As a college student in 1975 I once mailed a birthday card to my dad that he was to open on March 29, his birthday. There was just one problem. His birthday was a month later, on April 29.
Years later, we joked about that. Better early than late, right dad?
On this 29th day of April, 2022, my dad would have been 90. And rather than being early to the party – as I was 47 years ago – I feel like I was a little late.
I always envisioned I would spend more time with my dad after I retired. But time would not wait for dad. My retirement at age 65 in 2020 would come nearly three years after his death. My dad had Multiple Sclerosis for more than 50 years. I thought he would experience a slow decline from that disease, not the catastrophic pulmonary embolism that abruptly took his life on August 10, 2017.
Time. It’s our most precious commodity. Your time is your life. I know this to be true as a parent. You can always give your kids money or gifts. When you give them your time – look them in the eye, be fully present in the moment – you’re giving them a slice of your life you’ll never get back. You are telling that person that he or she matters.
Did I give my dad enough of my time? I’m probably a little hard on myself, but I still wrestle with that today. Did I have too many things going on in my life to give him my undivided attention?
I recall one incident a couple years before his death where I clearly had not shared enough of my time.
It was just dad and I at my parents’ condo in Burlington. Mom was gone, and after a hour-long visit, dad suggested we go out and grab a burger for lunch. I had a project at the lake cabin I wanted to attend to, and said I’d take a pass.
He looked at me and said: “You’re a workaholic.”
Whoa. That was NOT like my dad. For him to confront me like that must have taken considerable courage. I can count on one hand the times in my life he ever gave me advice, much less admonish me. I stayed and we grabbed a burger.
Dad was, let’s say “the less forceful” disciplinarian in our home. But he was no slouch, and when he reached a boiling point you knew you had crossed a line. Yet, he never laid a hand on me. He never uttered a curse word. There were certainly many times I frustrated him, disappointed him. When he got really mad, he’d say – and my brother, John, will chuckle at this because he got the same treatment – “Gee, you gripe me!” The punishment was the look of disappointment in his eyes. You didn’t want to receive “that look.”
My dad was not flashy, was never one to draw attention to himself. He was soft-spoken. He could get lost in a crowd. He would never have a Facebook or Twitter account today. He was a successful banker, but wasn’t eager to climb the corporate ladder. He didn’t equate net worth with self worth. As a lifelong Christian, he really understood that God is not interested in what we accomplish on this earth, but rather who we become. You don’t bring your career or your bank account to heaven. You bring your character. He was known for his kind and gentle spirit. That warmth and ready smile was evident to all he met, a living testimonial to the God he served.
Dad also had what I would describe as a “non-anxious spirit.” Nothing ever seem to rattle him, though he had reasons to live in fear. MS was his constant companion, and he shared privately with me in later years his declining ability to move his legs. He was discouraged, which was unlike him. Yet, he drew assurance from his favorite verse in the Bible, Isaiah 30:15. “In quietness and confidence is my strength.”
When I addressed the crowd at my dad’s memorial service more than four years ago, I said “I know why you’re here. Because you saw in my dad characteristics that are rare in our self-absorbed, me-first culture: Kindness. Gentleness. Giving.”
People who knew my dad made a point to be at that service in Sedro-Woolley. One of my cousins drove from Idaho. I didn’t know he was even that close to my dad. But as one who himself had an angry, abusive father, my dad over the years had obviously made an impression on him. My sister-in-law and her husband made the trip from Leavenworth. I saw the two of them recently and thanked them once again for making the effort to attend my dad’s funeral. Suzann’s response: “Your dad was probably the kindest man I’ve ever met.”
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that. To me, that was normal .. that was just “dad.” My cousin Terry undoubtedly wished his dad was more like my dad. We don’t choose our parents. I was fortunate.
So here I am, marking what would have been my dad’s 90th birthday. Although his earthly life is over, his story, his legacy, lives in me. I continue to discover things about my dad since his death that challenge me, that continue to shape me – attributes about him I hadn’t totally grasped before. I am intentional in my retirement to offer myself – my time – to my mom, who will turn 89 in July and suffers from dementia. It is a slice of my life I am glad to give, thanks in no small part to the man who gave so much of himself to me.
I’ll close with a Father’s Day card I wrote for for my dad a couple years before he died. It’s titled “To a good dad. From a fortunate son.”
Happy Father’s Day, dad; my how the years have flown; my childhood is a fading memory, heck, now my girls are grown.
What I’ll never forget, though, is that you were always there; guiding me, prodding me, and yes your occasional rant about my long hair.
I remember you driving me on my Sunday morning paper route, even watching John and I mow the grass; whether it was going to our games, or our piano recitals – you always put your family first, never last.
You and mom worked hard so I could go to North Park; met a pretty blonde there, asked her to marry me on a lark.
So now I’m a little bit like you, slowing down, getting more gray; I don’t like watching the Mariners as much as you, I will have to say.
But we’re alike in many ways, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; I’m a fortunate son to have been raised by you. Lucky me.
The Inside Scoop 