A Tribute

It's that time of year again. Time has flown and slowed all at once these last 10 years. He died on June 28, 2000. June 12 was his birthday, June 8 was my parents anniversary and of course...Father's Day. It's that time of year again. I miss my dad.

The ache has quieted. I think that now his memory bears an almost sweet taste to it. When he comes to mind, it's not painful as much as it is pleasant. Although sometimes looking at my daughters I get that tinge again, 'if only he could have met them...'. Or, I still get the occasional, 'I knew your dad. He was a great man'. I think, 'Yep. You have no idea.' Of course, its easy to forget all the bad in remberence of one lost. That is how it should be, I think. But the crazy thing about my dad is that there wasn't much bad.

He was a journalist who gave up his career to work at a church, writing and serving and ministering to others. He invested in the lives of people, not things. He re-heated and ate the leftovers that no-one else would. He made jumping off a fallen lightpost seem like the best thing ever, simply by making it a 'mystery ride' - if there was no money for a real family outing. He loved music and so badly played it, but he played it with heart and gusto and with us on his knee. He read the Bible to my brother and sister and I, and taught us what it meant. He planted and tended to his garden, rode his bike to work and would fast and pray for days at times. And most importantly, he loved my mom.

And who could forget the awful little rusty light blue pick-up with the flashing yellow light on top? He led such a simple life, but I think it was more powerful than so many realized at the time. He didn't live for himself, but truly lived life for others. His wife and kids and so many more than I could count.

And he will, forever, remain a part of me. Cliche ~ until I look at the crook in my nose, my gigantic veins (the nurses are always impressed!), the gray hair at age 30, and my ability to write and ponder and innovate. I am left to remember him as hints of my own self. The other, more selfless parts, I am working on!

And God, in His goodness and perfect timing, gave me my husband not long before he died. Passionate, yet practical, the ever-constant love of my life. So patient and hard-working. Almost a fierceness to his kindness. Perfect for me. I'm certain my girls will remember their childhood daddy with the same fondness that I do mine.

Whenever I am tempted to feel sorry for myself in losing my dad, my safety net, I am given harsh reminders of the blessing I had, and even still have. Recently, in working with Beacon Hill, I have had the humbling privilege of getting to know some amazing single mothers and their children, whose fathers have either abused them or long forgotten them. They do not have the memory of safety and peace with a loving father. In these moments of facing stark reality, the ache is stronger. The ache of never having, being so much more harsh than the ache of loss.

I am thankful for my dad. I am thankful for my amazing husband and my wonderful father-in-law. I am realizing that I have been given much in the way of fathers. I am reminded that "From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked." Luke 12:48. There exists a weight of responsibility on the 'father-rich' (those whose dad-cup is full) to step in the gap for those without fathers.

"For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality, and accepts no bribes. He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the alien, giving him food and clothing. And you are to love those who are aliens, for you yourselves were aliens in Egypt." Deut. 10:17-19.

Daunting, but fortunately, we have a Heavenly Father who shows abounding mercy, never-ending love, showers of grace and IS the perfect Father that we so desperately need. Our job is only easy if we ourselves experience God as our Father, and then...we simply reflect.