But to me, he was just dad. He was the best man I ever met. He was thoroughly trustworthy and never once told me a lie. He set a standard for manhood that no man on earth, with the exception of my brothers, has ever met. He laughed and smiled and joked. If there was ice cream in the freezer, it was a guarantee that he would have ice cream after dinner, and the way he packed as much ice cream as possible into a cup was a feat of food engineering. No air, no space was allowed into that cup. Ice cream filled every crevice and sometimes nuts and chocolate syrup and even raisins went on top. There were evenings when he ate that ice cream wearing a fedora and sunglasses, just because it was fun. He always cleaned his plate, scraping it with a fork, while we sat and cringed at the sound of metal against porcelain. He exemplified work ethic. Everything he did, he did with enthusiasm and immersion. It was not worth doing, if not done well. (Colossians 3:17)
He surfed, and crafted surf boards. He played tennis, and strung racquets. He made toys out of wood for my kids, tops that spun and catapults that hurled little tiny bean bags. We needed a computer- he researched and taught himself what he needed to know to build one. If something broke, he could fix it. He did things of great magnitude, building houses, clearing land, driving tractors, learning Russian to minister to Russian children, but he also was a master of delicacy and art. I will keep forever the hand drawn cards with illustrations and cartoons that he sent me, the bowls and vases he turned on his lathe, with delicate lettering burned into the bottom- dates, names, a message, a scripture. He wrote music and played guitar, crafted a ukulele and learned to play it. There were nights that he would throw on a garish wig and costume and goof around, just for fun, just to make us laugh. Every year, his Principles of Technology class at the high school would do a project- construct a model of a car out of balsa wood with a hole in the back for a CO2 cartridge, then race them to see who's car was the most aerodynamic. Every year, he would bring home a wooden form me for and my brothers, so we could make one, too. They were masterpieces. He taught us how to draw a design for the car, how to sand it down, gradually increasing the sandpaper grit, until it was smooth, like butter. When the cars were done and painted, looking like a professional tiny racer, they were strung on a string, the cartridge was fired, and they would fly. My dad gave us the gift of his time. He was not too busy to paint wooden model cars with his kids, help me perfect a cartwheel, play baseball in the backyard, have an ice cream date, build a snowman or go sledding. When we went to the beach, he would launch us into the waves again and again, and I only realize now, as a parent, how exhausting that was. At the time, all I saw was how much fun he was having with us. There were weekly Saturday breakfasts at Mrs. Wenger's. My brothers and I alternated weeks, taking turns so that we all got an equal opportunity for Saturday breakfast out with Dad. He was silly, funny, serious, brilliant, inspiring, faithful, honest- and always there for me. When my daughter was an infant and wouldn't stop screaming, he would take her outside and walk around the yard, in the grass, near the trees, and talk to her and she would grow quiet, listening to the rise and fall of his voice. He was a master story teller. On long car rides, we would often ask, "Tell us a story, Dad." He told stories to my brothers and myself and then told stories to his grandchildren, often about two rather naughty protagonists named Billy and Jimmy. Billy and Jimmy got into a lot of trouble. One of the more memorable tales was told to a certain child of mine that had a habit of eating boogers. Unfortunately, Billy or Jimmy, I cannot recall which, also had this habit, turned into a giant booger and died. After hearing the story, the child in question never ate a booger again, for fear that one day they might turn into a giant booger and perish. There was the year that my mother bought my dad turtleneck long sleeved shirts and my dad dutifully tried them on, clearly hating every second that his neck was entrapped in the softly suffocating fabric. She exclaimed, "David, you look so handsome!" He then proceeded to pose like a JC Penney model, while we laughed until we hurt, and there are photos to prove it. The turtlenecks were returned to the store.
