A Tribute to "My" Dad: The Rev. Mr. Donald Lyman Veitch, a Man of Honour, Integrity, Studiousness, Deliberation and Depth/A Benchmark of Veitch-Generations, Including the Grandson "PJ"

Faithfulness—Dad’s Life

Preliminary comments.

Before the story begins on Dad, we pause to remember all Veterans of every branch of service, past, present and future, especially on Vets Day 2011, a tough week here at Camp Lejeune, NC.  We offer a few clips as salutes to fallen warriors.  Dad would have agreed.  He was an old Warrior.

htttp://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=fvwp&NR=1&v=3KGHhEJdfFM and 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSRlQPD6Xiw&feature=related

A salute to the Canadians on Remembrance Day 2011: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViHyr1tVoGM&feature=related

Dad was one of them, a WW 2 Veteran, a Canadian, a Sailor in HM's Canadian Navy.  Naturalized in the 1990s as a US citizen, Dad faithfully contributed to the VFW ("Veterans of Foreign Wars") through the years.  As he claimed, "I went to war as a boy and I returned a man."  Dad, had he been an American, would have been given a "military burial," the full gun salute, a full military escort with men in uniforms as pall-bearers, and the issuance of a flag to the family.  As an ex-Canadian and naturalized American, living in the U.S., Dad was not given these justifiable--and needed--expressions of dignity for service as a Veteran.


The WW2 Vets were American, Canadian, and the Brit's best. Let the story resume with the Veitch's hero, my Dad.  Aside from other readers, this is posted for the immediate family.  Of special interest are the four immediate children--Robert Montgomery Veitch, Alison Elizabeth Veitch, David Hamilton Veitch, Brittany Anne Veitch and Grandchild, PJ.  Of course, there is a wider family of relationships and dignity as well.  Here's the story of Dad, a benchmark of fidelity.  While I write with the covenantal generations in view, there are wider themes,  Semper Fidelis.  Here we go.  

The storied reminiscences about Dad started 21 March 2010. My sister called.  Aunt Pam advised that Dad had suffered a massive heart attack. Dad had been without oxygen for several minutes. He fell over in a restaurant at 13 Mile Rd. and I-94.  Mum was there.  He was rushed to the hospital from the restaurant after vigourous intervention by medics.  At the hospital, he underwent invasive procedures.  At the hospital, our hero underwent heart surgery, including the invasive insertion of an inflatable ball—an aid to support the destroyed ventricles. After the news and with sked-conflicts, I arrived late following day. At 10:30 P.M. (EST),  Uncle Mark and I stood at Dad’s bed-side. Dad's eyes were half-opened, yellowish and fixed, staring at the ceiling. Dad's yellowed-eyes indicated hepatic failure. The other organs were shutting down. Dad was dying.  The monitors beeped ominously. I leaned over, “Dad, it’s me, Phil [DPV edit: I'm known by Phil within family contexts, but in military and academic contexts, it's Don] . Can you squeeze my hand?” Dad turned his face slightly towards me and weakly squeezed my hand. Was there hope? We retired by midnight.  Uncle Mark dropped me off at the homestead where I met Mum.  We retired, but at 0200, the hospital called. “You need to come in.” At 0400, the Doctors advised that the situation was irreversible; at 0500, we told the Doctors to cease heroic measures. Separately, one-by-one, we went to Dad’s bedside to bid farewells. Then, as a family, we gathered around Dad. At 0525, my sister kissed Dad on the forehead and chokingly whispered, “Dad, everything we are is because of you. You were always faithful.”

Our hero--a benchmark--was g0ne within minutes.  At 0530, our honouable Veitch--the Patriarch, Father, Pastor, Bench-mark, Exemplar, Encourager, Scholar, Churchman and Leader was gone.  We've never recovered from it.  Always faithful.  Semper Fi, Dad.

Aunt Pam, my sister, summarized Dad’s life at 0525 in a few words—“always faithful.”  Dad had been a Sailor, but he might have been a USMC Marine...always faithful.

