Easily one of my favorite people on earth is celebrating a big birthday today. I have him to thank for all the times I’ve been called Robert Jr. or been told, “Girl, you sure look like your Daddy!” I also have him to thank for being able to win almost all my arguments with Mom growing up. The two of us would be going at it (at times jokingly, at other times not so jokingly), and I would say something characteristically Dad-like. To which, she would reply, “You are just like your father!” I would then point out without a trace of sarcasm that she was the one who married him. Argument over. (Okay, so there might have been a trace of sarcasm.)
While I’ll admit to being incredibly biased, I think my Dad is pretty much the world’s greatest Dad. But, I would not call him the world’s greatest driving coach. He was better than Mom, but still, our times in the trusty old green machine as he tried to teach me how to drive are not our fondest memories together. (The green machine was a 1995 sea mist green Mercury Sable, and by the time it finally died, it was more than a little dented, missing quite a bit of paint, and you had to get in from the passenger’s side because the driver’s door wouldn’t open anymore. It also had no AC, but the radio still worked.) Dad and I did have one positive driving experience though. One night, after I had somewhat gotten the hang of driving the green machine, I hopped on the tractor with Dad, intending only to ride with him and get the gate as he put out hay for the cows. He put out the last bale, looked over at me, and asked, “You want to drive?” A huge part of me wanted to say, “Yes!” Another huge part of me was thinking, “No way! We don’t get along well during driving lessons.” The “Yes!” part won out, and I drove the tractor home to the tractor shed. As I was getting off, Dad said, “You’d drive it better than your brother if you were a little taller and could reach the pedals better.” (I had literally been sitting on the very edge of the seat to reach them.) I knew then I was going to quit while I was ahead and never drive that tractor again. It might not go as well a second time…
At the church in Clarksville where I spent most of my growing up years, the third Sunday night of every month was singing night, and after the singing, someone would give a brief devotional. Whoever gave the devotional one month picked who would bring the devotional the next month. Being a small church, everyone eventually had a turn. We were driving home after my turn one Sunday night, and Mom complimented me on my devotional. Dad didn’t say anything about how it was. Instead, he asked where I got it. I was just beginning to dip my toes into writing and had written it. I have always treasured what Dad told Mom after I said as much. He didn’t say it very loud, so I’m not even sure I was supposed to hear it, but I inherited my hearing from him, so I did. He told her, “That girl’s gonna be a writer.” I’m not sure a compliment from anyone else has ever meant quite so much.
One of my most emotional Dad memories is our last hug before he left me alone at Bible College six and a half hours away from home with a bunch of strangers. I was ugly crying, and more than anything, I wanted him to say, “It’s okay if you want to back out. We can just go home.” Instead, he broke the hug and walked out the door. We both knew, even if, at that moment (and so many other moments during my time there), I was seriously inclined to run away from it, God’s will was for me to be there, and I’m so grateful that, in that moment, Dad was being stronger and trusting God far better than I was.
Not long ago, I walked in the house at Mom and Dad’s one night, and he happened to be working a crossword puzzle. I was visiting with Mom a bit and about to leave when I heard him say, “Hmm. I guess this would be you. W-O-R-K-A-H-O-L-I-C.” If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is because everything I know about working hard I learned from him or his Mom, which is where he got it. Still, as much and as hard as he’s worked all his life, he will be the first person to tell you that, “I’m too busy,” is a poor excuse. He’s always said that people make time for the things they want to make time for. People aren’t too busy to go to church. They don’t want to. People aren’t too busy to help with this, attend that, or visit people. They don’t want to. Not enough. That’s why easily one of the busiest people I know has also always been one of the people I can count on the most.
When I moved out, even though I only moved across the road, I was determined not to be calling Dad for every little thing, and I’ve tried hard to stick to that and handle things on my own for the most part. Well, last year, I was gone for two weeks dog-sitting and then another week going to Niagara Falls with Mom. Needless to say, my yard desperately needed mowing, and evidently it had started to bother the neighbors because, when I finally got home for longer than just enough time to do laundry and repack, Dad had taken care of the yard for me. I didn’t even have time to get in the house or shoot him a text telling him thank you and that I really was going to get to it eventually before I got the following text from him: “You can pay me in pancakes.” So, I got my yard mowed and an excuse to eat pancakes. It was a win-win.
Over the years, I’ve watched Dad be solid and faithful at times when it felt like our world and family were falling apart. I’ve watched him minister faithfully through hurt and disappointment and through seasons when there seemed to be so little return for his efforts. I didn’t know just how valuable his example would be until trying to live my own calling…
From the days of his telling me on his lap, “Be still you little bag of bones!” and standing on tip toes to give him a goodnight kiss, to the days of him making me say mercy every single time, to the days of morning text messages that always end with, “Love you,” and all the days in between, he’s simply been the best Dad. To say I’m grateful God has blessed him with 60 years and even more so that God blessed us with him doesn’t begin to cover it. I hope I’m at least half as much like him in the ways that matter as I am in the looks department…
Happy 60th, Dad! Love you much!
P.S.-I’m sure Mom will print this out so you can read it. 😊
justsamjw 