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This is my first Father's Day since Dad died.
Dad died. It has been four weeks, and as I type that and see it in print, it is still surreal to me.
Anyway, I've never been much of a fan of Hallmark holidays. But I loved my Dad, and I am acutely aware that I am heading into this day missing the Key Ingredient.
Dad was the most compassionate person I have ever met. Bar none. He had a capacity to weep with those who weep unlike any I have seen. I have memories of him weeping upon receiving bad news about people he never even met. He stewarded that gift well, as he carried other people's burdens, feeling what they felt, coming alongside them, or lifting them up in prayer.
He was also the most opinionated person I have ever met, generally sorting the world into the Right and the Stupid. If you knew him, you're laughing because you know it's true. And if you know me, you're laughing because you're realizing, "Oh, that's where she gets it." As Brett says in his worst redneck accent, "The apple don't fall far from the tree."
And since I am that unfortunate combination of all of his passion plus none of his compassion,
And since we often strongly disagreed on what was Right and what was Stupid...
Suffice it to say, we had a feisty relationship.
Dad is the reason I care about politics and theology. Oh, we usually had the same Ends in mind. It was the Means where it got...exciting. Eventually, we just stopped talking about politics. It wasn't worth it. As for theology, well, we both love the Lord, so to stop talking about that was like asking us both to stop breathing.
We both cared passionately about the Lord.
We both cared passionately that our children walk with Him.
We both cared passionately that the Church behave like the Church.
But our different understandings of Grace and God's sovereignty led us to conflicting conclusions about what a mature Christian or a healthy church look like.
What he considered of primary importance, I considered secondary. What I considered primary, he considered secondary.
Yep. It got exciting sometimes.
Yet I owe my Dad a great debt. He led me to the Cross. He preached the gospel to me. He prayed with me to receive Jesus. He took me to church. He put his foot down against youth group and public school. When Brett came along, Dad inspected him for me. And across thirty-plus-years-and-counting of my marriage and eleven children, he interceded for us. He was always asking how he could pray for us. And it recalls to mind growing up, how I would see him pacing in the family room early in the morning praying--more like conversing--with the Lord. He was enthusiastic about our parenting choices and probably more informed on threats to home education, both foreign and domestic, than I was.
In the days after Dad's death, the recurring theme was:
Your Dad was like a father to me.
It is not hyperbole to say that I have lost count of how many times that was said.
To me, he was just Dad. The guy who was just there. There every night after work. There at the dinner table. There, loving his wife and raising his kids like he genuinely enjoyed it. The guy who told really awful jokes, like The Pig with the Wooden Leg. The guy who would hug you goodbye--and then leave you his papal blessing. And the guy who loved us and told us so.
That was ordinary to me. I thought it was the ordinary experience. I am starting to see that, to lots of other people, it was not ordinary. It was magnificent. And so now I must concur.
It was.
It was magnificent.
It was magnificent to have a dad who was there; who was engaged and enthusiastic; who prayed for me and rooted for me; who loved me and told me so.
And today, I am missing that magnificence more than I can express.
