[Editor’s note: I was a student at the University of Liverpool, studying for a Bachelor degree in Electronics Engineering from 1975 to 1978, followed by a PhD degree (by-passing the Master degree) from 1978 to 1981. At the same time, I was attending night classes at the then Liverpool Bible College, which was a branch of the London Bible College. It was there that Joyce Goodfellow took the initiative to know me, a forlorn foreign student. I became a frequent guest at the home of Alan and Joyce Goodfellow, with their four children Simon, Graeme, Paul, and Gill. I have always thought that Simon is the same age as me, only to find out from this eulogy that he is four years junior to me. After marriage, Goody and I returned to Malaysia. We kept in touch with the Goodfellows by email. In a visit to UK, round about the year 2006, the Goodfellows insisted that we call them “Uncle Alan” and “Aunty Joyce” after having addressed them as “Mr. Goodfellow” and “Mrs. Goodfellow” for years. We saw them again in Liverpool in 2012. Alan Goodfellow was called home by the Lord on 27 January 2021. Due to the virus pandemic, a limited number of people were at the funeral, held on 23 February 2021, while others were present online. Here is the eulogy given by Paul Goodfellow, which we hope will do some good to our readers.]
Introduction
My name is Paul Goodfellow. I am Alan and Joyce’s third son and I live in Ontario, Canada. I apologize for not being there with you but in these times the travel restrictions make the trip rather impractical.
On behalf of my mother, Joyce; my brothers, Simon and Graeme; my sister, Gillian; and all our families; I would like to thank all of you for coming to commemorate the life of my father, Alan Gordon Goodfellow. In these days of the global pandemic of Covid-19 we appreciate all who have been able to attend. There may be many others who are watching in some other part of the world, either live or in a recorded video, we want to extend our gratitude to you as well for taking the time to remember him, and mark his passing.
These times of mourning are always difficult and perhaps filled with a mixture of thankfulness and sorrow. My immediate thought upon hearing the news of his death was to think of all the questions I wanted to ask but didn’t. My father had nobly fulfilled his calling as a husband by caring for my mother as she struggled with Alzheimer’s. To his credit he took on board the responsibility as the primary caregiver for Mum, without complaint. In his stride he took on chores such as getting groceries, cooking, cleaning, etc. In my own mind I envisioned being able to return to the UK to help bury my mother where I could express my thanks to him for his ministry to her. But it was not to be. This world is ruled by one who says:
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.” Isaiah 55:8
One of the primary lessons of the Christian life is that “his ways” are always best. But the Scriptures also tell us through the Apostle Paul:
“But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep.” 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14.
By resting upon God and his word we can be filled with hope even through these hard days. We can be filled with joy that one of God’s servants has finished his race and has entered the rest that the Lord has promised to all who would believe.
Brief History
Alan was born on Monday February 27th 1933. He was the first of two sons born to John Harold and Gladys May (nee Wooten) Goodfellow. His birth coincided with the Reichstag Fire in Berlin, which preceded the cataclysm of the Second World War that was to engulf large parts of the world 6 years later. His family was an ordinary working-class family. His father, Harold, held various jobs through the years as he sought to eke out a living for his family. His primary job was as a driver for the Coop Funeral Home. During his retirement he supplemented his pension by being a debt collector. That role stood out to me because when I first heard it my vision of a debt collector was supplied by television. I imagined someone who breaks hands and kneecaps when debts could not be paid. Harold did not fit that idea at all. He was a quiet unassuming man. Simon reminded me that his wife, Gladys, my Nana, was quite formidable. She would often accompany him and perhaps provide the muscle.
They lived a humble life in a council house in Liverpool. I remember my father teasing that he had come from West Derby which is a posher district of Liverpool compared to Knotty Ash where my mother lived. But they were by no means “posh” and he was stretching the boundaries of West Derby. For those who are unfamiliar with council homes they are tightly packed small houses, with small front and back yards. Mum’s home as a child was known as a 2-up- 2-down meaning they had 2 rooms on the ground floor and 2 rooms on the upper floor. Downstairs would consist of a living room and a kitchen, while upstairs would have 2 bedrooms. The toilet was outside. Believe me it was cold in there during the winter. You would not linger in the loo then. Dad’s was a little larger than that with 3 rooms downstairs and indoor plumbing. I have very vague recollections of an air-raid shelter in the backyard, and a room attached to the back of the house where Nana would do the laundry, pressing the water out of the clothes with a mangle.
My father and his brother were evacuated during the war, as many children were, to avoid the bombing. Liverpool in those days was an important shipping port, a lifeline to North America, and for a period of the war was a target for the Luftwaffe. They went to live with an Uncle and Aunt who were outside the city. But apparently my Nana missed them too much and their stay was short-lived. Thankfully, both his and my mother’s family survived the war in-tact.
