It's high time someone told you the truth. So buckle up. I’m going to let you in on our deepest, darkest family secret.

There’s a chance this won’t go well. That while I’m speaking, a motorcade of black SUVs might pull up, a wedge of agents in sunglasses and suits burst into the room, and things go rapidly south from there. Dad warned us (sometimes with a straight face) that this was a possibility.

And who really knows now?

Nearly fifty years ago, I burst in from the New Mexico sun one afternoon to find new equipment in our Albuquerque apartment. It was lit up like a christmas tree, so of course I grabbed it. Dad plucked it out of my grimy little paws, and his eyes lit up as he showed me his new toy.

He squeezed a chunky button on the side, and spoke into it: A few seconds later the radio rasped back: “HQ Here. Go ahead, Larry.”

I gasped. This was not just any radio. This was a two-way radio.

Then Dad sealed the deal. He put on his blazer, fiddled with his ear, and ... Read moredid something mysterious inside his jacket. He put on his sunglasses, lifted his right cuff to his mouth, and spoke again. Then turning, he tapped and showed me the earpiece in his ear, saying “Loud and Clear, HQ”

And that was IT. I KNEW. My dad - the man we are all here today to celebrate? The life he lived, our little family, the whole thing with BGEA? That was great and all. But it was just a cover story for something far more mysterious:

Because, Ladies and Gentlemen? Our dad was a SECRET AGENT.

To his eternal credit, he loved the idea as much or more than we did. His innumerable travels became elaborate subterfuge. And whenever he returned to us, he kept that intrigue smoldering with a wink, a dangerous look, a finger touched meaningfully to our lips.

So much of his story lines up: He’d studied both Russian and Psychology in college. He’d “considered” applying to the CIA. And his career at the BGEA would take him (and us) to a lengthening list of target-rich locations.

Our international exploits began in Sweden, in the late 70’s. From there my father and his teams would crisscross the globe across the years. I can’t tell you that we were certain he was in Berlin when Reagan made his legendary speech. Or soon afterwards when the wall finally fell. But it wasn’t much later that he and the usual suspects were popping up in the newly liberated territories once deep behind the iron curtain.

Central and South America. The Caribbean. Iceland & Scandinavia. Throughout Europe. SE Asia. Australia. And when the BGEA made the historic visit to Moscow in 1992, my father’s eyes had never glittered so brightly as when he was polishing up his collegiate Russki to prepare. Afterwards, he was thrilled to whisper that there were some details that he would NEVER be at liberty to discuss.

In 2011, after Dad “Retired”, a friend emailed a picture of VP Biden on campaign here in Asheville. In the background, there stood a member of his security detail. The gentleman in that photo could have easily been our father. I forwarded the shot out with the excited tagline - “Dad IS a secret agent after all!”

That image is here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1wgqjkIDtNlzDwMxexj_U-Vpyj-eK5pNb/view?usp=sharing

And then a few hours later, my phone chimed. I had a new voicemail, from an unidentified number.

Was this the smoking gun - evidence at long last? You tell me. But this might be where the suits show up. If so, I’ve made my peace. I suggest you do the same.

It’s time. Quiet in the house. Roll the tape:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hGhbgmEHCOdot5MMCx0tgnbKied3dc-z/view?usp=sharing

The thing is, I had forgotten all about this recording. It wasn’t until putting the finishing touches on these memories that I rediscovered this absolute gem. Is it possible that Dad’s associates got to me and wiped my memory, way back when?

In any event, to be able to share this with you in his own voice is one last gift he’s given us. But there was always more to all of this laughter than mere mischief. Dad consistently challenged us - us kids, Mom too - to understand that there was a fundamental question wrapped up in all the giggles we happily shared together.

That’s a lifetime’s work, for a father’s child: To understand and come ourselves to own the essential things that made Dad tick. I’m still working on that, and probably always will be. But one way of framing his most challenging question is this:

If my dad spent his life in the service of a man like Billy Graham, and if that service was only the cover for his real mission, then who was it that he so faithfully served? And what, then, was his secret mission?

If you are here today - If you knew my dad at all, that’s probably funny. Because you know that his service was NEVER secret. It was always obvious:

Dad took his orders directly from the man upstairs. And there was no place for anything or anyone between my father’s God and the service Dad so faithfully rendered.

Neither suffered any idols. Not at home. Not at work. Not at church. Not anywhere. Not at all.

Which wasn’t always easy for the rest of us - while Dad’s love and loyalty were extraordinary, they were never boundless. We knew that anything my father had to give was ours for the asking. But we also knew that his own integrity was never his to give away. That part of him belonged exclusively to the God he served. And so we knew that there were things we could ask from him that we would not receive: Not from lack of love, but from an absolute lack of compromise.

A tough lesson, that. But one our world and leaders could certainly stand to learn, these days.

