The purposeful warrior
A living tribute to Dr. Bruce Parmenter

 

[November 12, 2018] 

Dr. Bruce Parmenter and Pastor Dan Bird were friends. Good pals in service of the same good God and community. They shared a passion for hearts; laughter was key, the gateway they believed, to a cleansing of a soul. They had a knack for healing, beyond the physical.

What they lacked in hair they more than made up for in spirit. Spirits of generosity, it was the core of their commonality. They cared. They still do.

But of all the attributes and actions they had in common, above all, they learned how to live. Self-taught scholars of survival.

Dan Bird was my father, Dr. Parmenter was my father figure. And of all the wonderful they brought to this world, the community of us, their final action in common rests now in what they’re taking away…their breath.

My father did not just die in Lincoln, he lived. Like a warrior. He, and Dr. P., were aficionados of film (I’m pretty sure my dad paid rent at Lincoln’s GKC theater) and one of his favorite lines in cinema history, which he shared with Dr. P., was pulled from the epic action flick, “The 13th Warrior.” When off to battle to defend their families and land, the flick’s protagonist is handed a mammoth sword by a member of the Mighty 12, instantly he drops it sandward, stating, “It’s too heavy!” The leader of the fearless pack looks to him sternly, but with confidence, then replies, “Grow stronger.”

Those two men, two of my heroes, learned through the power of community, and remarkable wives stronger than any Kickapoo current that creek has to offer, how to grow stronger. Cancer hits? Grow stronger. Fear sets in, life gets real, Brewers go on a random wild card winning streak and a Cubs World Series Sequel gets derailed, grow, stronger.

For two fellas who flew through our existence breathing life in our wind, they sure knew how to pick up their swords. Mighty Warriors are they - Peaceful, full of bliss despite a blistering sear of physicality’s demise.

They were intent on living by example and that meant living by the same sword we all eventually fall toward - the shiny one of salvation.

I say that not as a Christian, or any sort of theology thumper, I say this, as a boy they saved.

Seeing my father live while dying saved me from the brink. It was close, it was very close, but if he could grow stronger even when his own body was working relentlessly toward an opposite, I could survive. If Dr. P. could take this hurting boy under his legendary wing after a fatherly loss of, and forthcoming ticking clock motherly demise, if he could teach me to laugh again and go to bat for me in a way few else had the guts to, then I could not only survive, I could and would, and because of him, forever thrive.

Dad saved my life. Dr. Parmenter gave it back to me. Boy, become man. Man, thrive. Pick up your sword young new man, it’s time to thrive in the stronger. And because of them, him, away we go.

Jefferson St. Christian Church, over on the corner of, hang on… Jefferson (clearly) and 21st? Yep, 21st (still got it!), those are some sacred halls there. My first visit into and through them was not exactly a picture of sanctified serene. My dad gave his life to God, for God; and that God was ripping that life right out of his body; and I, the pending prodigal was forced to watch from the showering front row of tears. His tears. Dad’s tears, his pain while growing stronger.

So being drug into a building built for prayers, that didn’t on our end seem to make it past the steeple; a building my father, my dying everything was a pastor in, was not exactly on my how to spend a Sunday wish-list.

My mother guiding me to service was liken to the classic Tom & Jerry cartoons where their inter-species scuffle went up in a cloud of fight, fist-paws and hit jaws popping in and out of the circle of smoke. It was like that. I was 22… And a half.

And then, I saw him; an angel in a preacher’s suit. The man who would take me under those heaven bound wings. I saw the person who would guide my life direction when I was so close to believing it had only one trajectory of down. It was his smile, if you’re curious what drew me to fall in love’s instant magnet, always and forever, his smile. The charm in a smile that will forever define a life Of Nice And Men. Dr. P’s lovely, welcoming smile, which will live on through eternity’s timeless clock, even after he passes past our earthly one, less than 48 hours from this writing; or so says the good doctor in charge of his dying.

He radiated happy. The moment Dr. P. heard I was Colin, son of Dan, that everlasting smile ever expanded into an igniting I’ll never forget nor ever feel worthy of. I am not. This myth of a man jolted to me as if I were some form of budding legend and could not wait to shake my hand. It was a moment made for magnificent, which some of us who threw back coffee (decaf) with him on the weekly would start to believe, was all that his moments were. Magnificent. Dr. P., magnificent he. He was light, he is love, he was full of wonderment and charm and he was exactly nine feet tall. My lovely giant among the Christian men.

Let me be as clear, as he was frank to me always, each and every member of that caring congregation fought for my joy as hard as my mother and Dr. P’s heroic wife fought for their husbands to learn to live. That church family helped define my grind.

Yet in that moment of a magnificent meeting, it was only my friend Dr. P., who I felt peace connecting with. He connected, to me. No one was there to judge or love me into the pew in order to save my eternal soul or temporary sanity, but you couldn’t convince me of that. I was on a mission of immoral. Anything with God in the title wasn’t getting my admission cash and he, the ultimate Ticket Taker whom I was treacherously introduced as, “Colin, meet Bruce, your dad’s mentor,” had me cringing for the eternal fire door faster than a sinner on Sunday, which is exactly what I willingly was, simply because, I defied any man, angelic or no, who would label humans as sinner and pedestal a Sabbath in the favor of pride.

