For My Dad…

I’m six. Alyse and I are running through the living room as you chase
us around the couch. When you catch us, you swing us up on your
shoulders and drop down on all fours. You morph into “buckin’ bronco”
until our stomach’s ache from laughing so hard. The carpet in the
living room is blue. That blue carpet is now a tile floor. And so I add
a few years.

I’m nine. Devin, Alyse, Mitch and I are crammed in the back of the car,
sucking down our 7/11 slurpies. It’s almost midnight-we’re coming home
from the late showing of a movie. You’re quizzing us on the plot.
Instead of answering your questions, we laugh at you because…who does
that? And then we cave and answer, because…who would have guessed…they
were fun.  I drive myself to the movies now. And so I add a few years.

I’m thirteen. I’m coming home from my first cross country race in
Carson City. You came and cheered me on from every mile marker. Our bus
pulls into the middle school parking lot, and as I step off, you wave
me into the car. You drive me all the way back to Carson to buy me an
ice cream cone from Shell-the best kept secret in that little town. My
uniform has long since been retired. And so I add a few years.

I’m fourteen. A few hours ago, you had announced to Alyse, Mitch and I
that you and mom were considering a divorce. I walk into Mitch’s room,
and there you are, sitting on his bed. You’re reading your Bible and
praying aloud. I went into my room and did the same. That was the night
I learned to talk to/trust in God. You and Mom are still married. God
is still good. And so I add a few years. 

I’m fifteen. We’re coming home from our first trip to Colorado. We’re
in the A&W and you pay for our dinner with the last of your pocket
change-it’s all the money you have left on you after two weeks of
spoiling your kids. There aren’t enough coins for all of us to eat. You
buy us lunch, and decide to eat when we get home. This one will always
be my favorite. But because I’m no longer fifteen…I add a few years.

I’m seventeen. Mom is grocery shopping. Cierra calls, wanting to go to
the movies. I run to the garage to ask you if I can borrow the other
car…and I realize that you’ve taken it to the church. You’re mowing the
lawn for the umpteenth time that summer. I begin to realize the
humility and sacrifice in your servanthood. You’re still mowing the
lawn at the church, and so I add a few years.

I’m eighteen, sitting in the back of the van, surrounded by boxes of
clothing, books, and bedding. We’re on our way to Hubbard Hall-I’m
moving to MSU. I am determined not to cry. Mom asks me if I forgot
anything, and as I think through my packing list, I glance into the
rear-view mirror and see tears rolling down the corner of your eyes. I
look out the window and pretend to double-check my packing job, trying
to hide my tears. You’ve dropped me off at Hubbard Hall a thousand
times since then, and so I add a few years.

I’m twenty one. You’ve owned your ipod for at least a year at this
point, and you’re laying on the couch-JUST now learning that your
“iphone” plays radio stations, too. You’re still awful with technology
today, so I add a few years.

I’m twenty three. sitting at the table in my kitchen at the mission
house in Dragonesti, Romania. Tears streaming down my face, I pull out
memory after memory after memory of my amazing dad.

My dad, the buckin’ bronco.
My dad, the swing set builder.
My dad, the deacon.
My dad, the cross country cheer team.
My dad, the movie quizzer.
My dad, the ATM.
My dad, the nurse.
My dad, the selfless giver.
My dad, the humble servant.
My dad, the night light.
The hero. The provider. The protector. The teacher. The example.
My dad. My friend.

Everyone is allowed to say that their dad is the best dad on Father’s
Day. And for that one day…it’s probably okay. But for the remaining 364
days of the year…you’re still at the top of the list.