Alan was educated at Alsop Grammar school in Liverpool. The English education system in those days divided children into two streams. Those who were more academically inclined would attend Grammar School and those less so a Secondary Modern School. Which one you went to was determined by an exam called the 11-plus which you took at age 11. After grammar school my father served his National Service as a porter in a local hospital due to him being a conscientious objector. Dad went on to attend the University of Liverpool where he studied Mathematics and graduated with a Bachelor of Science. My understanding is that it was unusual to attend university in those days particularly from a working-class background. I suspect that it took more commitment from the family than it does today. His brother, Keith, who was just over a year younger was not able to attend.
Some of the questions that I never asked center around my father’s involvement with church and the Christian faith. My father’s family were regular church goers, but they seemed to move around somewhat. At some point, my father became involved with Calvary Baptist Church on the East Prescot Road in Liverpool where he met my mother. Unfortunately, the church building has long since gone and the congregation closed in 2018. He sat under the ministry of Pastor Albert Chillington and an ardent faith in the Lord Jesus Christ grew within his heart. He was baptized as an adult, got involved with various activities such as Beach Missions and Open Air Preaching. After graduating University and before marriage Dad attended All Nations Bible College for a year. In 1956, dad married Joyce Stephenson with whom he would spend the rest of his life.
My father embarked on a career as a Mathematics teacher and together with my mother they soon started a family with Simon being born in 1958 and Graeme in 1960. But although he loved teaching and would enjoy it through all his working life and beyond, my parent’s hearts were set on the mission field. Their burden was to go to China as missionaries, but it was not to be. Remember the text I quoted earlier:
“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.”
They faced the disappointment of being turned down to serve in China due to Graeme having fair skin that would not do well under a hot sun. But the Lord had a better plan for them. Not in China but among the wonderful people of Ghana, West Africa. My father responded to a call for Mathematics teachers in West Africa and in 1963 they embarked on the adventure of travelling to Kumasi, Ghana. There my father would serve as the Head of the Mathematics department at Prempeh College. This is where I was born in 1963 and Gillian in 1969. We lived on the school campus in three separate homes although I only remember the last. I have very fond memories of Ghana. The people were warm, and it was a happy childhood. My father was involved with local churches, the school’s Christian fellowship and developed friendships with various missionaries in the country. I remember joy filled dinners held outside with some of the students in our yard. My mother would conduct Bible classes for the children in our home, my father Bible studies with the school students. He would travel to churches in villages outside of Kumasi with teams of students where my father would preach. My parents accomplished much in those 10 years, and it was probably the happiest time of their lives. Many Ghanaians look back with fondness at their memories of Master Goodfellow. It behooves me to give a special mention to Avalum. Avalum came to work for my parents as a young man of, I believe, 17 soon after they arrived. He helped look after the home and prepare meals, but he soon became a part of the family.
In 1973 that adventure came to an end. Both my grandfathers had died, and Dad had replaced himself with a Ghanaian. This return home was to prove a massive reverse culture shock. Britain had changed while they had been away. I found it interesting that the Scottish Academic Callum Brown in his book “The Death of Christian Britain” argues that 1963 was the year cultural Christian Britain died. This coincided with the year they had left these shores. We settled in the small town of Maghull just north of Liverpool, and my parents struggled to know where they fitted-in with life as it was in the late 70’s and 80’s. Dad taught at Old Hall High School which was to become Maghull High School. The pupils quite readily tested the resolve and mettle of the teachers at that school. One antic was to jump out of a classroom window, walk around the school and then return taking your seat without the teacher noticing. They tried that one on Dad once in a classroom on the 2nd floor. He took it calmly and made an appropriate witty remark as the pupil re-entered, thus gaining some respect among the pupils.
They found areas of ministry by keeping in contact with many students they had known in Ghana as they went on to further studies and adult life; and by be-friending foreign students closer to home. I know one Malaysian student, Poh, who went on to pastor in Malaysia who was very grateful for their friendship in a time where he was extremely lonely. My father also did some lay preaching on occasion in the Liverpool area. He was once invited to a church in the Anfield area where he was introduced as Paul Goodfellow. This quickly went into family folklore and I did ask why I never got invited back. Eventually my father was to retire, and my parents moved to St Helens to help Gillian with her newborn twins.
Since 2015 and probably earlier Joyce, my mother, has been battling Alzheimer’s disease. Slowly her brain function has deteriorated and in the last couple of years her mobility has declined. Dad rose to the occasion and took on the role he would call “the chief cook and bottle-washer”. During a visit in 2016 I joked to one of my daughters that if Mum did not die of Alzheimer’s then she would die of food poisoning from my Dad’s cooking. But despite his own aging he kept it up. Even during the pandemic lock-down he bought their groceries on-line and kept them going. I must say at this point, on behalf of my brothers, a special thanks goes to Gillian, her husband Steve, and their family for keeping an eye on them and caring for them through this time. They had moved to St Helens ostensibly to be available to help Gillian when the twins arrived, and she was coping with 4 young children. But in the last few years the roles had reversed and now they were being helped. To Holly, Josh, Eva and Kate who were close by as my parents aged: you brought much joy and fun into Nana and Grandad’s lives. You may miss them now. Your hearts may be sad but thank you for being an important part of their lives. If you are ever tempted to believe that you don’t matter, remember that you mattered very much to Nana and Grandad when they needed you.
