June 17, 2024 • 10 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, Storyteller Shiloh Carozza remembers her father in a moving portrait of his love, steadfastness, and faith.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:13):
And we continue with our American stories. And today we're
going to hear from Shiloh Caroza, whom I got to
know while teaching at Hillsdale College a couple of years ago.
I was there doing a two week seminar and storytelling.
I've been doing it ever since. And I submitted that
every student there had a story and I was seeking
them out personal, something about their town, their family, whatever.
(00:38):
And Shiloh was a bit reluctant to talk and she
looked a little out of it, and I was told
she was such a good student, and I was a
little worried, and so after the class, I asked her
if she wouldn't mind staying. I asked her if everything
was okay, and if she wanted to opt out, that
was fine too, And she told me that she had
just learned that her father was dying. We talked for
a bit and then I said, well, maybe you'd want
(00:58):
to write about that. Well, since then her dad passed.
And here it is.
Speaker 2 (01:04):
We all know growing up that for most of us,
there will come a day when we have to say
goodbye to our parents. But nothing can prepare you for
the day your father is rushed to the hospital because
it looks like he's having a stroke, and nothing can
prepare you for the phone call from your mother telling
you it's not a stroke, it's a brain tumor. Nothing
(01:26):
could have prepared me for the two weeks I spent
alone in the house while my dad underwent the first
of several surgeries, or for the next two years that
we saw him gradually lose his speech and grow quiet
as the cancer took over his brain. There are some
memories from those last two years I would rather forget.
(01:47):
The words I failed to say when he most needed
to hear them. The process of watching the strongest man
I knew grow weak and dependent. The moments in which
I found myself doing things for him that he did
for me when I was little. The sound of the
(02:07):
funeral home staff wheeling the body out of the house
at three point thirty one night. The feeling of emptiness
that came after the funeral ended and everyone went home
and we were once again left with a quiet house
and an empty chair. Maybe someday I'll be glad for
(02:30):
those memories, but not now. But thankfully Dad left my
family with plenty of good memories from the nineteen years
I knew him, the twenty two years my brother knew him,
and the thirty one years my mom shared with him.
When I look back at all the memories I have,
(02:51):
it's hard to pin down one characteristic that explains him
or sums up who he was. He was the dad
who took us everywhere with him, who would teach us
more and a car ride than all our schoolbooks combined.
He was the dad who put up with the mosquitoes
on our family camping trips because number one, he knew
the rest of us liked the outdoors, and number two,
(03:14):
he knew there would be s'mores. He was the dad
who always paused the movie in the middle of the
best scene to analyze the plot out loud with us.
He was the dad who consistently quizzed us to see
if we remembered who wrote his favorite hymn and can
it be before belting it out in church, And in
case you were wondering, it was written by Charles Wesley.
(03:38):
He was the dad who stayed up into the early
hours of the morning with us, talking about anything we wanted,
and still managing to teach us something in the process.
He was also the dad who sat us down one
day and told us that his time was limited, that
the tumor of the doctors found would give him two
(03:58):
years less. Dad never cried unless either someone had died
or unless he found himself overwhelmed by the weight of
some profound truth. He was crying when he looked my
brother and me in the eyes and told us you
(04:19):
are my best investments. I don't think I grasped what
that meant until the funeral, when hundreds of people from
all walks of life approached me and told me how
Dad had impacted them. In fact, I still don't fully
grasp what that means. It's like all my life, Dad
was planting seeds in me, and some are still in
(04:41):
the process of breaking through the soil. But some of
them have blossomed, and I recognize them now as pieces
of him. My need to talk using my hands, my
intuitive drive to find patterns in the world around me
and make sense of details, my tendency to overanalyze just
about everything. I could go on naming personality traits ad infinitum,
(05:06):
but isn't the most important thing Dad gave me. The
most important thing he gave me was the very thing
that made me get out of bed the next morning.
After he died. There is nothing like waking up the
next morning and knowing that the world you will wake
(05:28):
up to for the rest of your life is one
without your father, And that morning, along with many others,
the only thing that could make me open my eyes
was the knowledge that no matter what had happened, or
was still happening or would happen, God had it all
(05:53):
under control. And that was what Dad taught me. But
it still hurts. There are plenty of memories that crop
up again and again, no matter how much I try
to think only of the positive. Because of my Dad's
forgiveness and faith in Christ, I know where he is now,
(06:17):
but that can be hard to remember when the last
image burned in your mind is of a body. Death
may not be the end, but death is ugly, and
for the time, it feels so permanent. For the first
(06:38):
year after his death, I realized I kept expecting Dad
to come back, to hear him pick up on the
other end of the phone, to walk downstairs and see
him at his desk in the basement. In some ways,
I don't think this will ever go away. I might
not expect to find him around the corner, but keep
(07:00):
looking for him waiting for some kind of reunion. I
don't think that's a bad thing, but I won't find
that reunion here. Ecclesiastes tells us God has set eternity
in our hearts. And I think that ache, that tug
that grief causes is there to remind us that we
(07:22):
won't find what we're looking for on this side. What
we're ultimately looking for isn't just a reunion with people
we've lost. And Psalm seventy three, the writer prays to God,
whom have I in heaven, but You and earth has
nothing I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart
(07:47):
may fail, but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever. The best thing about my dad
was that he didn't leave me just longing to have
him back. I do want him back, but he helped
me see what I really want is so much more.