Dad was faithful as a son, Christian, student, sailor, Pastor, and family man. Pam said it all.  My generation of four siblings would agree.  I must pass it on.

The reflections on Dad’s faithfulness began at his funeral. I co-officiated 27 March 2010. Hundreds came. The “Order for the Burial of the Dead” from the 1928/1662 Anglican Book of Common Prayer was used. The Old Testament lections were Psalms 27, 39, 46, 90, 121, and 130; the New Testament lections were John 14.1-6, 1 Cor.15.20-58, and 2 Cor.5.1-10. The Rev. Dr. Robert Cosand, the other officiant, a boyhood chum, said, “Phil, there are some long readings here?” Bob was overruled.  Scriptures shall predominate.  The “Order for the Burial of the Dead” was an “order,” not an option. It was called the "Order for the Burial of the Dead," not "Suggestions for the Burial of the Dead."  God was in the house. Who were we to speak? It was our duty to listen. That much Dad taught us.  To His Majesty, our Rock, our Instructor, our Redeemer and our Leader. The Bible eclipsed all.  This was a position foundational to Dad’s entire life and a position to which he was “always faithful.”  As Dad lived and died, so his lessons lived amongst us.  The Word of God triumphed over all.  Not the sermon, but God's Word. That Anglican Prayer Book prevailed.

Dad’s faith began early. In youth, Dad was the beneficiary of a faithful home. His father and mother set the pace for life, doctrine and piety. Grandma Veitch had a rural Methodist background.  Grandpa Veitch, Alliston, ONT, was Anglican.  They were Anglicans... “faith, honor and duty” was the ethos. Old school stuff.  Kiddoes, you were reared in it. Prayer Book doctrine, worship and piety defined the Church of England for eighteen hundred years. British influences informed Canadian Churchmanship. "It was what it was."  It was what "it ought to be." Faithfulness.

In this faithful home, Dad confirmed his faith in 1937 at 13. He enrolled (or "was enrolled") in a church program of Bible memory-work, memorizing two hundred Bible verses. Dad was initiated into this program under the aegis of the rather famous and ordained Presbyterian Churchman, the Rev. Dr. Oswald Smith, Peoples Church, Toronto.  My aunts speak of the "Bible memory program" at Peoples.  Aunt Dorothy recalled the "Bible Memory" program.  Wise then, like now.  Into this program, the Veitchs were initiated.  Dad faithfully memorized his texts under "Mr. Favez," a family friend who trained youths.

Two figures—among others—were important to Dad. Dad took an Old Testament character, a youthful Daniel (590-560 B.C.), as his role-model.  Daniel prayed thrice daily. Another figure.  St. Patrick of Ireland in youth, hand to chest, vowed, “I do hereby take the Triune God to my heart.” Like Daniel and Patrick in youth, Dad did the same in 1937. Like Daniel and Patrick throughout life, Dad was faithful to God and God’s Word unto death. Fidelity was Dad's middle name.  It began early and continued through the years.

As a faithful high school student, Dad was faithful. Canadian high schools required five years for graduation. In that insult to Americana, Dad took five years of Latin, five years of Greek, five years of French and two years of German, atop other subjects. Dad often jibed at the lighter loads in American high schools. Yes, a few of those gentle jibes were felt.  This much, unlike modern American seminarians who take beginning Hebrew and Greek in their first years of graduate years, Dad had the Greek "thing" down before under-grad and graduate seminary studies. I well remember Dad's soliloquies on "Greek verbs and nouns" from St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, an epistle that Dad loved. As I was learning Greek, I well remember our discussions up Beaconsfield Rd. on Romans.  Discussions about the Latin and Greek verbs and nouns in Romans.  Dad "breathed" the tenses. Dad read Hebrew, Greek and Latin texts of the Bible for sermon preparation, a fact that governed Dad’s pulpit ministry and—often—dinner table discussions.  Table stuff. What Dad learned in high school trailed through undergrad, grad school, and throughout his 45 years of ministry.  Forget the English text, Dad was faithfully in the ancient manuscripts.  For the family, fidelity in languages, thought and deliberation. But to another angle.