The question of mission is the trickier one. If only because my father (and mother) have always been so humble and so understated in devotion to their calls. Neither would ever draw attention to themselves. It was up to us to infer from actions what words could never say.

There is a lifetime of leadership in this question. And the long goodbye we have spent grieving it. We will share those stories together, today and in the future. For my part, I'll give you one moment, near the end, in spring of this year.

As Dad’s disease mercilessly increased its grip, he shuffled from place to disoriented place around the house. So often baffled, so often lost, he would usually confront his deteriorating condition with his ubiquitous New Testament in one hand, the impulse to join hands, bow and pray in the other. No matter what else was stripped away from him, so long as he could still speak, he had prayers to say.

One afternoon some idea had seized him, and he made his way out to his Jeep. My mother had hidden his keys, so the driver’s seat would be as far as he got. But he was determined to sit there, one hand clutching that Testament, the other on the wheel.

I went out and asked if I could join him. He and I sat quietly for a while. When I asked him if there was anything he needed, he responded with something I hadn’t expected. He said,

“Core, I just need a job to do. If someone could give me that, I’d be fine.”

Eventually, I managed to choke out the words I was somehow given:

“Dad, I think you have a job. I know you do. Your example has always shown us each how to live.”

I took his hand.

“Now, Dad, you’ve been asked to lead a masterclass on how to finish up. That end is close, now. We are cheering you on. We learn this, as we’ve learned everything else: all of it from watching you.”

And In the other seat, Dad took a deep breath, paused a moment. He exhaled, and his strong shoulders visibly relaxed.

He said, “You know, Core - I think that’s something I can probably do.”

And then he squeezed my hand, and asked if we could pray together. So we bowed our heads and as we did, whatever tangled thought that troubled him slowly melted away. Within minutes, he was ready to leave the Jeep, shuffle back to his favorite chair, settle in, and fall to sleep.

And so, my father was right that one last time. Even at the utter end of himself, that assignment was a mission he chose to accept. A job he could do. And he did.

Dear friends, beloved family, at the end I leave you with this:

I cannot OFFICIALLY confirm or deny our father’s operational history, his organizational bona fides, or career duty status. But I can assure you of this:

His mission with us here is complete. He finished well. And he ended strong.

And those of us remaining here will have to wait a little longer for Dad’s full debrief, where all the hush-hush details On His Father’s Secret Service can finally be revealed: In the fullness of glory
at long last.

Amen. Read less

It's high time someone told you the truth. So buckle up. I’m going to let you in on our deepest, darkest family secret.

There’s a chance this won’t go well. That while I’m speaking, a motorcade of black SUVs might pull up, a wedge of agents in sunglasses and suits burst into the room, and things go rapidly south from there. Dad warned us (sometimes with a straight face) that this was a possibility.

And who really knows now?

Nearly fifty years ago, I burst in from the New Mexico sun one... Read more afternoon to find new equipment in our Albuquerque apartment. It was lit up like a christmas tree, so of course I grabbed it. Dad plucked it out of my grimy little paws, and his eyes lit up as he showed me his new toy.

He squeezed a chunky button on the side, and spoke into it: A few seconds later the radio rasped back: “HQ Here. Go ahead, Larry.”

I gasped. This was not just any radio. This was a two-way radio.

Then Dad sealed the deal. He put on his blazer, fiddled with his ear, and did something mysterious inside his jacket. He put on his sunglasses, lifted his right cuff to his mouth, and spoke again. Then turning, he tapped and showed me the earpiece in his ear, saying “Loud and Clear, HQ”

And that was IT. I KNEW. My dad - the man we are all here today to celebrate? The life he lived, our little family, the whole thing with BGEA? That was great and all. But it was just a cover story for something far more mysterious:

Because, Ladies and Gentlemen? Our dad was a SECRET AGENT.

To his eternal credit, he loved the idea as much or more than we did. His innumerable travels became elaborate subterfuge. And whenever he returned to us, he kept that intrigue smoldering with a wink, a dangerous look, a finger touched meaningfully to our lips.

So much of his story lines up: He’d studied both Russian and Psychology in college. He’d “considered” applying to the CIA. And his career at the BGEA would take him (and us) to a lengthening list of target-rich locations.

Our international exploits began in Sweden, in the late 70’s. From there my father and his teams would crisscross the globe across the years. I can’t tell you that we were certain he was in Berlin when Reagan made his legendary speech. Or soon afterwards when the wall finally fell. But it wasn’t much later that he and the usual suspects were popping up in the newly liberated territories once deep behind the iron curtain.

Central and South America. The Caribbean. Iceland & Scandinavia. Throughout Europe. SE Asia. Australia. And when the BGEA made the historic visit to Moscow in 1992, my father’s eyes had never glittered so brightly as when he was polishing up his collegiate Russki to prepare. Afterwards, he was thrilled to whisper that there were some details that he would NEVER be at liberty to discuss.