(08:09):
He gave me a picture of God's love as father
and maker and friend. And however much I want to
be with Dad, being with God someday will be that
much better. Several months after his diagnosis, Dad gave a
talk at a local church to share his journey with
(08:30):
them and challenge them to think about their own lives
and how they thought about eternity to quote him. He
ended by telling them this First Corinthians, chapter two, verse
nine says, no eye has seen, no ear has heard,
no mind can conceive what God has prepared for those
(08:51):
who love him. Do you know what the apostle Paul
is saying. He's saying you can't see it, you can't
hear it, you can't and even imagine it. But God
has something even better where he is. Dad, you are
(09:13):
now a part of that other side. It still hurts,
and I still miss you, and that isn't going to change.
But on the best days, I catch myself thinking, how
I can't wait to tell you about everything that's happened
here since you left. And on the worst days, even then,
(09:39):
you're only a few more Fathers days away.
Speaker 1 (09:45):
And you've been listening to Shiloh Carosa, And what beautiful words,
My goodness, there's not a dad listening who wouldn't hope
for such eloquence, such beauty from a daughter, and such
strength and courage, and by the way, what a way
to be described. Dad taught us more in a car
ride than all the school books combined. He was the
(10:07):
dad who stayed up into the early hours, talking to
us about anything we wanted. He's the dad who told
us his time was limited. You are my best investments,
and our kids are. No matter what the culture is
telling you, no matter what anybody's telling you, our kids,
our children are our best investments. Shiloh Caroza Hillsdale College's finest,
(10:31):
A place where they teach all the beautiful things in life,
all the things that matter in life. And my goodness,
it's evidence to your and a beautiful piece of writing.
Shallow Caroza's story on our American Stories
And we continue with our American stories. And today we're
going to hear from Shiloh Caroza, whom I got to
know while teaching at Hillsdale College a couple of years ago.
I was there doing a two week seminar and storytelling.
I've been doing it ever since. And I submitted that
every student there had a story and I was seeking
them out personal, something about their town, their family, whatever.
(00:38):
And Shiloh was a bit reluctant to talk and she
looked a little out of it, and I was told
she was such a good student, and I was a
little worried, and so after the class, I asked her
if she wouldn't mind staying. I asked her if everything
was okay, and if she wanted to opt out, that
was fine too, And she told me that she had
just learned that her father was dying. We talked for
a bit and then I said, well, maybe you'd want
(00:58):
to write about that. Well, since then her dad passed.
And here it is.
Speaker 2 (01:04):
We all know growing up that for most of us,
there will come a day when we have to say
goodbye to our parents. But nothing can prepare you for
the day your father is rushed to the hospital because
it looks like he's having a stroke, and nothing can
prepare you for the phone call from your mother telling
you it's not a stroke, it's a brain tumor. Nothing
(01:26):
could have prepared me for the two weeks I spent
alone in the house while my dad underwent the first
of several surgeries, or for the next two years that
we saw him gradually lose his speech and grow quiet
as the cancer took over his brain. There are some
memories from those last two years I would rather forget.
(01:47):
The words I failed to say when he most needed
to hear them. The process of watching the strongest man
I knew grow weak and dependent. The moments in which
I found myself doing things for him that he did
for me when I was little. The sound of the
(02:07):
funeral home staff wheeling the body out of the house
at three point thirty one night. The feeling of emptiness
that came after the funeral ended and everyone went home
and we were once again left with a quiet house
and an empty chair. Maybe someday I'll be glad for
(02:30):
those memories, but not now. But thankfully Dad left my
family with plenty of good memories from the nineteen years
I knew him, the twenty two years my brother knew him,
and the thirty one years my mom shared with him.
When I look back at all the memories I have,
(02:51):
it's hard to pin down one characteristic that explains him
or sums up who he was. He was the dad
who took us everywhere with him, who would teach us
more and a car ride than all our schoolbooks combined.