Fresh from high school, Dad’s faithfulness--like other WW2 Vets--was seen during service in HM’s Royal Canadian Navy in WW11 (1943-1945). I recollect Dad’s stories about rough nights on the Atlantic aboard “open-bridged” frigates. (It sparked my childish fascination with "ships.") Dad was a Morse-code operator, a position close to the Captain on the bridge. One heavy-bearded Captain in a Navy blue pea coat, an “old salt,” had served long before 1939, the year Canadians joined the war alongside the Brits. The Skipper smoked a pipe.  Dad sailed between Halifax (NS), Liverpool (UK), and New York City. A boyhood friend, Sonny, served on an oil-tanker in Dad’s convoy; Sonny’s ship burst into flames after a U-boat attack. Dad said, “I went to sea as a boy and came back a man.”  Dad often spoke of those honourable WW2 Vets who served faithfully.

Many years later, I would--myself--sail into Halifax, NS, the Royal Canadian base where Dad had been stationed in WW 11.  (I steamed into Halifax, NS, many years ago aboard the USS Jack, SSN-605, an old Gato-class submarine...I'll forego developments, but as we sailed "out of" Halifax we received an "op-immediate message" to "dive" and chase a Russkie sub off...this was 31 miles off the Canadian shore, but I digress.  Brit, Mum was expecting you and a routine 4-5 day return to NLON, CT, turned into a 3-week run around Iceland...I won't forget pulling into NLON with Mum and you on the peer, but I digress. A few days later you were born.) The Canadians had a sister ship to the HMCS New Waterford moored as a showcase ship--a replica of what Dad sailed on.  I ambled aboard wonderingly.  Could this "thing" upon which Dad sailed handle rough and open seas in the North Atlantic?  The rough North Atlantic, say, north of Iceland?  30-40 footers that inform the North Atlantic in the winter?  Frankly, it was a 180-foot "tin can" with an open bridge not fit for high seas in my estimation.   But Canadian frigates and corvettes were in the battle-game and war a full two years before Pearl Harbour.  (My maternal, Canadian Grandfather, Grandpa Tonkin, often groused about that years later...about Canadian involvements for 2 full years before the "braggarts" and "American loud mouths" entered and "started yapping," that is, the Americans...Grandpa Tonkin wasn't amused by the "late-joins," the Americans...unlike Grandpa Veitch, Grandpa Tonkin was a Canadian nationalist.)  In the Halifax harbour, Dad's convoy of a few hundred ships would fleet up--mostly supply ships--with associated combat escorts.  It's a narrow run up the channel to the Atlantic.  Once at the estuary, the Canadians would make a run for it to open sea, knowing that the German U-boat wolf packs waited outside the estuary. 
Dark nights at sea.  That was Dad's duty, as well a fellow Canadians, aboard a Canadian combat tin can they called a frigate, but I digress.

During WW 11, my aunts occasionally paused at Dad's empty room on the second floor at 198 Waverly, Toronto, sometimes with tears.  "Q-District" in Toronto, east side, now a gentrified section of Toronto.  They knew their brother's room was empty.  He was at war.  But they knew little else. Aunt Dorothy tells the story of pausing at Dad's room, with tears, knowing that her older brother was on the high seas and at war.  In those days, information was limited.  No TV and no internet.  Grandpa Veitch to his dying day quietly carried a news-clipping in his wallet until his death in 1963--a news clipping about his son serving in the Royal Canadian Navy...a quiet pride in his son.  The news clipping said that the former Vet (Dad) had finished the University of Toronto and was now attending Seminary with a view to ministry.  Grandpa Veitch (your Great-Grandpa) was quietly proud of his faithful son. We found the clipping in Grandpa's wallet after his burial and death in 1963.  Dad saw it...years later, 1963.  He paused as he noted his Dad's (my Granddad's) long-held, but quiet, pride.

