Once an easy, barely noteworthy, day. A day when I told my dad that he did a great job as a father and he tried to dodge the compliment (turns out I'm more like him than I knew back then). But saying my dad was a great father seemed almost as redundant as him saying that he loved us. It meant a great deal collectively, but in the moment it was such an obvious truth and so normal that it was routine. I remember many times rolling my eyes when dad would ask us "guess what?!" to which we'd inevitably roll our eyes and he'd say "I love you a whole bunch".
I can clearly remember the last time I spoke to my father, a few days before he left for Minnesota. We talked about my decision to go back to college by way of Grace University, we talked about the things I'd been reading in the word lately and we got a little excited (or heated depending on who you ask) and didn't end the conversation on a complete resolution. He still wasn't sure I was making a completely informed decision and I was sick of trying to convince him that day. I figured I'd have a solid 8 months or so to make my point so we agreed to table it for a few weeks. I packed up my things, loaded my car, did a quick walk-through of the guest room and bathroom to make sure I didn't forget anything and then slipped out the side door to leave. As I was halfway to the driveway dad came bursting out of the door, quick-walked up to me and said "guess what I forgot?" I chuckled, gave him a hug and he told me he loved me. Then I walked to my car and drove off. And the oddest thing was he stood on the front porch and watched me drive off... and the next time I saw him he was lying in a hospital bed in the Mayo Clinic, and even though I got to talk at him... we never had the privilege of speaking again. I don't even know if he heard us.
It has been a year and a half later, and most days I can live confident in the fact that my Father is in the company of the savior that he loved far more than he did me and my siblings, or my mother. I can rest assured that I was blessed beyond measure to have 26 years of a wonderful dad, something many would consider akin to a fairy-tale. I can be proud of my father for being tough on his sons because he viewed his job as training us not to need him. A job he did well... and one that we needed far sooner than any of us expected.
But days like today... When the whole country is told to appreciate fathers. None of those things are foremost in my mind. They're there to be sure... but they're overshadowed by the fact that it just hurts. It hurts to know my nephews joyfully greet their uncles and aunts, and ask about Oma (grandma in dutch tradition) but that they will never know their Opa. It hurts that my little sister doesn't have her daddy to call up on the phone and talk through the day with. It hurts that when I make a decision I'm always a bit uncertain because I haven't had the opportunity to run it by dad and answer his concerns and questions. It hurts to see my mother living the painful reality that "death do us part" is part of this journey too. And it hurts that I'll probably never hear the comparison "you're so like your dad" again.
And so today... I'm skipping church and I'm going to taco johns for lunch. Not because that's anything special or significant. But because today... I'm not strong enough to get jokingly asked by clueless people if I called my dad, or to see the pitying looks of those in the know when this "should" be a day of joy. You have your joy and special fathers day service, I have no grudge whatsoever... But I'll take my pain and go eat tacos. And this afternoon when it's time to start a fresh week of camp. I'll do my best to put that away and work as hard as I can to do the best job I can. After all that's one of the many things my father taught me, and a lesson that he lived well.
-Nick
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