Remembering Dad

This very week I have been reminded how truly blessed I am to have a dad. Not just a father – everyone has one of those – but a dad. One who is living, breathing, working, and there if I need him. One of the women in my critique group found out this past week that I am the oldest of eight.

“Really? I’m one of ten.”

I made the remark that I loved being part of a large family.

She replied, “I did enjoy it, but my father passed away when I was quite young and I saw how hard it is for a large family to go on without a man in the house. You’re very lucky to have both of your parents living.”

I’ve come to realize that more and more. Last year, a beloved friend of mine lost her dad in an accident. She was only 20 years old when it happened. My mom lost her dad when she was 20. So many people today never even know their fathers. But my dad has always been one of my heroes.

Just today I was telling my grandfather I remember learning checkers from my dad. My dad is not a board game player. He forever spent time with us tossing around balls, but board games? Yet he did teach us checkers. We would sit there and Dad would say, “Okay. The first rule is: Daddy always wins.” And in checkers, that seemed to be the case. For I’ve only beat him once, and the only other sibling to do the same is Daniel. Soon we knew the routine by rote. A game would come out. Dad would ask, “What’s the first rule?” A chorus of young voices, “Daddy always wins.”

I remember going to the hardware store on rainy Saturday mornings with Dad. There were the times he would take me fishing. Or if we didn’t have time to find a pond, we’d get out the fishing rods and sit on the front porch where we would practice casting into the yard. Watermelon seed spitting contests, trying to toss our wadded napkins from the dinner table to the trashcan, learning the proper way to mop a floor. Every Easter Dad buys us girls orchid corsages. He taught us how to drive – and wash and wax our cars. He’d take us to the pool on hot summer days and then put towels on the leather seats in his old red truck so we wouldn’t burn our legs. Ice cream, popcorn, and hamburgers on the grill. Thos are only some of my favorite memories.

You know, dads aren’t perfect. It’s funny. On Mother’s Day we hear great sermons on amazing women. On Father’s Day, the men get a lecture. And my dad would be the first to admit he has not been a perfect father. But he’s done more than most dads just by staying married to my mother 33 years this week and sticking around for over 30 years of fatherhood. He’s not always right, but he sticks by his guns and doesn’t back down. He tries harder than any man I know to live as his God would have him to live. And does that make it tough to be his child? Sure it does. But it also makes me proud.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!