While operating out of Halifax, NS, Dad spoke favourably about his Anglican Chaplain, saying, "He was a thorough Bible-man and thoroughly saved."  (Americans have few ideas about Anglicanism, that is, that old Prayer Book upon which you were reared.)  That was old code that the Anglican Chaplain "really" believed what he publicly professed and prayed in his Prayer Book.  An unspoken assumption was that Prayer Book men "read" their prayers thoughtlessly.  Dad spoke of Bible-meetings and prayer-gatherings with this Anglican Churchman/Chaplain and fellow Vets, as they steamed into dark nights of the northern Atlantic and German "wolf packs" triangulating off the Canadian shores. After WW2, Dad met and traveled with the Anglican Chaplain, speaking at various churches in Ontario...as WW2 Vets. Though the name eludes me now, Dad spoke very highly of this Prayer Book and Bible Anglican.  With those old prayers, Canadian Sailors faced dangerous nights. Dad's tombstone, aside from other identifiers, says, "HMCS Canadian Navy--WW2 Vet."  He earned that.  Not grace, just equity.

One thinks of one Anglican prayer:

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen.

While serving faithfully in HM’s Canadian Navy, he also kept faith with his vows of 1937.  Dad was emphatic about the Daniel and St. Patrick story then, as through the years. One story illustrates Dad’s faithful Churchmanship. Decades after combat and pastoral service, Dad returned to Canada for a Ministers’ Conference (mid-1990s). A man approached Dad. “Don, do you remember me?” My father demurred. The man responded,

“I am Roy. I served with you aboard the HMCS New Waterford. I watched you closely. You never knew it, but I became a Christian because of you. I later went to seminary. I have served as a Pastor for years in Toronto.”

Old stories re-flashed between the two Veterans. Dad had long forgotten this fellow Warrior.  Dad, fresh from high school, kept faith with 1937.  He read his Bible and Prayer Book.  He took a stand against some sailors' revelries and whoredoms while in port.  Dad helped drunken sailors get to bed.  A few chastised him for his Christianity.   But another man was "watching" Dad.  Dad didn't know or seek it.  That man pondered Dad's life and integrity.  Here, in the mid-1990s, decades later, the two reminesced. Dad later marveled at the wider set of unintended consequences—outcomes for his fellow Veteran, his family and a congregation of worshippers.  Always faithful.  It worked then.  It works now.

After WW11, Dad graduated from the University of Toronto (BA: Philosophy).  Afterwards, he attended Knox Seminary and Gordon-Conwell Seminary. These were serious graduate schools of theology, especially Knox Seminary in the Canadian Presbyterian tradition. Dad, especially, spoke highly of Dr. Bruce, a double-doctored Scotsman.  For some unknown reason, Dad liked him...much like I loved Dr. Philip Edcumbe Hughes (Church of England), Westminster Seminary, and Dr. Theophilus Herter (REC) of Reformed Episcopal Seminary.  Old and godly men leave their marks (as did Dad).  They do.  For Dad, Dr. Bruce was one such man at Knox. Dad loved Dr. Bruce and his careful Greek expositions on St. Paul's Epistle to the Galatians.  Later, Dad would speak favourably of a double-doctored French Calvinistic Baptist, Dr. Roger Nicole, from Gordon-Conwell (Th.D., Gordon Seminary; Ph.D., Harvard).  Dr. Nicole, as Dad related many times, had a "quirky and knowing grin" after closing classes and posing odd questions. Louis Berkhof's Systematic Theology was the central text. Allegedly, Dr. Nicole, played with this scribe under "the dinner table" in later years.  Berhof's Systematic Theology (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1935) was the reference point.  Dad's margins were wide, yielding to a French Calvinistic Baptist, but little else...otherwise inclining to the Presbyterians and Reformed with a healthy respect for old school Anglicans.  Dad faithfully read widely.

At age 18, Dad handed me a new copy of Berkhof's Systematic Theology and Charles Hodges's 3-volume Systematic Theology.  Read 10-15 pages a day, I was told, along with 10 chapters from the New Testament and 10 chapters from the Old Testament.  I did.  Hefty stuffy. Life was never the same.  Good advice, then, like now. I'm still re-reading those commendable and timeless volumes. While others might not have heeded those lessons, this scribe did.  Dad, always faithful.  Dad knew.

