“He just wasn’t Pastor Bob.”
As I interviewed dozens of people in Dover for my book on Brenda Keller, I heard that response over and over. It was a simple question: “Why didn’t the guy who followed Bob as the pastor at the church last long?”
Time and time again, the answer was the same: “He just wasn’t Pastor Bob.”
I don’t attend the Dover Federated Church often, but I’m reminded of that response every time I visit on a Sunday. Bob Keller just has a way of engaging his audience, much like his late father, who, even at 90, could deliver a moving, riveting message. I also find that more often than not, Pastor Bob’s message hits a chord.
That happened again a few weeks ago when I visited the church with my granddaughter. Bob, who led the church from 1984 through 2010 and again for the past eight years, lost his father last March, which was just a little more than a year after he lost his mother. The last time I spoke to Bob, we talked about our fathers dying and the great sense of loss we both feel now that they’re gone.
That conversation came about a week before Koen and I attended the Federated Church’s service. As Bob often does, he shared an anecdote about his life during the message. During his seventh-grade year, his father, Roy, essentially made him go out for basketball.
Now, Bob wasn’t inept as an athlete. He was a solid lineman on a Minneapolis football team that went from 0-9 to 5-4 under Dick Tatro, who enjoyed a long, successful coaching career in Kansas. However, basketball was not his sport. To paraphrase the story, he rarely played unless the game was out of hand. In a game toward the end of the season, the team had a huge lead, and Bob got to play several minutes.
“So, somehow, I ended up underneath the basket all by myself and shot a layup,” Bob said. “And I missed. But the ball ended up in my hands again … so, I shot again. And I missed again. And, somehow, the ball ended up in my hands again. So, I shot again. And I missed again.”
With the entire church laughing, Bob paused for a moment, then continued telling the story. After the game, one of the starters came up to Bob, slapped him on the back and said, “Keller, I’ve never seen anything like that.” Bob replied, “I’ve never seen anything like that, either.”
“No, I’m talking about your dad,” the teammate said.
As Bob misfired several times, Roy was hooting and hollering, cheering on his son wildly to make a shot, the teammate said. As the message that Sunday continued, Bob spoke about his dad and how much he missed his old man, who was always there to support him.
“What I’m saying is he was my champion,” he said. “And I miss that.”
That reminded me of my father, who always was my biggest fan. I thought of the time I was playing in a big Little League game in Lebanon, Missouri, for a league title. Dad couldn’t make it because he was grinding away, building product for the family business. He had to work long days to put food on the table.
I don’t even remember who won the game that day, but what I remember is coming up to bat with the bases loaded and two outs midway through the game. I ripped a double into the left-field corner, sliding into second base, my heart about to explode with excitement.
“WAY TO GO, SON,” I heard from the fence behind third base. I looked up to see my father, smiling and pumping his fist. Even though he had to be up at 4 a.m. the next day for a craft show, there he was, late at night, watching his son play baseball.
Dad was my champion. And I miss that.