How do I remember Dad?
In closing, I thought it would be appropriate to share a few thoughts on how I would remember Dad.
He could be describes as absent-minded from time-to-time. Or perhaps distracted.
One of the pleasures in the last couple of years in Ghana was to go to the British Council offices in Kumasi. There I would spend time in the library looking through books and magazines while my father would meet with whoever he had to see. There was one time that my father returned home and the first question on my Mum’s lips was “Where’s Paul?”Dad had gone home and completely forgotten that I was with him. He drove back to pick me up only to find me sitting on the front steps of the offices as I had been kicked out so the office could close. What I didn’t know at the time was that his father had recently passed-away, and he was trying to set everything in place so he could return to the UK for the funeral. It was remarkable of him that he even took me in the circumstances.
On a second occasion I was taken to the local hospital in Kumasi with toothache. They decided to extract the offending tooth which, when I eventually saw it, did not look human. They injected my gum with an anaesthetic and put me back in the waiting room so it could take effect. My dad promptly assumed we were done and took me home. I couldn’t talk as my jaw was numb. Thankfully once home my mum decided to look at the damage only to discover the tooth was still there. Immediately we drove back to the hospital but by then the freezing had started to wear off. Believe me I felt that tooth being extracted. Whilst it was not excruciating, I do remember it.
I did also learn that Dad believed in discipline. The house where we lived in the grounds of Prempeh College had a field behind it with some tennis courts. I remember my Dad chasing me across that field to discipline me. I can’t remember what I had done nor can I remember the ensuing spanking. But he wasn’t going to let me get away with anything. Simon has a similar tale which makes me wonder how many of us he did chase and how often. Even at Old Hall High School I heard tales of blackboard erasers being hurled across classrooms at pupils who were not giving the lesson their undivided attention.
I could describe Dad as strict. But those are not the primary words I will associate with him. I will remember him as a kind and loving man.
He always and invariably wanted the best for his children. He didn’t always express his love with words, but if you watched you could see his love in his actions. I believe he felt love deeply and perhaps, at times, it was too deep for words. As we left home and started our own families, I always found him to be available to help and advise but never interfere. He maintained a good relationship with all his grandchildren. I have already mentioned Gillian’s children, but the others did not want for his time or attention. Often taking them on camping trips, bicycle rides, or hosting them in his home. Even the grandchildren further from home knew their grandad. My son Martin once had Chinese food sneezed all over him by Grandad, but they all loved him. On one of the early visits when Martin was toddler I was slightly dismayed when he wouldn’t say goodbye to my parents. But we soon worked out that he was hoping if he didn’t say anything they wouldn’t leave.
He was generous perhaps to a fault. Several times to my knowledge he would leave envelopes with gifts of cash to someone who was in need. He would also quite freely give of his time when someone needed a listening ear. As I look back, I am struck by the effort he made to ensure that we didn’t go without despite finances being tight. One Christmas I was thrilled to receive go-kart for my Action Man. I suspect he had brought it back in the summer vacation. He took great care in bringing Gillian back a doll from the UK one year too. He carried it with him on the journey protecting it as he went. Unfortunately, once back in Ghana someone bumped into him at the airport and broke the head-off.
Most importantly he was a man of faith. That was not a vague faith, nor a generic faith, nor a faith in himself. It was a faith specifically centered upon the Lord Jesus Christ. He was thoroughly committed to the gospel, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. When he needed to be, he was bold. I remember him confronting one man in Maghull who was trying to make mischief and telling him, quite directly, that he was not motivated by the Holy Spirit. My Dad was right.
Further he was a humble man. Anyone who understands the Gospel should be humble. After all its central message is that God has done for you what you cannot do, and offers you grace and favor that you do not deserve. But Dad seemed to own humility very easily. It was not put on. It was real. I remember once one of his grandsons saying, “you pray don’t you Grandad”. What many of us would look upon as a compliment, and it was, was taken as a slight rebuke as he thought “but I should be praying more”.
Dad, I thank God for you. Thank you that you taught me the Gospel from childhood. Thank you that you modelled the importance of the Gospel, even though you might be quick to tell me you did this imperfectly. Thank you that in your latter years you showed me how a man should love his wife by caring for my mother. I wonder what your greatest ministry in this life was. Was it your work in Ghana? Or the subsequent ministry of encouragement that you exercised in personal friendships? Or, was it your ministry to Mum? Great as the first two were, I am inclined to think it was the latter. Although Mum cannot be here to express it, I am confident that she would thank you from the bottom of her heart for being her husband.
Thank you. Thank you for being my Dad. Thank you for being our Dad. Thank you for being a wonderful grandfather and great-grandfather. May you rest in peace and I look forward to that glorious day when I will see you on the clouds coming with Jesus himself.