Happy Father’s Day!
Dear Daddy,
I’ve spent the last couple days quietly mulling over what I wanted to write about for today. I wanted to capture all of my love for you and write it out in an elegant post. But the more I thought about what to say, the more things I came up with—which I guess is the point, but there’s too much to put in one blog post. (There will always be something to say next year, and for many years to come.)
There are so many times when family friends tell me that I resemble you or mom—you’ve heard this too. And every time it happens I always say, “I hear that a lot. It usually depends on who I’m with at the time. I guess I’m just a good blend.” And I smile and let the moment pass. Part of me thinks that they’re talking about the way I look, but I also know that it’s also their way to recognizing that I have inherited your mannerisms.
As I dwelled on all of the things I wanted to say today, it reminded me of how you are slow to speak and always approach situations and problems with quiet thoughtfulness. Even when I was a kid and busted a hole through my bedroom wall while jumping on the bed, I knew you would be angry, but I don’t remember you yelling. I remember you standing in the doorway; obviously worried that someone was hurt, and asking, “What happened?” It didn’t take long for you to notice your sobbing daughter and the gaping hole in the wall. In fact, I’m not sure my cousin and I would have been punished (much) if we hadn’t lied about what happened. Thank you for teaching me your patience. Thank you for teaching me how to listen and observe a situation before reacting. I’m not always good at it, but thank you for being a good example to me.
I also thought about all of the times when I was scared as a kid, which happened a lot. It didn’t take much to spook me—a carved pumpkin on my first Halloween, Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, Scooby Doo and the Haunted Island, E.T., and the list could go on for a while. But I always knew that you were safety—that if you were home, nothing bad could happen because you would protect me. Do you remember a few years ago, I was probably nineteen or twenty, and you and mom were out of town for the weekend? I took the opportunity to rent a few movies and enjoy a weekend to myself. I watched The Lovely Bones because I trusted Peter Jackson as a director and I was interested in other movies he worked on after The Lord of the Rings. I called you that night as I tried to get ready for bed—the movie freaked me out and the weather wasn’t the greatest. We were in for a spring storm. I told you that I just needed to talk to you because I was scared and told you what movie I watched. Do you remember what you said? “Yeah, you should have asked me. I would have told you that you wouldn’t like that one. I read some reviews of it.” I don’t know if you read the reviews in preparation for me asking you about it or not, but just talking through it with you helped me calm down. You may have recommended some I Dream of Jeannie to distract me. Thank you for creating a safe home for your family. Thank you for being a protector.
Thank you for introducing me to J.R.R. Tolkien. Without your recommendation to read The Hobbit, I would be a different person. I may not like reading. I may not like Fantasy. I may not have chosen writing to be a passion. Thank you for introducing me to so many wonderful stories over the years. You are the reason I love Star Wars and other “nerdy” worlds. Thank you. The gift of story in my life has been profound. And beautiful.
Today as we drove around the countryside and you pointed out all of the land your dad used to farm, I couldn’t help but wonder how like him you are. Are some of the qualities you are teaching me, things that he taught you? Did he have the same quiet thoughtfulness? Did he teach you how to be a protector? And it kills me that I can only wonder because I never knew Grandpa Rob. I wish that Father’s Day didn’t bring back grief for you. Thank you for working hard to provide for you family, like your father worked hard to provide for his.
I could go on. I want to go on, but I’ll leave you with this:
Thank you for showing me the love of Christ my whole life.
Love,
Your Boofer