I was in pain. Misguided in paradigm, perhaps, but I had a right to that pain and rightfully allowed it to guide me but I rightfully thank the same God I admonished, that path guided me to Bruce, mentor of Dan, father of boy, unknowingly about to become man.

Dr. P., provided the peace a hurting heart required in his band-aid smile that would morph into our friendship’s laughter on the Lincoln, IL., Cracker Barrel regular. We were like Norm and Frazier, “Cheers’ing” together up to twice a week at our favorite Logan County eatery. Decaf for him, chicken livers this guy. Cringes at my choices from his side of the table, up to two times a week.

Two of those dinner table laugh fests stand out the most as they can be landmarked as the life alter’ers. The Tuesday after dad died that he made me a chaplain. Sans Seminary status. And the Tuesday far after I paid for his meal to tell him I’d been fired from it.

“Dr. P.! Some people need rules some people need guidelines, I’m a guideline guy and I was there to care for people’s hurting hearts the same way you cared for mine!”

(Long pause. Parmenter did his patented chair-lean-back; piercing blue eyed hawked in, head tilted up, peepers down, directly into and through the now church-booted halls of mine, yet lovingly somehow into my soul … I got the sneaky suspicion this exact maneuver is how Queens and Kings of olden day tricked entire shires into waging battle on their behalf … it’s how he got me to shut up for 12 seconds … doesn’t work posthumously in run-on sentences though, does it Dr. P!? You still win.)

Dr. P.: “Colin. I want to tell you I appreciate you telling me this. You don’t have to. You don’t owe me anything.”

C: “I do, without you I’m nothing, man. You gave me this, you vouched for me, and I …”

Dr. P.: “Colin, you don’t owe me anything.”

C: “I owe you everything. I’ll always owe you everything.”

I cried. He held me. The livers and the decaf went unfinished. It was our final Tuesday.

Hollywood bound by that week’s end we’d by year’s end continue to call in for regular check-ins. Never reminiscent as much as forward focused. I’d altered from pudgy podium preacher dude to die hard endurance mountain runner, “To quote your dad, ‘that’s amazing’ just try not to go places with things bigger, faster or hungrier than you.”

I made no promises. Except to fulfill my purpose. Bruce Parmenter was the one, the magician of magnificent, who introduced me to the credence of that word. Purpose. He set my passionate heart ablaze, setting me forth on my mission of positive morale. He’d remind me how at our Cracker Barrel laugh fests (we paid rent there), I was “Just like my father.” Open jaw stunned at how, I suppose, I treated each employee, the way, I suppose Dr. P., treated me. How dad treated all. Jolting to them as if they were some form of budding legend. They were. Are.

My passion for hearts superseded a seminary and that is exactly why Dr. P., a literal legend, had the guts to stand up for and make me, me. I was a Nursing Home Chaplain, ‘cuz an angel in a preacher’s suit saw to it I could. He saw what I, and my father saw in Logan County’s grandest grilled-liver stand’s hardest workers, he saw heart.

I may be nothing; messed up more times than I’ve blindly gotten it right. But I will go to my grave next to dad’s, next to mom, proudly right along Dr. P’s, eternal friends we, stating that my heart beats for the healing of others. It’s why I write movies, it’s why I wrote a book, and why the only reason a clunky lil’ Sunday sinner like me gets to write a TV Show about experiences Dr. P., provided me. He is nine feet tall.

Yesterday I got the call. It seems like yesterday, anyone who’s lost their anyone knows the ticking time clock drill: “Your father is dead.” Yesterday I got the call, “Your TV Show is good to go (one based on the book, based on the life Parmenter gave me) pending a weekend rewrite.” Anyone who’s been touched by a Parmenter, an angel in an every-person suit, we know we’ve a weekend’s worth of life-long rewrite work to do. Three days leaning toward eternal.

I, in my great nothing, send off Dr. P., with love and loyalty into his great igniting. He sat staring, hawk-eyed as a warrior giant, peaceful in his guts-enough to have my passionate back. He sent me off into this weekend rewrite for a Hollywood show with him as the heart and soul.

My father and my father figure were friends. Walking through Kickapoo Creek Park, a ’la Tolkien and Lewis conversing under falling leaves unmatched by Lincoln’s fall, yet comparable to a salvation sword of power they, we, all fall toward. The shiny spear aimed toward purpose.
 

Bruce Parmenter gave me life. And as much as I’d love to go on about it, I’ve a rewrite to tend to. I’ve a dream come true to fulfill. Purpose, paved by him, my nine foot hero who looked to me sternly, but with confidence, and said, “I believe in you.” He’s a warrior, a smiling gateway for souls geared for cleansing. And every Lincoln life has grown stronger in his peaceful, powerful, eternal, purpose. “Dr. Purpose.”

[Colin Bird]