He was the dad who put up with the mosquitoes
on our family camping trips because number one, he knew
the rest of us liked the outdoors, and number two,
(03:14):
he knew there would be s'mores. He was the dad
who always paused the movie in the middle of the
best scene to analyze the plot out loud with us.
He was the dad who consistently quizzed us to see
if we remembered who wrote his favorite hymn and can
it be before belting it out in church, And in
case you were wondering, it was written by Charles Wesley.
(03:38):
He was the dad who stayed up into the early
hours of the morning with us, talking about anything we wanted,
and still managing to teach us something in the process.
He was also the dad who sat us down one
day and told us that his time was limited, that
the tumor of the doctors found would give him two
(03:58):
years less. Dad never cried unless either someone had died
or unless he found himself overwhelmed by the weight of
some profound truth. He was crying when he looked my
brother and me in the eyes and told us you
(04:19):
are my best investments. I don't think I grasped what
that meant until the funeral, when hundreds of people from
all walks of life approached me and told me how
Dad had impacted them. In fact, I still don't fully
grasp what that means. It's like all my life, Dad
was planting seeds in me, and some are still in
(04:41):
the process of breaking through the soil. But some of
them have blossomed, and I recognize them now as pieces
of him. My need to talk using my hands, my
intuitive drive to find patterns in the world around me
and make sense of details, my tendency to overanalyze just
about everything. I could go on naming personality traits ad infinitum,
(05:06):
but isn't the most important thing Dad gave me. The
most important thing he gave me was the very thing
that made me get out of bed the next morning.
After he died. There is nothing like waking up the
next morning and knowing that the world you will wake
(05:28):
up to for the rest of your life is one
without your father, And that morning, along with many others,
the only thing that could make me open my eyes
was the knowledge that no matter what had happened, or
was still happening or would happen, God had it all
(05:53):
under control. And that was what Dad taught me. But
it still hurts. There are plenty of memories that crop
up again and again, no matter how much I try
to think only of the positive. Because of my Dad's
forgiveness and faith in Christ, I know where he is now,
(06:17):
but that can be hard to remember when the last
image burned in your mind is of a body. Death
may not be the end, but death is ugly, and
for the time, it feels so permanent. For the first
(06:38):
year after his death, I realized I kept expecting Dad
to come back, to hear him pick up on the
other end of the phone, to walk downstairs and see
him at his desk in the basement. In some ways,
I don't think this will ever go away. I might
not expect to find him around the corner, but keep
(07:00):
looking for him waiting for some kind of reunion. I
don't think that's a bad thing, but I won't find
that reunion here. Ecclesiastes tells us God has set eternity
in our hearts. And I think that ache, that tug
that grief causes is there to remind us that we
(07:22):
won't find what we're looking for on this side. What
we're ultimately looking for isn't just a reunion with people
we've lost. And Psalm seventy three, the writer prays to God,
whom have I in heaven, but You and earth has
nothing I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart
(07:47):
may fail, but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever. The best thing about my dad
was that he didn't leave me just longing to have
him back. I do want him back, but he helped
me see what I really want is so much more.
(08:09):
He gave me a picture of God's love as father
and maker and friend. And however much I want to
be with Dad, being with God someday will be that
much better. Several months after his diagnosis, Dad gave a
talk at a local church to share his journey with
(08:30):
them and challenge them to think about their own lives
and how they thought about eternity to quote him. He
ended by telling them this First Corinthians, chapter two, verse
nine says, no eye has seen, no ear has heard,
no mind can conceive what God has prepared for those
(08:51):
who love him. Do you know what the apostle Paul
is saying. He's saying you can't see it, you can't
hear it, you can't and even imagine it. But God
has something even better where he is. Dad, you are
(09:13):
now a part of that other side. It still hurts,
and I still miss you, and that isn't going to change.
But on the best days, I catch myself thinking, how
I can't wait to tell you about everything that's happened
here since you left. And on the worst days, even then,
(09:39):
you're only a few more Fathers days away.
Speaker 1 (09:45):
And you've been listening to Shiloh Carosa, And what beautiful words,
My goodness, there's not a dad listening who wouldn't hope
for such eloquence, such beauty from a daughter, and such
strength and courage, and by the way, what a way
to be described. Dad taught us more in a car
ride than all the school books combined. He was the
(10:07):
dad who stayed up into the early hours, talking to
us about anything we wanted. He's the dad who told
us his time was limited. You are my best investments,
and our kids are. No matter what the culture is
telling you, no matter what anybody's telling you, our kids,
our children are our best investments. Shiloh Caroza Hillsdale College's finest,
(10:31):
A place where they teach all the beautiful things in life,
all the things that matter in life. And my goodness,
it's evidence to your and a beautiful piece of writing.
Shallow Caroza's story on our American Stories
Host
Lee Habeeb
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