For My Dad. . .

My Dad's Birthday is this week. My mother wanted me to write a note to him on the card to be sure make it personal. I had written the following in my little notebook one day after work. I printed that out for him instead. Happy Birthday Dad.

Growing up, I don't remember my father having to even sit me down to recite a litany of all that I had done that he was proud of. I don't remember for a moment every having any doubts that he was. And he never had to say a word. I always comfortably realized that my father loved me and thought the world of me. His approval had always been completely in my mind for as long as I can remember. It seemed that putting too many words to it would be like adding lyrics to a symphony, causing what was grand to become awkward and perhaps even a little silly. Yet, sometimes he did look at me with a conscientiousness that felt it shouldn't entirely be left unspoken, and he would say, "I'm proud of you, son". But we both seemed to understand that it was never really a revelation. We seemed to know that he was only saying out loud what we both already knew.

As I have grown older and experienced the struggles of trying to make it in this world, where I am constantly faced with someones new measurement of what I need to do to be considered valuable in any given situation, and the experience of falling just short of those expectations almost constantly, my thoughts often turn to my Dad. At some of these times, I have come to rest solely on the subconscious bedrock of the unconditional love my parents gave me growing up to hold me from sliding into complete despair in the face of some of the more aggressive assaults that have come my way. That foundation that I was lucky enough to have planted deeply within me as a child, has been the engine to keep me moving forward when I could not see a solution. It fostered hope that there would be a new morning, if I could just weather the night.

And it's during these times that I have begun to wonder if my father has ever faced these same assaults. I begin to wonder if my father had ever been subjected to the sliding scale of industry metrics, and work that was commended one day suddenly became sub-standard the next. If he had ever had the misfortune to be a component of a middle manager's game of professional advancement, consequently making my father merely a cog that could be assessed for replacement or removal when it lost it's most advantageous utility. I begin to think of my Dad and wonder if life ever treated him that way. If anything had every made him feel less than a completely essential person. The possibility that there has been makes me fume.

And then I wonder, at those moments, was he able to rest in the fact that I was always so very proud of him?

As I endeavor to do my best to raise my own kids, I've spent the last several years re-discovering my dad. Since we've come to have fatherhood in common, I've been able to look at him with new eyes. To see past the DAD icon and begin to see the man; the person. I can look at him sometimes and rewind to see him as a son himself. I can watch him even now, as a husband, and see him in all his efforts, sometimes so similar to my own, trying to be the man his wife needs. I want him to know that I see him being the storybook Grandpa I had hoped and daydreamed he would be, even when I was still a kid.

I want his mind to be shielded from any doubts that may come to ask "what might have been". I want to stifle any whispers that might come in the dark times to accusingly ask "what have you contributed" and block out the truth, attempting to make him seem empty handed.

I want him to see how his time bringing the past to life for several generations of young and old alike may be the only history lessons that they ever remember. I want him to know that the works of art he has created through his wood carving are things of beauty that will be cherished for generations---as much for what they are, as what they represent--the creativity and caring of his heart and hands and mind.

I want him to know that as a boy I came into contact with many other men who were fathers, that I played with their sons, and that I would often look at these boys with a feint sadness or pity recognizing that though their fathers tried very hard (and I would have commended those men for their efforts and encouraged them on if they would have ever asked) in the end were only dim reflections, and that in all the world only my brother and I got my dad as a father.

I was glad we did Boy Scouts together, my dad and I. Glad for the activities we shared as a result, but also glad that it provided an opportunity for my father to be shared with other boys that he would guide as an adult leader. It made me feel a little less miserly knowing that he was planting irreversible seeds of good in boys who needed a kind mentor in their world. I hope that in some small way life may provide me the opportunity amidst all its demand to be a good steward of that model. And I want him to know that at the end of each meeting, as we packed up and headed for home, all going our separate ways, that I was glad I got him back. After being around all those other adult leaders, all those other men, all those other fathers, each week I was glad, and sometimes even relieved, that the man I was going home with was my dad.

I just want to be sure that he knows that.