I spend a lot of time in prayer, reading about, thinking about and talking to other people about parenting. I have never been one to learn the easy way, but this, well, this is something I have been determined to do right. As I spend time contemplating how to go about “right” I have to wonder what it looks like. Is there a right way versus a wrong way? Why do some many blame thing, even in adulthood on their parents? Is “right” a fairness to all children, or is there a “right” for each child? Now, there are lots of things I do know, and lost of those things are about children. It is my career, if you will, to know. And I have had extensive schooling on education, child development, and all that jazz. But, in the heat of the battle, how do you know? Those are the kind of questions that can make a parent break out in a cold sweat. We are all trying to do our best. No matter who, or how, that is what we try.
So I began to look back at my life and wanted to think of something spectacular that would give me a sense of rightness. Now, besides myself there were four boys. So I was treated like a princess most of the time, but still expected to work around the house. I just mostly got whatever I wanted, to a certain degree. I am still waiting for my car. I have always been a Daddy’s girl. I remember a lot of fun things, a lot of good things.
There was one thing, however, that I do not remember. I do not ever remember my father not being there for me. I had a safe place, a constant love, and someone who would hold me and help me through all that life would throw at me.
I remember lazy summer days running barefoot through the back yard. I stepped on a bee. Instantly my leg began to swell. I felt light headed. There were more bees around me. My dad ran over, scooped me up and knew exactly what to do. He knew, because he was also terribly allergic to bees. But he ran through them to save me.
I also remember a new bike. My first with hand breaks. I jumped right on, took off down the hill, squeezed the front breaks and flew through the air over my handle bars. Landing face first on the railroad tracks. My leg was bleeding all over, and full of little bits of coal. I began to scream, but before I could even get worked up into a good yell, my dad was there. He scooped me up and ran home with me. He left the brand new bike there. I was the important thing. He began to pick little tiny rocks, one by one, out of my leg until I could not take it any more. He cleaned it up, bandaged me, and sat me on the couch with a popsicle. Then he went for my bike. To be reminded of this, I only have to look down my leg. There are still a few tiny rocks in my knee and ankle.
I remember being back stage at chorus and band concerts, a couple friends wondering if their dad would come. I knew mine was there. I knew he had a red rose. I knew he had taken of work to be there. I knew he’d video tape me and take pictures. And buy me ice cream, or pizza. He would tell me what a good job I did. It never matter what chair I was or if I had a solo. He told me I was the best one there. And I believed him.
I remember being in college and hitting my head. I passed out, had a concussion. I needed to have tests done. I was told that I had a lump in my brain. My dad drove through 5 states to be there for my next test. He took vacation time to do so. The second test said that I was fine, but I was still feeling terrible. He took me to dinner, to see a movie. It was close to Valentine’s Day so I had my dozen red roses, a beautiful card I still have, and a teddy bear. He waited until I felt better to go back home.
I always knew that my dad would be there for me. I find this incredible, because these stories are from two different dads. I grew up in a family where I could have had a difficult time. My father was killed in an accident at work when I was young. I now have a father that adopted me and two of my brothers by the time I was thirteen. There were two more boys added to that family. For a time, I admit I was messed up about this. It was a lot to handle. But not alone. Never alone. Because of the unconditional love, the encouragement, the importance these men placed on me, when introduced to a God who wants to be my Father, I knew those fatherly arms would be safe arms to jump into. And I am so thankful that I did. And I thank God often for not one, but two dads who were so wonderful.
The one major thing I take from my childhood and try to apply to my parenting every day is that feeling. Because I lost one dad, I know that life is too fragile, too precious to let slip by without celebrating. And because I had incredible love, I want to share it.
I love you Dad. Thanks you so much for being all that you are to me, to our whole family, to everyone that you can. You were my first hero.
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