Coming home – the story of my father
BY ANTHONY CASTLE
I want to tell a story about my father, but I am unsure which story to choose.
It is my first Father’s Day since my father, Greg Castle, passed away. In the seven weeks since we lost my father, I have found myself sharing stories about him. We often share stories about those we’ve lost. You might share the dates and details of their lives, the biography, but often, you need something more. Sometimes, you need a story to reflect on who they were, to honour their memory.
My father was a man with many stories. There are stories he told, and stories that have been told about him, but I have been thinking about two stories in particular since he passed. In thinking about how to honour his memory, I have been unsure of which to choose.
The first story is of a boy, standing at a front door in the dark, all alone, far from home. The boy is six years old, left at the door of a city pub at night, waiting for his parents who are inside. Someone sees the boy and asks are you lost? The stranger gives the boy a gift. It is a picture, an image of Christ, knocking at the door. The boy keeps that gift and tells the story for the rest of his life.
The second story is of another a boy, who opens his front door, leaves his home, and walks into the dark. The boy is six years old, running away from home in the suburbs, after sunset. Someone sees the boy and asks where are you going? It is his father, who follows the boy, picking him up and carrying him home. The boy remembers that story for the rest of his life.
The first story is about my father, six years old, in 1948, waiting at the front step of a pub in the city of Adelaide. The stranger who sees him is a woman from The Salvation Army, the gift a gospel tract. My father pinned the picture of Christ above his bed as a child and told that story over and over for years.
The second story is about me, six years old in 1988, running away from home at dusk, running into the dark. I haven’t been able to choose between these stories since I’ve lost my father. These stories seem so different, but in thinking about who he was to me, I haven’t been able to separate them.
My father had known loss and difficulty in his early years, in his post-war home. There was tragedy and addiction in his own father’s life, and it was The Salvation Army that reached out to that lost household, inviting that family on a journey out of that difficulty.
In the wake of that, my father chose to live a different story to the one he had been given, through his faith, through his service to others, through the home he built. My father’s story was one of coming out of the dark, as it was for his father, too, over time.
Across his life, my father became known for reaching out to others and inviting them in. He befriended neighbours, helped strangers, opened his home. He was a volunteer leader at The Salvation Army for decades.
“Every Sunday of my childhood, my father would go to the church in the city, open the front doors, turn on the lights, and welcome people home. Every Sunday. No matter what.”
I have been thinking about these two particular stories in the weeks since he died, unable to separate them. I think I have been unable to separate these stories because they are the same story. They are the same story, over time; the boy in the dark, far from home, became the father who would carry you home, back to the light. No matter what.
The story my father lived was that of coming home. For me, it was his life story.
My father was many things. He was a worker and a leader. He was a musician and a writer. He was a teacher, a builder, and an historian. He was a husband. A grandfather. A boy. For many, for me, he is someone who knew the journey of redemption and told this story with his life.
And that isn’t an easy story to live. It’s difficult. And each of us make our own way too, finding our own way home, taking a different path. Everyone in my family plays a different part in this story. My father played his part. He played his part very well.
The day before my father’s funeral I looked through his study, searching the things he kept. There I found a picture of Christ, knocking at the door, first given to him in 1948. It was a gift he kept all his life, a gift he never lost, and now passes on.
I’ve lost my father, but he wasn’t lost. He was someone who knew what it was to be found. He wouldn’t want his passing to be seen as a time of darkness, but of light. Not an end for him, but an open door.
My father’s gone, but he’s home.
