Life or Death Crisis Brings Father and Son Together

By Pat Lierley and Murphy Lierley, Grant, Nebraska and Lincoln, Nebraska

As appeared in

PAT: It was a Friday afternoon last July. I was 15 feet off the ground, standing on a step, my left hand holding on to the metal frame of a massive cornfield irrigation system. With my right hand I punched my son Murphy’s number into my cell. We were repairing a malfunctioning water gun for a client near North Platte, Nebraska, an hour from our home in Grant. The sun was broiling. I’d been out here for two hours and still I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with the system. I’d taken the face off the high-voltage power box, checked the electrical contacts. I’d pulled the pressure hose, reattached it. I’m used to getting results. But today, nothing I tried worked.

Murphy was at the main controls. Between us towering cornstalks blocked him from my view. His job was to turn the power—480 volts—on and off when I called. This was his third summer working with me fixing irrigation systems. In a few weeks he’d be headed to college.

I couldn’t believe how quickly the years had gone by. I’d tried to prepare him to be a man, drilling into him the importance of doing a job right. He was our only child still at home, a good kid, like his two older sisters. I admired his strong faith, how he prayed daily. But sometimes I wished he were a little more focused, a little less dreamy. That had been a strain between us. I kept having to remind him about basic stuff. Sometimes I just didn’t know where his head was at.

On the other end, his phone rang and rang. Where is he? “Uh, Dad?” I heard a groggy voice say.

“Murphy, were you asleep?” I said.

MURPHY: I must have dozed off when Dad called. “Listen, I need you to pay attention,” Dad snapped. “Turn the power on.” I could picture him in my mind. Mouth turned down, eyes intense. I knew that look well. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the heat was stultifying and it was boring, staring out at a sea of green and waiting for Dad’s call every 20 minutes. Lately it seemed like nothing I did was good enough for him.

“It’s on,” I said, pushing the button.

“Thanks. Let’s hope this works,” Dad said. He hung up. My throat was parched. I’d left my water in the truck Dad had driven to his end of the field. Another screw up.

I pulled out my rosary, started saying a prayer, the Chaplet of Divine Mercy, counting the wooden beads with my fingers. Catholics say the chaplet at 3:00 p.m. each Friday, the hour that Christ died. “For the sake of the sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and the whole world,” I prayed after each Hail Mary, words that had given me comfort for as long as I could remember. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Dad. No matter how I tried, I’d never be as good at fixing things as he was. He’d repaired irrigation systems for more years than I’d been alive. He always knew what to do. Not me. Even from across the field I could feel Dad looking over my shoulder.

PAT: I reached for a piece of tubing, my right arm grazing the power box….

The electrical current pulsed through me—all 480 volts. My body shook uncontrollably. My bicep was glued to the power box! I pushed away with all my strength, but the current’s grip only tightened. “God, help me,” I screamed. I’m dying, I thought. My family. I didn’t want to leave them. Not now. Then, suddenly, I was free. I gazed down at the ground swirling below me. At least I hadn’t fallen. Somehow, my left hand hadn’t lost its grip on the frame.