April 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 Carroza, 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. 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 to write about that. Well,
(01:00):
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.
Speaker 3 (01:11):
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.
Speaker 2 (01:26):
Nothing 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,
(03:13):
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
(04:40):
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 infinitem,
(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 looking
(07:00):
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 won't
(07:22):
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 may fail,
(07:48):
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. He gave
(08:09):
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 them and challenge
(08:31):
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 who love him.
(08:53):
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 even imagine it. But God has something even better
where he is. Dad, you are now a part of
(09:14):
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
(09:34):
on the worst days, even then, you're only a few
more Fathers days away.
Speaker 1 (09:45):
And you've been listening to Shiloh Caroza, 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 her and a beautiful piece of writing.
Shallow Carosa's story on our American stories
And we continue with our American stories. And today we're
going to hear from Shiloh Carroza, 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. 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 to write about that. Well,
(01:00):
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.
Speaker 3 (01:11):
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.
Speaker 2 (01:26):
Nothing 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,
(03:13):
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
(04:40):
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 infinitem,
(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 looking
(07:00):
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 won't
(07:22):
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 may fail,
(07:48):
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. He gave
(08:09):
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 them and challenge
(08:31):
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 who love him.
(08:53):
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 even imagine it. But God has something even better
where he is. Dad, you are now a part of
(09:14):
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
(09:34):
on the worst days, even then, you're only a few
more Fathers days away.
Speaker 1 (09:45):
And you've been listening to Shiloh Caroza, 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 her and a beautiful piece of writing.
Shallow Carosa's story on our American stories
Host
Lee Habeeb
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