The Day My Dad Met Johnny Cash

“Faith of our fathers, living still. In spite of dungeons ….”

I’d heard enough. I excused myself from disturbing the people in the pew next to me and headed for the lobby before my tears let loose. I made it to the restroom, but I felt trapped. I wouldn’t cry here, though leaving church now wasn’t an acceptable option. And to stay, I’d need to retrieve my Bible and purse and move to another seat. What would people think? Would I hurt their feelings? It wasn’t the man’s fault that his voice shook me, nor that it took me back through the years.

Sundays through the Ages

White gloves, flower-decked bonnets, new dresses. Freshly shined shoes, three-piece suits, neckties. Hymn numbers on the board up front, white lilies on the altar railing. Easter Sunday at many churches during the 1960s, including ours—Derry Street United Methodist in Harrisburg, PA. Dad, Mom, my two brothers and I would file into a pew as the organist played the processional. As with many American families, Palm Sunday and Easter found us in church for sure. Salvation wasn’t mentioned, but the hymns spoke of it.

When we moved from the city, we found a little country church in Lewisberry, PA. The white church sat tucked along a street of houses, and it fit us. Years later, just before I got married, yet another church added us to their congregation, this one with a more contemporary service with popular choruses of the time plus the well-loved hymns. I also finally heard the salvation message being preached, along with some interesting things about gifts of the Spirit, including visions. My Methodist background didn’t allow my heart to open to these thoughts.

Even though the pastors and songs changed in each church, my dad’s voice brought a sense of connection. I loved listening to his deep, rich baritone singing “How Great Thou Art” and “Faith of Our Fathers.” Whenever we heard a Tennessee Ernie Ford song, I’d pretend it was Dad.

A Little Bit Country

At home, we mostly played country music and some ‘50s rock-’n’-roll. Dad sang along to the ballads and Chubby Checker, but best of all was when he sang with Johnny Cash. When Johnny and his wife, June Carter, crooned “Daddy Sang Bass,” I’d think they were singing about my dad. Sometimes, he’d even break out his harmonica and join Johnny in some “Folsom Prison Blues.” Dad never got to meet his idol, but he sure loved his music.

My dad’s side of the family included a country music star and his family who toured the States, and most every summer, they landed a gig at a local fair. We’d load up the car and go to hear their performance. I enjoyed watching my dad enjoy the music. But even better was when he’d put their records on at home, and he’d sing along to their tunes, even yodeling now and then.

For Christmas in my teen years, I received a cassette recorder. We taped the family singing Christmas carols. After that ended in hilarity, Dad added some solos from Hank Williams and, of course, Johnny Cash. I think Johnny might have cringed a bit, though, when Dad did his own version of “A Boy Named Sue.” But he gave it a good try.

When my husband and I moved our family an hour from my parents, we changed churches. For the first time, I didn’t get to hear my dad’s voice singing the hymns in church. I missed it. But every time we visited my parents, there’d be country music playing with my dad singing along. Our vocally-talented daughters joined him. What delight to hear your dad and your daughters singing together!

The Big C-word

Then, in his early sixties, my dad developed throat cancer. Radiation treatments made his voice raspy but didn’t slow the cancer growth, so surgery became necessary. The doctor scheduled it in December, the week of our youngest daughter’s birthday. With his voice barely able to be heard, Dad sang “Happy Birthday” to our youngest, then turning ten. And the day before his surgery, he sang to her a song they both loved: “Santa Claus and Popcorn” by Merle Haggard. I brushed tears away as I watched her lean in close to hear the words.

The next day, many of the family gathered around our normally healthy dad’s hospital bed before they took him back to the operating room. No one knew what would happen, but the doctor had given some dire warnings. We were all afraid. Dad looked at us and said in a gruff whisper, “I love you all.”

In the waiting room, I tried to hold it together. The idea of losing my dad wasn’t something I’d ever entertained. He’d always looked so young and energetic playing baseball with the grandkids. And what if the tumor was too invasive and had damaged his vocal cords forever?

Just then, over the P.A. system, a song came on … a Johnny Cash song. My good intentions of holding it together dissolved. Huge sobs shook me, my heart rending. I wanted to throw something at the speaker to shut out that voice. I pushed my hands over my ears. Then, I felt my oldest brother kneel beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. We looked at each other, and he said, “I know.” Then, we were both crying.

I Miss His Voice

As I calmed a bit, the doctor came in to talk to us. “We’re fairly certain we got all of the tumor. There will be chemotherapy, of course. He’ll have to rest now. And …” The doctor paused and looked directly at my mom. “We had to remove his larynx.” And he left.

Shock waves hit each of us in different ways. I prayed I’d never hear a Johnny Cash song again.

Time went by as Dad struggled through chemotherapy and learned to use a voice machine he held to the vibrations in his throat. Sure, he could make words now, but it wasn’t his voice. I knew I’d never hear him sing again.

One day, I heard our daughter in her room crying. When I sat down on her bed, she said, “I miss Grandpa’s voice.” Her body shook. Then, I remembered the tape we’d made that Christmas long ago. I ran to find it, and she and I played it over and over, listening to the voice we both loved so much.

No Voice to Hear

On April 7, 2007, about two years after his diagnosis, Dad died. I struggled terribly after his death, but never as much as I did each week when hearing the man behind me at church … the man with the bass voice singing the hymns I’d loved hearing my dad sing. And to make matters worse, I didn’t even have the assurance that I’d see him again in heaven.

Though we attended church so regularly in my childhood, I’d never heard my dad mention his faith, his salvation. I knew my mom was a Christian, but though she felt Dad had given his heart to Jesus, I just couldn’t be certain. It made my grief more poignant as time drug on past when specialists say grief should turn a corner.

God’s Blessing to Me

One day during a worship service in our church, we were singing the hymn “All Creatures of Our God and King.” For once, I was in full worship mode, eyes closed, hands raised to my God. We sang about lifting our voices to the King. The picture in my head became a vision, something I’d never experienced before. I stood in heaven with all the saints standing around the throne. I felt led to look to the right, and as I did, I saw him … my dad! He was praising Jesus in song! He turned and looked at me and smiled. My dad … singing again!

No, I couldn’t hear his voice, but it was enough to know it was him in the vision. As it left me, I opened my eyes, my heart slamming against my chest, my breathing ragged. I looked around, hoping no one noticed. I knew then that God had used music and sent me that vision to let me know Dad was in heaven with Him.

Two weeks later, I had a second vision … me, the one who is about as un-charismatic as they come. This time, I was once again worshiping with all my heart. This vision showed my dad up front behind our pastor, part of the worship band. And it was his younger self, the one I’d seen in pictures, holding his guitar and singing choruses of praise. Again, the vision left me breathless and my heart racing.

Jesus, Dad, and Johnny Cash

Without a doubt, my dad had finally met Johnny Cash … in heaven. I’ll bet they’re playing their harmonicas and blending their perfect baritone-bass voices around the throne of God.