, Abbotsford, BC, Canada

I’m here to share remembrances, reflections, and impressions on behalf of my siblings about our dad, the Reverend Wayne E. Wattman. For particular historical details, we have provided a chronology of sorts in the bulletin, so I will focus on some of our shared memories.

Celebration of Life, 26 March 2019, Gladwin Heights UC, Abbotsford, BC

I am but one of his four children, and we each had different experiences in our time with him in our lives. We were each deeply impacted when he left our family, each in his or her own ways. These were difficult realities.

We have not merely survived these challenges. We have seen them transformed, renewed, and made new into treasures in our lives. Our relationships with him were completely renewed to become strong and healthy and whole and loving.

So I am here today to testify to the power and lasting comfort of our dad’s love; to the source of that love, which was in his relationship with God, whom he faithfully served for over seventy seven years, more than fifty years as a minister; and to the grace and forgiveness Dad received, modeled, and extended to us and to everyone around him as long as we knew him.

I feel fortunate that Dad was a part of most of my childhood, but it was less so for my siblings. For all of us he remained our dad. We recognized later that through visits, letters, and phone calls he was still intimately connected to us, and his influence in our lives remained constant. When he moved to the Abbotsford area, after he had already lived in Canada ten years, he became part of your communities and your lives, and so remained for over three decades. He built a full life here, with his wife Diann of 31 years, her family, and friends here today. As such, it is equally important that we hear stories of Wayne from you, which we hope you will share after the service. This is part of the reason we want to be with you here today, to honor our dad, and to bridge these two parts of his life.

Now, it may or may not come as a surprise to you that it is difficult to grow up as a preacher’s kid in a small town. He—and we—were known to everyone in each community. We were recognized and addressed by one and all, adults and peers alike. He was a community icon, and as his child I felt the community’s microscopic scrutiny. Sometimes it was embarrassing. But we also felt safe and secure to be known and cared for all over town. 

Our life with Dad was intimately involved with the churches he shepherded. Community outings to cut Christmas trees in the forest; progressive dinners; having several hundred parents* to watch over us every day. There were meetings, services, hospital visits, conferences, home visits, people stopping by the house, sermons to write. His time was rarely his own. And yet. 

* My siblings commented that there weren’t really this many people in the church.

I cannot remember a SINGLE TIME when he ever said to me, “Not now son, I’m too busy.” He was ALWAYS available to us. We could pop into his office at home or at church, unannounced, and always be welcomed warmly. He would offer us his full attention, and open his schedule to whatever we needed, whether to go bowling, or to play a game of ping pong in the fellowship hall, or just to sit and chat or pass the time. 

We were also welcome on the platform of the church on Sunday mornings, even in the middle of his sermon, if that’s what we needed. He was not embarrassed to have his children at his feet, (see Marian’s poem in the bulletin insert). He made space and time for us, and we felt like royalty, as if Jesus Himself had said, “Let the children come to me.” If I was struggling to write a school paper at the last minute, he would stay up with me late into the night, guiding and helping me to shape my thoughts. He would interview me, asking me what I really wanted to say, then if necessary, type up my words. If I had a scouting or a school project, his carpentry, or artistic, or handyman, or photographic skills were ready to—and did—come into play. 

As if it weren’t difficult enough being a preacher’s kid in a small town, we were always late to everything. I remember numerous occasions rushing around to be places on time, and never succeeding. This was doubly embarrassing for me as a young boy, as Dad was usually leading the event, or singing, or speaking… and we had to traipse up to the head table in front of all the waiting people. As a pre-teen, I was sometimes embarrassed even to be seen with him, afraid that  some “older woman” would approach and pinch my cheek in the grocery store, exclaiming, “Oh, you’re just like your dad!” I now consider that to be a treasure and high praise indeed, as do all my siblings. We frequently recognize ways in which this is true: we are in fact like him.

He also made sure we knew he believed in us, and that he loved us, even though he and our mother were no longer together. I will never forget his voice saying to me, “I am proud of you son. I have no doubt you will succeed in whatever you set out to do.” One time, even as I was still figuring out what to feel about my parents’ divorce, I was crushed when a long term relationship of my own ended. I literally shocked myself when I realized that the ONE person I wanted to talk to about it was my dad. And somehow, across the miles, he made it happen. As I poured out my broken heart to him across the table at the Crab Shack in Portland, I was comforted and amazed at his influence in my life, in spite of myself. He still had the words and the love and the time for me. And I was still ready to receive them. He was still my dad.

Wayne truly was a people person—this is no mystery to anyone here. Dad could make almost anyone feel comfortable and important, simply by taking a genuine interest in them. He could find things in common with complete strangers wherever he was. The stories in our family are replete with trips from point A to point B for a stated purpose, which were interrupted, suspended, or paused, for a significant, though unplanned conversation, with someone he just happened to meet, run into, or had found a common connection with. Each of us kids had to cool our heels, fidgeting in a hospital lobby, or an office, or even in the car, waiting for Dad. 

A classic example of this was on one of our many cross-country car camping trips from the West Coast where we lived, to Wisconsin, where both my parents were raised. We had stopped at a grocery store in a small out-of-the-way town, for a box of breakfast cereal for our camping supplies. We all stayed in the car, so Dad could simply run in and run out without having to keep track of everybody. Then we could quickly continue on our way. However, after we had waited a long, long time in the parking lot, he came out and told us casually that he had been chatting with some old school friend who just happened to be working there, 2,000 miles from anywhere, and they had simply lost track of the time.