Dad was reared in the “Princeton School,” the latter two seminaries (as per the above) representing that Presbyterian lineage of 19th-20th century theologians. Like other spheres, Dad kept faith with them too—“those old Princetonians” as he called them. Names and books fell to our ears at the dinner table. “They had a better handle on reality” we were told. They were “an august and careful breed” was another line. "B.B. Warfield and Louis Gaussen were quite good on `inspiration,'"  Dad said.  But, what did I know? I was a lad. "Pass the potatoes, Dad." (Mum, "Please say, `Please' pass the potates.") This much, as I aged, I say this.  Dad commented favourably on varied traditions, notably Confessional Presbyterians and Prayer Book Anglicans.

When I went to Westminster Seminary, Philadelphia, Dad said on the phone, "Son, never-- ever--turn from the Westminster Confession of Faith." Dad knew.  Because of men like Dad, and others, the scholarly school of Princetonian Presbyterianism still survives in the country.  Hah, I inherited Dad's hardcopy library.  Have the volumes here. Princetonians were handed on...all notated. Faithful to the old Princetonian Presbyterians, an honourable breed.

One story illustrates a faithful stand taken while at Knox Seminary, University of Toronto. As a student, the custom for students, Dad delivered a sermon before peers and professors in the gray-stoned Chapel. Dad’s sermon was a standard, old schoolish, exposition on the penal, vicarious and substitutionary atonement of Christ, linking themes of Leviticus and Hebrews.  Rather standard stuff. Irenaeus (2nd century), Augustine (4th), Gregory (7th), Anselm of Canterbury (11th) and others would have differed little. Yet, one Professor took umbrage—an Old Testament Professor (PhD, Un. of Chicago) chilled by the arctic winds of 19th-20th century liberalism stated, “Young man, if you continue this, I will do everything to ensure you get churches in Labrador.”  Dad stood upfront getting chastised by a liberal OT man.  Yet, an older man, Dr. Bruce, the double-doctored New Testament Professor, came to Dad’s defense; Dr. Bruce asserted that Dad’s sermon was commendable, biblical, and historical. As Dad stood up front, he watched an animated, scholarly and extended brouhaha between the two Professors ensue. Dad dismissively mused later, “That old and godly Dr. Bruce…his series on Galatians in Greek was memorable...I especially remember Gal. 3.6-8, 26-29.”  Curiously, the recessional hymn was "Jesus Paid It All" played to the pipe organ.   That hymn, "Jesus Paid It All," became one of Dad's favourites due to the dress-down by a liberal on a classical biblical theme.   A modest--a very modest--effort is offered and registered at:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHloowS8v0g&feature=relateder.  Dad lforever oved this hymn, made memorable by a liberal antagonist to it and the pipe organ as they receded to the rear.   Dad imbibed the ethos and pathos of Knox Seminary. What could not be dismissed in the larger story, however, was that Dad had, like Dr. Bruce and others, stood faithfully in the gap (Bye, bye 20th century liberals).

As a son, I remember Dad going to his study—punctiliously. Like a Swiss clock. He was predictable. Put simply, Dad was a perennial reader.  He went there five days a week from 0800 AM to 130 PM, year by year. He prepared four services per week: a Sunday School lesson, sermons for Morning and Evening Services, and one for Wednesday nights. Dad often quoted Paul’s admonition, “Preach the Word in season and out of season…” (2 Tim.4.2). Typically for Dad, he expatiated on the verb, a “present active imperative” we were told, a “customary” present tense with an active voice and an imperatival mood, meaning “preach and keep preaching continuously.” Dad loved St. Paul's verbs.  Dad did that too—faithfully preaching for forty-five years..."in season and out of season." Or, as he often humoured us, "in the off season" too. Dad did that throughout the seasons,  faithfully.

