Remembering Dale Jensen

When you live almost 86 years, it's pretty much a given that you know a thing or two about life. But Dale Eugene Jensen knew many of the most important things.

Dale knew how to be content while sitting on the porch of his weekend/summer home at Clear Lake, finding amusement in the hummingbirds that hovered around a feeder. He knew how to be content while sitting in the brush with brother-in-law Mike Mikelbost, waiting for deer that they never, ever shot — except for one scrawny, flea-ridden buck, whose antlers were a bit longer than their hands. He knew how to be content while sitting in his boat in Rodman Slough, watching the gentle bounces of the bobber in hopes that a big catfish would bite. He knew how to be content while sitting around the table playing rummy, reaching for a card only to have his wife Irene slap his hand and take it from him.

Now we will have to learn how to be content without him. It won't be easy.

Our culture — whether liberal or conservative — does not help us. Our minds are restless even when we are sitting still. We are trained to want instant gratification. We do not cope well with suffering.

We can learn a lot from Dale. He persevered and found much humor and joy in life despite an unusual amount of suffering.

During the Great Depression, his father left him as a teenager. As an American soldier in World War II, he saw with his own eyes the genocidal horrors of a concentration camp in Nazi Germany. Shortly after his return to Minnesota, he almost died while falling through the ice during a commercial fishing accident. He experienced the death of a spouse while their children were still in elementary school. And he battled with cancer several times in the last 30 years of his life.

Mercifully, Dale is now free of suffering. But we suffer from his absence.

In our suffering, we would do well to learn from Dale. He did not mope. He did not quit. He learned how to be content despite serious challenges.

Indeed, Dale had much to be content about. He spent more than 30 years working for one company as a truck driver. He was married for more than 40 years to one of the best women in the world. He had four children, five step-children, and eleven grandchildren to dote on. And he had many, many friends. Even in the last days of his earthly life, he was making friends with his caretakers, who called him "papa."

And so death should not have the last word. For followers of Jesus, we hope to be reunited with Dale on that day when, as scripture promises, God "will wipe away every tear" and "there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain."

As much as we believe in that promise, it is not yet that day. We all loved Dale and miss him greatly. Now what is asked of us is to be patient in our love.

In his great poem in 1 Corinthians 13, the apostle Paul begins his description of love by saying "love is patient." This does not mean that we ignore our feelings, that we mask our grief. Far from it. In the original language, Paul's phrase is literally "love suffers long." Along with acting kind, that is the major thing that love does. "Love suffers long."

A professor at Fuller Seminary, Lewis Smedes, put it this way:

"Love is an uncommon power to cope with common suffering. Suffering itself takes no talent. It comes to us, takes us captive, pins us down. We are all its victims. Some of us have to suffer more than others. Some are able to suffer with more grace than others. But it is love that enables us to suffer long.

"To suffer long would seem like a grim return on love. Love, it would seem, holds a poor hand if longsuffering is one of its best cards. But in a world where suffering is almost a law of life, the power to suffer long may be one of life's most needed gifts."

Dale had that gift. He had love that wouldn't quit. As we process our grief, we would do well to learn from him.

As one of Dale's grandsons, I will miss many things about him. He had a military tattoo on his right arm, and an easily-summoned, Popeye-esque laugh to match. I heard that laugh many, many times.

I can still remember one place in particular that I heard it. For a week or two each summer, grandma and grandpa Jensen would have my sister and me up at the lake. Those carefree days running around a small town were among the highlights of my childhood. Many times, grandpa and I would go fishing in his little rowboat with an outboard motor. I would sit in the front, trying to offset his weight in the back as he steered. Sometimes the water was choppy, and grandpa would go fast so we would fly over the waves, with the effect that my little butt would bounce off the seat again and again and again. Grandpa laughed hysterically. And he particularly enjoyed telling others about it when we returned.

I will miss that laugh. And I will miss the man who taught me many of the most important things about life. But I know that I will see him again. So I will be patient.

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