My dad is my hero.

I soon turn 69 years of age, and, as I reflect on my life, my father stands out for me as the most influential character in my story, and, to this day, he continues to be formational, with lessons for my life.

A little bit about him:

He was the son of political refugees, fleeing the Bolsheviks in 1914. The extended family fled Odessa to Canada with little more than a suitcase and landed on the prairies of Alberta, where they homesteaded and began a new life. That’s where my Pop was born.

To say that life was difficult starting out in a sod house there on the windswept plains of what was termed the Flat Valley District would be a gross understatement. The family farmed and worked hard. In the frigid winters, they burned dried cow **** as fuel in the potbelly stove, because there were no trees.

Then, one of the worst epidemics in modern history, tuberculosis, enveloped their community.

It took my grandmother’s life and sent my father to a TB “sanitarium” for treatment at the age of 8. He went into treatment speaking only German and came out six months later an Englishman.

The treatment for TB in those days was horrific and included collapsing the lungs so the pulmonary system might “rest.”

That would be the first of two periods of isolation in the tuberculosis wards in my father’s lifetime.

And I forgot to mention what was likely his most distinctive physical characteristic: He was born with a significant disability. One leg was four inches shorter than the other. There was no neck on the femur bone of his left leg.

Of course, in 1930s rural Alberta, treatment and therapy were nonexistent.

He didn’t walk until he was 6, and, in order to be mobile, he found a way to pivot on the ground with his arms and his “good leg.”

He was known as “the cripple Hoffman.”

I try to imagine the concept of body and self-image that he carried in his heart through his childhood and as a young adult, wondering if he could be found attractive to the ladies.

Although he loved sports, he never ran. I remember him being subbed into a church league softball game as a “special hitter” here in Alpena in the 1970s. He got up to the plate and, because he was so strong, he hit a long, long ball into centerfield, but, because he could only slowly limp, he barely made it as far as first base, when anyone with “legs to run” would’ve made it completely around the diamond.

I can’t describe that moment. The entire crowd was on their feet, cheering him on.

My story is this:

Despite all of those challenges, my dad not only survived, he thrived, and I personally witnessed much of it.

With limited preparation (an eighth-grade education), he went to college and ultimately graduate school in Rochester, New York. He met and married a gorgeous and talented woman and they shared life together for 40 years until she died in 1991. He had an honorable 40-year career, serving communities like Alpena as a pastor and caregiver and encourager. And he had two sons.

So here is why I am thinking so much about him with gratitude and admiration this season:

Over the past several years, I have experienced increasing mobility challenges myself. Due to a spinal injury and other inherited issues, I am a huge fall risk, and my balance is dicey, to say the least. I have gone from using a cane occasionally to needing it constantly.

As I was leaving an appointment with my physical therapist last week, I was telling my PT about my dad’s challenges and my own attitude regarding this experience of depending on other means of support. I confessed that approaching my challenges with a positive attitude was an inheritance from my dad.

As I told his story, I found myself tearing up. I realized that my attitude of perseverance and willingness to keep on going despite my own limitations is a gift from my father.

It is only one lesson from life with Walter. I learned that no one is physically perfect, and that developing one’s spirit and character, along with a good sense of humor, will help in reaching goals and finishing one’s race well.

I learned to focus on my gifts and not my limits.

My father, the one who spent a year-plus in sanitariums with tuberculosis (a lung disease), was gifted with incredible lung capacity and a truly remarkable singing voice. He is remembered not as the “cripple,” but as a “truly great vocalist”.

I learned from him to dream big and to not allow traditional limits to define my life. I learned that there is “lots of room at the top” for those who are willing to work hard and persevere with goals. And I learned to depend upon God.

This Christmas, as I attend to my new-normal that includes new limits, those are incredible gifts to inherit from one’s father.

Dad, you continue to teach and inspire me.

Merry Christmas!

Warren Hoffman is a 43-year veteran of pastoral ministry and considers himself a native of Alpena. He is married to his ministry partner and beloved, Laura Hoffman.