Dear Dad

My dad was a career army officer – a good imperfect man.  He taught me endurance, patience, hope, hard work, "righty-tighty, lefty-loosey", how to ski off a jump with flair, how to endure and try for something more.  He taught me how to be loyal when loyalty was not due, to run, and to give myself "30 minutes to take my boots off" when I got home from work (when I could).

When my brother, Pat, died a few days before my sophomore year at Georgia Southern, he taught me to love others when the weight of my own grief crushed.  I did not learn that one too well.  Each morning, he would put on my brother's BDU (Battle Dress Uniform) cap – my brother had been in the Old Guard in Washington and a newlywed when he learned of the cancer – and he would salute it – the cap, the memory, his son.  I would hold my breath sometimes and watch him – hiding – not wanting to ruin his moment of memory.  

My dad is a brave man in so many ways.  He has faced the enemy in Vietnam and at home every day. I know that when I brought him sorrow, he was willing to forgive.  He taught me that integrity was a non-negotiable, that perseverance is a noble decision, and that you can love someone and not see them for years.

He did his best – a career infantry officer with four kids. He and my mother decided that we needed to live far away from other Americans as much as possible so we did.  Our 1+ hour drive to school had us rumbling over the Porsche test track in Stuttgart, along the autobahn, and through the little German burgs in the good care of Shahin, our Muslim bus driver.  Shahin was kind, so much so that after a long "stau" or traffic delay, he would sometimes stop for prayers, mineral water at the fountain in Esslingen, or ice cream in Nellingen.  And he would share with us – unruly, broken kids – infidels.  

My dad was southern born and acquainted with sorrow.  He did not often ask for help nor dishonor the ones he loved.  He was so loved by his four kids.  It is because of his and my brother's influence, that I often (and proudly) say that I was raised by men and chimps (the chimps came later.)

I would do anything to be next to my dad.  Go to the dump?  Sure!  Sign me up!  Learn some boring car care thing from the VW Care for Dummies?  Oh yea!  Shuffle behind him along the worn wooden floors of an ancient hardware store?  That's tow-headed me, with teeth hanging out, in my brother's clothes, and aching for time with my dad.  He was – in many ways – a safe harbor in a turbulent childhood sea.  I loved him and love him still.

He was not always able to protect us – for whatever reason – and that has caused us great pain.  I now live within a quarter of a gas tank away and the chasm between us is too great.  I love him and would give anything to trundle behind him as he listened to his community – his townsfolk, record their thoughts, requests, and thanks in the notebook stashed in his breast pocket, and dodge off to check on the recycling, wastewater treatment facility, and local shenanigans.  

I miss him.  Terribly.

Forgiveness is not an easy cake to swallow.  
 
What I would do to sit out front with him, pop a fizzy beverage, and laugh and laugh and explore the mysteries of municipal government, technology, neighbors, the world at peace and at war…family…the universe.  As imperfect as we are – I still long for time with him.  As a mum of two college students, I still wish for my daddy's company.  

Yet there are those addendums, past judgments, and provisos in the court of family and woundedness.  There is a call to truth and protection in the light of human frailties.  There is a need to no longer walk the gauntlet to sit by his side…and I would give so much to sit by his side.  (Just like we did at the top of the Jenner in the hut while he drank a stein of good German beer at a high altitude.  Just him and me and a bunch of yodeling, well-saturated, German hikers.  I can see the picture in my mind – he in his green polo with a wide and satisfied grin on his face.  I only wish that he could have grinned like that so much more.  He deserved it.)  Such a good and imperfect man.  And I his daughter – still wanting to grow up and – in many ways – be like him.  

And I wonder if this is how God feels with us?  The Creator of the Universe waits patiently for us to call, to sit in the truck and talk as the sun goes down and the mosquitos fill the hot muggy Kansas summer, or to loan us his gloves at the neighborhood ski lift because we'd forgot our own.  I think God keeps looking out the window, checking his phone and his email, looking down the drive for us…to come home.  To call up and say, "Dad, I'm screwed if you don't show up." or "I've missed you so much.  Can I come home?"

He's dad.  And unlike my soldier, skier, officer and gentleman dad – He is Perfect.  But no need to be intimidated.   He's just waiting for you to swing by and curl into his company – pop a cold one on the porch, toss a few passes in the front yard, work together on that algorithm that's been giving you fits.  

And maybe, by going to our heavenly father with an open and honest heart, we'll eventually find our way home – to our earthly family…and friends.  

If this all feels too much…come find me and I'll walk with you.  I'm trying to find my way home to him, too. 

BONUS BLOG MOMENT:  Scene from Bruce Almighty that cracks me up and unleashes the water works simultaneously.  Enjoy.  Show me a Sign