The final Last Supper in his possession in his single room in the memory care facility was a 2x3 ½ foot tapestry of the DaVinci painting (albeit a poor reproduction).
When we "happened" to be in Grass Valley the week that my dad passed away (nothing is unplanned to God), I came home with that final Last Supper tapestry. But what to do with it? I have too much stuff as it is, and I actually have a much larger version of Dad's collection hanging in my dining room.
After attending a fundraising banquet for Wayside Cross Rescue Mission (now called Wayside Cross ministries, to cover their full spectrum of service), I determined that donating it to this worthy organization was the highest purpose for Dad's tapestry.
But the plot thickens...
My dad had a very poor upbringing, and by "poor" I mean financially, although a case could be made for other poor qualities as well. He was sickly at birth apparently, and the story goes that my grandmother placed my dad in a lined drawer instead of a crib or bassinet for many of his first months. Eventually, he became the scapegoat and brunt of his father's wrath.
When the family moved from southern California to Oregon, my father stayed behind with another family, and the storyline varies from whether it was to finish a school year or because he was too sick to move at the time (asthma and hay fever were his constant enemies). If you were to see a photo of the family move, it would have rivaled The Beverly Hillbillies, so I'm told.
Fast forward to college, and all four of the Sawyer brothers have put themselves through college (no small feat) as well as graduate school, and one even got his doctorate. Although my father wanted to go into foreign missions, my mother's Type 1 diabetes prevented it. And so he went into the denominational pastorate. Small towns. Tiny churches. And we were living on the good graces of whatever parsonage was available and whatever the congregants had canned that year.
At the age of 35–the last possible moment–Dad applied to his denomination for an Air Force chaplaincy. At least there would be a steady paycheck and he could use his seminary training.
This was truly the high life for this branch of the Sawyer family. Officer training, housing, paycheck, travel ... and yet, Dad's upbringing haunted him in more ways than one.
When he retired from the Air Force, he and my mom determined to go back to where they started: Oregon. Portland environs, to be specific. Once they moved out of their home and into a coop retirement community (a bad financial decision), Dad got more and more involved with the homeless population in downtown Portland.
That was the beginning of a downward spiral, if one could point to a defining moment. He made decisions that would eventually get him (and consequently, my mother) evicted from their retirement community without a dime to their name. He would get phone calls from his homeless "friends" saying, "If you love me, Dale, you'll send me xxxx." And Dad, being desperate for folks to like him, would send money, let men use his credit cards, buy a car for a lapsed alcoholic, and allow several homeless men to use my parents' mail box at their retirement community (so they would hang around the entrances waiting for Dad to get their mail). It was that last straw that broke the back of the "covenants and restrictions" policies, and sent my parents packing to northern California.
So, whether Dad was the patron saint of the Portland homeless population, or an easy mark, let's take the high road and say he wanted to help (assuage guilt, gain points, garner affection), even if it was to the detriment of his own family.
And that brings me back to the final Last Supper ... tapestry. I thought it appropriate that it should go to a homeless resource center of some sort. I contacted the wife of the organization's CEO and said I'd drop it off for her husband to use somewhere in their building.
When I arrived with the rolled tapestry, he was ready for me in his office. You see, like a large portion of the Christian community (myself included) he was not keen on displaying a "likeness" of Jesus or other people that could be construed as an idolized image. So, he asked me if I would be all right with them framing it and offering it for sale through their thrift store. Well ... okay ... at least the mission would get something out of it, even if it wasn't what was originally intended. My face probably gave away my disappointment.
But as I talked about my dad, the man then spied the note I had attached to the tapestry:
My dad, Dale Sawyer, was a champion of the homeless. He collected Last Supper memorabilia. Please enjoy. Donated by Rhonda Elfstrand to Wayside Cross Ministries.
"I've changed my mind," he said. "I see there is indeed more emotional investment here. I want to honor your dad. We will frame this and put it in the lounge or dining area. I'll consider it artwork."
And on my way home, I cried.