In 2011, after Dad “Retired”, a friend emailed a picture of VP Biden on campaign here in Asheville. In the background, there stood a member of his security detail. The gentleman in that photo could have easily been our father. I forwarded the shot out with the excited tagline - “Dad IS a secret agent after all!”

That image is here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1wgqjkIDtNlzDwMxexj_U-Vpyj-eK5pNb/view?usp=sharing

And then a few hours later, my phone chimed. I had a new voicemail, from an unidentified number.

Was this the smoking gun - evidence at long last? You tell me. But this might be where the suits show up. If so, I’ve made my peace. I suggest you do the same.

It’s time. Quiet in the house. Roll the tape:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hGhbgmEHCOdot5MMCx0tgnbKied3dc-z/view?usp=sharing

The thing is, I had forgotten all about this recording. It wasn’t until putting the finishing touches on these memories that I rediscovered this absolute gem. Is it possible that Dad’s associates got to me and wiped my memory, way back when?

In any event, to be able to share this with you in his own voice is one last gift he’s given us. But there was always more to all of this laughter than mere mischief. Dad consistently challenged us - us kids, Mom too - to understand that there was a fundamental question wrapped up in all the giggles we happily shared together.

That’s a lifetime’s work, for a father’s child: To understand and come ourselves to own the essential things that made Dad tick. I’m still working on that, and probably always will be. But one way of framing his most challenging question is this:

If my dad spent his life in the service of a man like Billy Graham, and if that service was only the cover for his real mission, then who was it that he so faithfully served? And what, then, was his secret mission?

If you are here today - If you knew my dad at all, that’s probably funny. Because you know that his service was NEVER secret. It was always obvious:

Dad took his orders directly from the man upstairs. And there was no place for anything or anyone between my father’s God and the service Dad so faithfully rendered.

Neither suffered any idols. Not at home. Not at work. Not at church. Not anywhere. Not at all.

Which wasn’t always easy for the rest of us - while Dad’s love and loyalty were extraordinary, they were never boundless. We knew that anything my father had to give was ours for the asking. But we also knew that his own integrity was never his to give away. That part of him belonged exclusively to the God he served. And so we knew that there were things we could ask from him that we would not receive: Not from lack of love, but from an absolute lack of compromise.

A tough lesson, that. But one our world and leaders could certainly stand to learn, these days.

The question of mission is the trickier one. If only because my father (and mother) have always been so humble and so understated in devotion to their calls. Neither would ever draw attention to themselves. It was up to us to infer from actions what words could never say.

There is a lifetime of leadership in this question. And the long goodbye we have spent grieving it. We will share those stories together, today and in the future. For my part, I'll give you one moment, near the end, in spring of this year.

As Dad’s disease mercilessly increased its grip, he shuffled from place to disoriented place around the house. So often baffled, so often lost, he would usually confront his deteriorating condition with his ubiquitous New Testament in one hand, the impulse to join hands, bow and pray in the other. No matter what else was stripped away from him, so long as he could still speak, he had prayers to say.

One afternoon some idea had seized him, and he made his way out to his Jeep. My mother had hidden his keys, so the driver’s seat would be as far as he got. But he was determined to sit there, one hand clutching that Testament, the other on the wheel.

I went out and asked if I could join him. He and I sat quietly for a while. When I asked him if there was anything he needed, he responded with something I hadn’t expected. He said,

“Core, I just need a job to do. If someone could give me that, I’d be fine.”

Eventually, I managed to choke out the words I was somehow given:

“Dad, I think you have a job. I know you do. Your example has always shown us each how to live.”

I took his hand.

“Now, Dad, you’ve been asked to lead a masterclass on how to finish up. That end is close, now. We are cheering you on. We learn this, as we’ve learned everything else: all of it from watching you.”

And In the other seat, Dad took a deep breath, paused a moment. He exhaled, and his strong shoulders visibly relaxed.

He said, “You know, Core - I think that’s something I can probably do.”

And then he squeezed my hand, and asked if we could pray together. So we bowed our heads and as we did, whatever tangled thought that troubled him slowly melted away. Within minutes, he was ready to leave the Jeep, shuffle back to his favorite chair, settle in, and fall to sleep.

And so, my father was right that one last time. Even at the utter end of himself, that assignment was a mission he chose to accept. A job he could do. And he did.

Dear friends, beloved family, at the end I leave you with this:

I cannot OFFICIALLY confirm or deny our father’s operational history, his organizational bona fides, or career duty status. But I can assure you of this:

His mission with us here is complete. He finished well. And he ended strong.

And those of us remaining here will have to wait a little longer for Dad’s full debrief, where all the hush-hush details On His Father’s Secret Service can finally be revealed: In the fullness of glory
at long last.

Amen. Read less