Y2, Day 15. The one about dad.

Today is Father's day. The day that fathers are told to stand up in church... and children are told to call home or send a card or somehow acknowledge for a moment what their father means to them.

The buildup to Fathers day this year has been especially painful... every "get dad this thing" commercial, every radio ad lauding the work of fathers everywhere... and more painful still, every exortation from the pulpit or church bulletin for men to be better fathers. Why are these things painful? Because for the first time I'm alone here... My dear old Dad is gone where I cannot reach him.

The last few months I have often repeated the story of how Dad died. But just for this day, I refuse to tell that story. Instead let me tell you how he lived...

My dad was a whirlwind trapped in a weary shell. A year after I was born he was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and struggled against its influence the entire time I knew him. He got angry and struggled often with being unable to be the man he felt he needed to be. But I never saw it quite the same way... Dad was dealt an incredibly difficult hand, but he never gave up (at least for very long) and most people never realized that he was limited at all because of the whole-hearted way he lived.

It was not unusual for me as a kid when I was looking for dad in a crowd or at church that instead of looking real hard with my eyes I'd just listen and inevitably I'd hear dad's voice enthusiastically discussing something. The topic really didn't matter because it could be him talking about hockey, theology, politics, or he could just be discussing life, or telling a story. Regardless of topic if it was worth talking about it was worth being passionate about.

When I walked into the kitchen here at camp this morning and saw dirty dishes piled all over the place I became a bit frustrated that grown adults seem incapable of cleaning up after themselves... but I was also reminded of what would happen if we left a mess in Dad's kitchen... Dad would have let us know he was frustrated and then either ask us to clean up our own mess... or he'd do it for us. This morning... I decided to be frustrated, but to do what I think he would have done... rolled up my sleeves and got the job done so others wouldn't have to.

I remember January this last year, where dad was eager to hear about everything going on in our lives. He loved it when we'd share our hopes and dreams, our failures and our struggles. Sometimes he'd offer a solution or a different perspective on the spot (he rarely let truth that needed to be said go unspoken) and sometimes he'd just take it in to ponder later... but he always listened.

I remember the last time he spoke to me... How I was carrying my stuff out to the car so I could zip back to spearfish for work the next day. How I came back into the house and he helped me make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. How I said goodbye and closed the door behind me... and Dad in perfect form came running out after me because He almost forgot to tell me he loved me. I remember him standing on the front porch waving as I drove off... and every time I see that house, I see him there still...

I have the greatest dad any man could hope for. A man of whom the world was not worthy... A man of passion and love. I truly am blessed to know the God of my fathers... and have it mean more to know the living God of John, and Martin, and John Jr, than it does to know the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

I am the son of a man who lived well. A man that I love dearly. My highest honor and joy is to be told "you're just like your dad"

-Nick