It is funny how certain words stick to the concrete walls of our minds, while other words drift through open windows--elusive and nearly impossible to recall.
As a teenager, I always felt uncomfortable when my father introduced me to his colleagues and friends. Within seconds of our introduction, I would learn that they already knew several of my finer "resume credentials." In spite of my momentary embarrassment, I knew that my achievements were a source of tremendous pride for my father.
My father is perhaps the most brilliant man I know. He is fiercely tenacious, courageous, and kind. He may not have a college degree, but his work ethic has filled more space than any piece of paper ever could.
I have a tendency of committing to grandiose ideas, but my father has always stood in the gap between reality and my quixotic ambitions. My father helped construct an entire Roman village from shoeboxes for a Latin project in middle school. He stayed up all night helping me edit a documentary for AP US History. He constructed a bridge from toothpicks and Elmer's glue, adopted a Jack Russell "Terror," researched hundreds of scholarship opportunities, helped me move four times in as many years, and held my hand as the wedding march blended with one of my Mamaw's favorite hymns.
I have a tendency of committing to grandiose ideas, but my father has always stood in the gap between reality and my quixotic ambitions. My father helped construct an entire Roman village from shoeboxes for a Latin project in middle school. He stayed up all night helping me edit a documentary for AP US History. He constructed a bridge from toothpicks and Elmer's glue, adopted a Jack Russell "Terror," researched hundreds of scholarship opportunities, helped me move four times in as many years, and held my hand as the wedding march blended with one of my Mamaw's favorite hymns.
My dad may brag about my accomplishments, but in truth, none of these so-called achievements belong to me. My father has been the silent benefactor in all of my greatest endeavors.
When I dropped out of graduate school for a capricious venture to Thailand, my father's initial disappointment was evident. However, I later learned that he shared all of my blogs with our family, friends, and neighbors. Upon my return home, acquaintances would recite my stories back to me with surprising accuracy, while my father added the necessary hyperbolic details.
My father set an impossibly high bar for all of my relationships. During my first year of marriage, I struggled. I held unspoken and unrealistic expectations. My father made loving me look so easy. He always elevated the narrative for me. He provided the audience and added the details that painted me in a flattering attire. He filled the gap between the reality of my human nature and my proud self illusion.
Last year, Glenn and I fostered a son. Being a mom is another one of my dreams. Glenn has learned a few things since our first year of marriage, and he adopted my dream as his own without hesitation.
My father, as he is prone to do, adopted my dream as his own, too. It took one trip to Myrtle Beach, and our foster son referred to my dad as "Grandpa" before he called me "Mom." "Grandpa Bill" quickly became his "favorite person in the entire world." Grandpa Bill offered endless patience, grace, joy, and fishing opportunities. He once again stood in the gap between a reality of rejection by adults and the unconditional embrace of a loving grandparent. Every child deserves a Grandpa Bill.
For those of you unfamiliar with the narrative, my dream ultimately resulted in a lot of hurt and disappointment. Yet, my father did not allow pain to remain the exclusive byproduct of our experience. Instead, he absorbed my pain with his own and transformed defeat into hope. Following our experience, my dad became a volunteer with CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates). I have no doubt that he will quickly become a "favorite person" to the siblings he is currently serving in South Carolina.
Several weeks ago, I wrote that my mother taught me to love, and that is true.
However, life has taught me that love often exacts pain. It is waving good-bye to a dear childhood friend as she shrinks in the rearview mirror. It is the kleptomania of age, stealing memories and life from our most treasured defenders. It is the absence of legos scattered on the carpet and the oppressive presence of silence. It is the mother at the foot of her son's cross.
My mother taught me to love, but my father has taught me to get back up again. He has taught me to rise, to fill the gap, and to dream. When I am reflected in the light of my father's presence, I see the person I would like to be-- the person I hope I am becoming.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus directed the crowd that "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Matthew 6:21
I believe that our words betray the location of our treasure.
I am undeservedly blessed to have a father who so evidently finds treasure in his impetuous youngest daughter.
Thank you, dad. I love you.
Thank you, dad. I love you.