He surfed, and crafted surf boards. He played tennis, and strung racquets. He made toys out of wood for my kids, tops that spun and catapults that hurled little tiny bean bags. We needed a computer- he researched and taught himself what he needed to know to build one. If something broke, he could fix it. He did things of great magnitude, building houses, clearing land, driving tractors, learning Russian to minister to Russian children, but he also was a master of delicacy and art. I will keep forever the hand drawn cards with illustrations and cartoons that he sent me, the bowls and vases he turned on his lathe, with delicate lettering burned into the bottom- dates, names, a message, a scripture. He wrote music and played guitar, crafted a ukulele and learned to play it. There were nights that he would throw on a garish wig and costume and goof around, just for fun, just to make us laugh. Every year, his Principles of Technology class at the high school would do a project- construct a model of a car out of balsa wood with a hole in the back for a CO2 cartridge, then race them to see who's car was the most aerodynamic. Every year, he would bring home a wooden form me for and my brothers, so we could make one, too. They were masterpieces. He taught us how to draw a design for the car, how to sand it down, gradually increasing the sandpaper grit, until it was smooth, like butter. When the cars were done and painted, looking like a professional tiny racer, they were strung on a string, the cartridge was fired, and they would fly. My dad gave us the gift of his time. He was not too busy to paint wooden model cars with his kids, help me perfect a cartwheel, play baseball in the backyard, have an ice cream date, build a snowman or go sledding. When we went to the beach, he would launch us into the waves again and again, and I only realize now, as a parent, how exhausting that was. At the time, all I saw was how much fun he was having with us. There were weekly Saturday breakfasts at Mrs. Wenger's. My brothers and I alternated weeks, taking turns so that we all got an equal opportunity for Saturday breakfast out with Dad. He was silly, funny, serious, brilliant, inspiring, faithful, honest- and always there for me. When my daughter was an infant and wouldn't stop screaming, he would take her outside and walk around the yard, in the grass, near the trees, and talk to her and she would grow quiet, listening to the rise and fall of his voice. He was a master story teller. On long car rides, we would often ask, "Tell us a story, Dad." He told stories to my brothers and myself and then told stories to his grandchildren, often about two rather naughty protagonists named Billy and Jimmy. Billy and Jimmy got into a lot of trouble. One of the more memorable tales was told to a certain child of mine that had a habit of eating boogers. Unfortunately, Billy or Jimmy, I cannot recall which, also had this habit, turned into a giant booger and died. After hearing the story, the child in question never ate a booger again, for fear that one day they might turn into a giant booger and perish. There was the year that my mother bought my dad turtleneck long sleeved shirts and my dad dutifully tried them on, clearly hating every second that his neck was entrapped in the softly suffocating fabric. She exclaimed, "David, you look so handsome!" He then proceeded to pose like a JC Penney model, while we laughed until we hurt, and there are photos to prove it. The turtlenecks were returned to the store.
My mom and dad had a marriage that was perfectly imperfect. They laughed, got on each other's nerves and half drove each other crazy, disagreed, and always came back together at the end of the day. He was my mother's best friend, her confidant, her person, her prayer partner. When he worked at the high school, he called her, to the best of my memory, every day when he took his lunch break. It was dependable, like clockwork. On payday, he would call and say, "The eagle has landed." They took care of each other. She kept him humble. He was her rock. There was never any question as to the fidelity of their relationship. It was one of the utterly true and reliable things in my life as a child and an adult. They loved each other in a way that was refined and excellent, through their human faults, lifting each other up always. My father showed so much respect for my mother, and she for him. They spoke highly of each other in the other's absence. My mom always said that she would go first, that there was no way my dad would be allowed to leave this earth without her. She often said that he was the most handsome man, and I agreed. My handsome, strong, dependable dad. He was everything that a man should be, flaws and humanity notwithstanding.
The memory that stands out most prominently to me takes me back to my late teenage years, when my parents and I were going through a very rocky period. Relationships were strained to the point of breaking and tensions were high. My dad and I were facing off, standing outside in the driveway, about 8 feet apart. We were having a very intense conversation, about what exactly, I cannot recall. I do remember the way I felt. I was angry, hateful, hurt, and stubborn. I was non responsive. Finally, he held out his arms, like an earthly representation of Jesus on the cross, and said, "I love you, Joni." Then he stood, waiting for me to come to him. I stood rooted there and didn't move. I waited. His arms stayed outstretched, steady. I waited a long time. Finally, he wavered, dropped his arms. His head dropped. At that moment, my heart broke a little bit and I went to him, accepted the hug he offered. He was always there. No matter what, I have never doubted that my father loved me. He truly did exemplify Jesus to me and is the standard of manhood that I will forever hold as ideal.
If I have any regrets, it is that we did not have more time. We didn't have enough coffee dates. I didn't get to make him enough cookies. I didn't get to hug him goodbye. I hope he knew how much I loved him, how special I knew he was.
No comments:
Post a Comment