To this end, I suspect that part of the reason we were late everywhere, and that his sermons were typed up late on Saturday night, rather than during office hours, was that he was busy being Dad with all of us, all week long. And he was also available to his congregation—or anybody else in the community with a need—all the rest of the time. This could be finding a meal or a place to sleep for a homeless person passing through; assisting the police with an investigation; fixing something at the church; or providing a safe and friendly listening ear.

As kids, we loved his singing… who else in town has a Dad who is able to sing in front of an audience? He had a beautiful voice, and was willing to share it widely, whether as part of the choir in his church, or a soloist for special music, striding across the platform to sing, then striding back to continue preaching. He also performed at weddings and funerals; at civic events such as Rotary Club; and in concerts or plays, such as “HMS Pinafore.” One song I remember him practicing repeatedly at home was “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” One time, he invited my sister Marian as a young child to sing this song as a duet with him. This song was often requested for funerals and other special events. Our family would also sing together in the car on long road trips, which helped to pass the interminable miles. “Side by Side,” “We Ain’t Got a Barrel of Money,” “Skidamarink,” “By the Light of the Silvery Moon,” and “She’ll be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” were among our favorites.

It wasn’t all about public life with Dad. At home he made time for several significant games with us, the memory of which we treasure. When it was time to mow the lawn, he would first mow a maze through the grass, with a wide spot for home base and another for prison. Then we would play cat and mouse, he always the cat, chasing us as mice, trying to outrun him to retrieve the cheese (a pile of cut grass) without being tagged, and freeing those who had been tagged and were in prison. After the exhausting fun, the grass still had to be mowed, which, upon adult reflection, made much more work for him. All this with a push mower no less. But he was willing to make the sacrifice for our mirth.

We had a delightful game called “Lie Perfectly Still.” We were instructed to lie on the floor and to lie perfectly still, so he could purportedly walk away to do something. We, of course were incapable of doing so. As we moved in violation, he would fuss and start, “Oh!” exclaiming with our every twitch, and attempt to settle our out-of-place hands and feet. Eventually we would be writhing like earthworms, and giggling breathlessly as he gave up in good-natured exasperation.

He also shared a love of fishing with our grandfather, and patiently taught us, helping us bait a hook or tie on a fly, and waited patiently with us in our (often fruitless) attempts to “land the big one.”

There are countless other things I could relate, but one of my favorite memories is one we shared with all the other kids at Vacation Bible School. He would gather us on the lawn, and take us on an imaginary Lion Hunt. We would sit enthralled as he took us through fields, over hills, across rivers, and safely back home after being frightened by confronting a lion in our minds! Breathless we would beg for just one more. Everyone loved it. And that was MY DAD!

With all these treasured childhood memories, it was traumatic when it ended for us with our parents’ divorce. My wife tells me that every child of divorce wants his or her parents to get back together. I personally had a bit of a crisis of faith, trying to understand how God could allow this. And further how Dad could return to the ministry.

Enter God. Over time, God worked in each of our hearts, first to confirm that He had not abandoned us, then to restore in us a love for ourselves and for our earthly father. Dad had a part in that, patiently and painfully waiting for each of us in our own time to understand, to accept, to forgive, to heal, and to move forward.

When we laid Dad’s body to rest in Portland, we reflected on his own words from one of his sermons. He wrote in part: [Full text of the sermon is here.]

I remember my very first Vacation Bible School well. The place was the elementary schoolhouse in Bennett, Wisconsin, … the only place large enough to accommodate all the kids, and besides it had a ball diamond. It was on this ball diamond that I slid into 2nd base and tore up my knee pretty badly, courtesy of a rusty nail, and I still have the scar to show for it. It was also the time I memorized more Bible verses than anybody else in my class, 72 of them to be exact, and I got some medal or pin, long gone; and 71 of those verses are long-gone, too, except one, 2 Cor. 5:17, a verse that has been, like the scar, with me ever since.

In this verse, Paul lets us know that God has promised to make all things new in Christ, including the messes we make out of our lives. 

For me, it came down to recognizing that whatever the reasons were that my parents didn’t stay together, God in His infinite wisdom and power, had allowed it, and promised to “make it new.”    We see how love has been wrought in many churches, communities, and in our larger blended family. It is hard to begrudge sharing Dad with others… including those family and friends present today. And so I trust God, who sees all things, over my own limited sight and wisdom, that of all the possible universes, THIS is the one which He determined would bring Him the most glory, and be the best for those who are called according to His purpose. 

As we celebrate the life of Wayne Erick Wattman, we must also celebrate the power of God’s redeeming love to make all things new. We celebrate the One who gave life to our father’s limitless love, and drove him to share it selflessly with countless others throughout his life. This is after all, a day of celebration, not merely of mourning. For if we cannot find joy that Wayne has entered his peace and eternal wholeness with his Lord; if we cannot celebrate with joy and laughter all he has meant to us, while we are still mourning the loss of his presence here; then we have missed the point Dad made so clearly with his life: that God, who is sovereign and supreme, does have the power to—and will indeed—make all things new.

Thank you God, for allowing Wayne E. Wattman to be our dad, my first pastor, my friend. For sharing him with others. For calling him into your service, and for now, in your timing, calling him into your presence. I love you Dad. I love you Lord. Amen.