Dad

My dad turns 50 today. I could not ask for a more wonderful father! When I started writing more, I began to realize, in a new way, how much his life and love have shaped the person that I am (even though our personalities are quite opposite haha). I am most thankful for the way my dad has demonstrated to me the "father's heart" of God and the power of the gospel.

My youngest brother Joseph wrote in the birthday card that he gave him yesterday, "Even though I have only known you for twelve years, I have still seen you grow in God" (Joseph's 12 :D). I can say the same thing (though I've known him for 21 years)! What a deep respect I have for my dad who has walked through many hardships and many joys and has loved, served, and trusted God wholeheartedly through it all, allowing everything to be used by God to mold him into a man more like Jesus. I love him so much and am inspired by his life!

Here are just a couple writings to honor him and give a sense of how much my relationship with him has meant to me!

A poem:

Father

Through the glass, he sees his girl—
PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch.
He closes his book for her words, unstudied.
He listens well while the world is fresh and golden.

PJs, ponytail, pancakes—she joins him on the porch,
promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love.
He listens well while her world is fresh and golden.
He learns how to father.

Promises to make the grade, be on time, wait for love
from the mouth of a child.
He learns how to father
in his failure and her failure.

From the mouth of a child,
from daughter, his watcher:
“In her failure, don’t fail her.”
He instructs her with his heart and life.

From daughter, his watcher—
questions about everything.
He entrusts her with his heart and life
when he answers.

Questions about everything
over two decades of girl-become-woman.
When he answers,
his words are chosen, inspected, sound.

Over two decades of girl-become-woman,
sitting next to father—still. Here
his words are chosen, inspected, sound;
wisdom from wearing days on the human frame.

Sitting next to father—still “hero”—
she closes her book for his words, unstudied
wisdom for the wearing days on the human frame.
Through his glasses, he sees his girl.

A piece of prose (excerpt from "Close"):

His book never deterred me, or his closed eyes. I was sure that as soon as my dad felt the mattress rise under him as I climbed onto the green comforter with small blue flowers, nuzzling next to his warm body, that he would set the book face down on his chest and tilt his head until he was gazing at the top of mine. His chin would graze my red hair, but I’d wait a moment before leaning back to meet his gaze, my cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat in the silence of the sleeping house (it was “quiet time,” Sunday afternoon). We’d laugh and for a moment the heartbeat would disappear. Then it was back, steady, reminding me that he was there and I was next to him and sleep would come after counting the light thump until it was hooves on a country road, a turning jump rope, a boat bumping against some dock….
All of my life, I’ve put my ear against the door in an attempt to hear the turn of a page like the sound of a piece of paper slipping out of my notebook, like a light wind, an invocation for me to come listen and dream beside my dad; I’ve knocked and jiggled the locked door handle, called out “Dad?”, and seen his face emerge as he cracks the door open; I’ve barged into the bedroom to find him asleep with his “good ear” towards the pillow, a closed book in his hand. He rests—head propped by a few pillows, a book held upright on his chest, legs extended and crossed, his socked feet rubbing against one another. That image has changed very little over the years though his hair has gone from dark brown to “salt and pepper” to grey and the wrinkle between his eyebrows has deepened and now reading glasses perch on his large, but handsome, nose. His cheeks still look like they hide 25-cent gumballs when he smiles; his skin is still ruddy and smooth as leather.
Sometimes he would read to me from the book he had chosen that day from the five or six that are always stacked on the night stand. His voice—the voice of an army medic, then a preacher, able to send “Yes, sir!” rumbling through an open field and “Praise God!” through a high-ceilinged sanctuary—was, to me, deep enough to engender respect but soft enough to soothe and still. I tried to retain in my maturing mind the theology or biographies or science fiction or scripture that reached me just a few inches below with slight puffs of breath that tickled my forehead. He must have known that words like omnipresent and Pelandria wouldn’t mean anything to me, but he also must have known how much sharing his world would mean to me. He would listen to my interrupting questions and answer with a precision that astounded me. Words gushed from me, but he wasted none. As I grew up, joining him less often while he read, I started to resent the frequent periods of silence between us if I didn’t monologue or ask him questions when we were together—I wanted him to start the conversation, ask me about my life. I thought only then could he ever understand me. He proved me wrong, in seventh grade, the first time I experienced heart-break [...]
(let me know if you would like to read more of the story!)