After the funeral, I sat in "Dad's chair" in the living room. Next to his living room chair--reader as he was throughout life--was a neatly stacked pile of books for evening perusal. Even after death, we noted the stack of well-marked theological journals. Dad, aged 87, was still reading the serious thinkers.  Even after death, the same chair.  The "theo-journals" to the right and on the floor. Well-marked too.  By Professors of Theology in peer-reviewed articles.  Dad had been reviewing the titans. At the funeral, my brother-in-law reminded us simply, thematically, and rightly, “Many times when dating and visiting Pam [my sister] on Sunday afternoons, Dad would excuse himself to study for the Evening Service.” Nothing new. Dad was always reading.

Recently, I reviewed the baptism, marriage and funeral records from Dad’s pastorate. The names are in the hundreds; I inherited a file cabinet of sermon-notes. After retirement in 1994, Dad said, “Son, these sermon notes will be yours one day. They are immature in the early years and I can trace my own growth.” I am not sure that I or parishioners saw that, but he did. Adora Misson, one parishioner, saw one thing: “He was a faithful servant.” Her comments, not mine. Adora's comment was thematic and illustrative.

Dad was the faithful husband of sixty years to June Alicia (nee Tonkin, 123 Ritson Ave, Oshawa, ONT, from 13 St. David's, Exeter, UK) Veitch. A few days before Dad's death of date 23 Mar 2010, Dad invited Mother to the sofa to look at family albums. He held Mother’s hand and said, “June, I’ve always loved you, but never more than now.” There they sat holding hands—two elderly love-birds. Eegads, can it get any better?  A few days later, he was gone. Fidelity.

Hours after Dad passed, the family gathered at the Peters Funeral Home. Mr. Peters met the family...Mum, me and three siblings, at the door. Mr. Peters was the grandson of the founders. We did not know him; the family wasn't in the funeral business.  But Dad knew the Peters because Dad did many funerals with them.  (I do remember one odd-ballish story about Dad and the Senior Peters, the owner, in an hearse riding to the cemetery while the Senior Peters had WWJ-radio on catching the latest in the ballgame developments...Dad thought it odd...I was a lad recalling Dad's reaction.); we knew the funeral home by its stellar reputation as well as name-association from Dad's long history with them. The younger and junior Mr. Peters met us at the door and said,

“I have done countless funerals with your father going back to 1963. I was young and just taking over from my Father and Grandfather. Your Dad was a faithful Pastor. When I heard this was your Father, I instructed the staff that `I will personally handle Rev. Veitch’s funeral.’”

Mr. Peters had led countless processionals with Dad—both riding in the hearses. Mr. Peters would lead the final service, the final cortege and the last salute—Dad’s very last visit to Peters Funeral Home. Honour was the order of the hour.

Wherever one scrutinized, wherever one looked, wherever one turned or to whomever one listened, amongst the hundreds who attended, the storyline was immutable and incontrovertible. It was always the same.   Always faithful.

The Rev. Mr. Donald Lyman Veitch lived as he died—“always faithful” in every sphere and responsibility, as son, Christian, student, Sailor, Pastor, and family man.

Dad was a benchmark for us. A benchmark for theological Marines--always faithful.   Dad was a Benchmark for my children and my grandson.  While others may read here, this was my Dad.  Always faithful.

From the 1662 BCP, as offered in conclusion at Dad's funeral, with kneeling (for those who understood that) and offered in faith:

"O MERCIFUL God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who is the resurrection and the life; in whom whosoever believeth shall live, though he die; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in him, shall not die eternally; who also hath taught us, by his holy Apostle Saint Paul, not to be sorry, as men without hope, for them that sleep in him: We meekly beseech thee, O Father, to raise us from the death of sin unto the life of righteousness; that, when we shall depart this life, we may rest in him, as our hope is this our brother doth; and that, at the general Resurrection in the last day, we may be found acceptable in thy sight; and receive that blessing, which thy well-beloved Son shall then pronounce to all that love and fear thee, saying, Come, ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you from the beginning of the world: Grant this, we beseech thee, O merciful Father, through Jesus Christ, our Mediator and Redeemer. Amen."