Fathers' Day is a special time for me. I awoke this morning to hand-made cards from my daughter, jokes on my son's card, directions to turn the pages of the card (in case I was confused), and of course the gifts. I received a placard to place on my home office desk about being a father, a green t-shirt with the kids designs on them (a yearly favorite), and a polo from my wife with the church's logo. This year I also have the savored memories of a very special vacation to Disney and Myrtle Beach. Any one of these gifts, cards, and even the trip would be meaningless had they not been given by my family. I am not always the best at showing deep emotion like some. I am sure most of my friends and the congregation I work with would be surprised to learn I am actually quite shy and withdrawn inside, but make up for it with an exuberant personality on the outside. But family - well they know you for who you really are. My emotions for them are so deep and so powerful I often find myself alone in my office or car tearing up at the mere thought of them. I am so blessed.
I am also blessed with a wonderful Father who, as time passes, becomes dearer to me and almost mythical in some respects. I am old enough to know now that he is imperfect and flawed in his own humanity in the same ways we all are. I now understand that he still sees himself as a young man who was thrust into the position of fatherhood, prepared or not, and fulfills that duty to the best of his ability the way all fathers do. The freedom of youth paired with the ownership of decisions, victories and setbacks that accompany it are suddenly and for all time transformed when you look into the eyes of your first child. My father was considerably younger than I was when my son was born. He did not have all the advantages I took for granted. He had returned from Korea after being drafted right out of college. He worked in a dangerous neighborhood in downtown Detroit. The house I came home to was smaller than most modern apartments. And his parents and in-laws were both blue-collar workers who, although loving, generous and concerned for his well-being, could not financially support him in the way I always knew I could fall back on should a catastrophic event alter my life. But he pressed on, as all good fathers do, and gave of himself in the ways he understood and appreciated from watching his own father. To my father, that meant hours on the job, along with any overtime he could get, using questionable transportation, spending his weekends working on keeping the same vehicle running another week, staying up late into the night working a second job of preparing taxes, supporting the church as a deacon, and as I grew, being involved in children’s ministries. My mother stayed home to raise me most of my life, an honor and sacrifice that I can only now, as the sole income for my own family, appreciate. Many parents now choose to have dual incomes, and it was the same when I was a child, but neither of my grandparents chose that road. My parents understood the value in such a decision and made up their minds that I would have a mother at home even when giving in to pressures to a “better life” must have seemed much more appealing. But we were always clothed, always fed, and always well-loved through the good times and the lean ones in those early years, a testament to my father’s fortitude and my mother’s support of long hours and a Spartan budget.
As is true for most honest, hard workers, my father found a great deal of success in his work and was promoted many times. But with all the improvements in his financial standing, we always lived in a modest home and lived within our means. My mother only worked outside the home when my brother and I were mature enough to not need constant supervision. Dad taught me to be wise with my money, care about the feelings of others, be an involved and vibrant member of the local church, to treat others with respect and dignity, and to value honesty, hard work, and family. We never went on opulent vacations or drove new cars (until my father’s job allowed him to drive them as a perk), but we went to Disney World, Williamsburg, Gettysburg, Washington D.C., and always to our grandparents. Family was prized, and I grew up spending a great deal of time with my mother’s parents who lived close by, and looking forward all year to the trips to Tennessee to see my father’s parents. Christmastime always arrived with presents under the tree, but many of them were clothing and necessities of life that my brother and I needed, and were taught to value along with toys. We were taught to help around the house without the need to be reimbursed with an allowance. I was allowed to hold a part-time job as long as it did not interfere with school and extra-curricular activities. And with the money I earned, I was expected to assist with my expenses such as gas money and insurance. I know now that the amount that I was able to help was inconsequential, however, it gave me a healthy attitude toward the rewards of earning my own paycheck and the difficulty of making it last. I didn’t always appreciate or even respect these requirements as a young man, but the return on their investment has paid dividends in my adult life I would have never expected.
My parents don’t have a perfect marriage. Who does? But I watched my father closely, and from him learned how to love your spouse. I saw in him a respect for my mother’s abilities and a gentleness in the way he never forgot what she could have been had she followed her career ambitions. But he never missed an opportunity to make my brother and I aware of how blessed we were to have our mother at home. My father drove 3 hours each way after working all day every week to earn his Master’s Degree. During one of our relocations, he spent hours with me for months on the phone helping me with my homework. He came to nearly every football game and sat in the stands with the band when I was in high school. And after every concert, he would tell me he could hear me singing or playing (something I know now after being a musician for more than 25 years is either not a good thing, or practically impossible). I remember him listening to me intently when I had girl problems and relating that the girls that ignored me now would be the same ones that would appreciate me in college. He suffered through 3 broken retainers, some dismal report cards, picking me up from late practices and dropping me off for early ones, my share of bad relationships, and, I’m sure, many sleepless nights. He’s a great dad.
Dad suffered a stroke last year. We were blessed that he has nearly fully recovered. It was then that I realized that my dad had become one of my best friends. I now call him and mom nearly every day. Most of the time I don’t really have anything to say that is newsworthy. I just want to talk with him. I know someday the time will come when I won’t be able to pick up the phone and call him anytime I get the urge. These days have come to be precious to me. Why does it take so long to cultivate the kind of relationship with our dads that allow us to be fully transparent and completely honest? Perhaps it’s because about the time we realize just how incredible they are, we are so consumed with our own children that life just gets away. I don’t know the answer, but I do know that I love my dad, and he loves me. He’s just a man like me that did the best he knew to give me what he could in the time he had to make me the man I am. He has told me often how proud he is of me. But the real revelation is I’m proud of him too.
Here’s to you dad. You did okay.
Happy Fathers' Day.
