Tomorrow is the first Father's Day without my father. I suppose the idea of this is made all the more difficult by the fact that he's only been gone for just over two weeks. The mourning process has surprised me more than once, but that is not what this post is about. It's about how my father lives on.
Some say when a person passes away, he or she takes part of the people who loved him or her along to the next world. That's why those of us left behind continue to feel an emptiness long after they go. But I'm much more interested in focusing on the parts of me my father helped shape, helped complete. And in the days since his death, I've thought about how he influenced me.
My dad liked music. We always had music on in the car, no matter how short the trip. It wasn't until I rode in other people's cars that I realized that some people rode in silence. (I didn't much like it.) The radio was on at home, the stereo was played on Sundays, and there was a fair amount of singing. My dad sang himself—beautiful renditions of "Adeste Fideles" and other hymns, the national anthem, old-fashioned love songs that he courted my mother with. I inherited that love of music. I don't sing as much as I used to, but I do listen to music all the time. And when I have the opportunity to listen to live music, I walk away feeling completely at peace.
My dad was an outstanding gardener. By the time I came along, and there was just three, two, or one child left at home, the size of our garden was completely out of proportion to our needs. Rows and rows of lettuce, corn, tomatoes, onions, radishes, beets, cabbage, beans, potatoes, and peas. (I'm sure I'm forgetting something!) I've loved vegetables since I was a little girl — my mom used to call me their "garden child". I'm sure that I owe that love of veggies to my father's gardening gift and my mom's skill in the kitchen. The pride my dad took in growing things is contagious, and I'm sure he's the main reason I keep planting my little patch rather than sign up for a CSA or buy at that farmer's market.
My dad didn't worry much about other's opinions of him. He was 48 years old when I was born, so maybe he was over that sort of nonsense — or maybe he was always that confident. (I suspect the later.) He believed in himself, and he had a keen awareness of his gifts and talents. This is a side of my dad that inspires me. I still put too much stock in how I come across or appear to be to others. But I do try to use the talents God has blessed me with to help others or bring about a bit of joy. I watched my father doing this all my life, so I know it is the right thing to do.
My father knew how to enjoy life. Most of my older siblings talk of how hard our father worked. How he often went back to the shop after the evening meal to work a few more hours. I was lucky. I have few memories of him going back to the shop. I remember him going out to the garden, or being freshly showered and smelling of Old Spice as he sat with a drink or in his recliner with the newspaper. He read to learn and he read to enjoy. I'm not sure that I inherited his work ethic, the way my brother and sisters did, but I did inherit the ability to sit and take life in. And I'd argue that is just as important.
My father put God first. My father had more demands on him than many. He ran his own business. He was the sole financial support of a family of nine. He was active in his community. But he never put his faith on the back burner. Even in his final hours, God was at the forefront, and though speech was difficult, he repeatedly started the Lord's prayer for his room of loved ones to pray. I cannot get over the beauty of this. It is a beautiful, inspiring thing to be born in faith, to live in faith, and to die in faith. I've often felt lucky that I was born to my parents, to my family, but since hearing of my father's final hours, my sense of gratitude has become even stronger. How blessed I am to be given the gift of faith! I must not let the weight of the world cause me to neglect it.
I'll miss my dad the rest of my life, but I know I carry him with me. And I see bits and pieces of him in my children too. Losing someone so important hurts in a way that you can't understand until you experience it. But loving someone so important blesses you far beyond the hurt.
