Dear Dad, I wish you were here....

I spent some time this week reflecting on my father's death, a cataclysmic event in my life which occurred 38 years ago. That is a long time, and it is surprising how painful those anniversaries can still be. At the same time, however, I can also look back now with a lot of joy in the memories of the fun and laughter that we had, and on balance, there is a lot of enjoyment in it.

One of the things I got to thinking about was how little I really knew my dad. Just 12 years old when he died, it is hard for me to see him from an adult perspective. My memories of him are frozen in that time, like an outdated shadow box I can't quite bear to take down. I know some of his character traits, of course, and I have heard a few stories about him that give me some basic insight into what he was like with other adults. But one thing you lose with your parent when they die too soon is the ability to know them as a person, and it was that which I was pondering this week.

One of the most interesting phases of parenthood is reached when your children become adults. You don't necessarily interact with them every day, and they start to become known to you as individuals, with attitudes and opinions and their own way of dealing with life. It is fascinating, as you see what they have learned from you, and what they have chosen to do differently.

I missed that with my dad, and he with me. I wonder if I would disappoint or delight, if I turned out as he hoped, or not. It isn't possible to know, and I'm sure he would say he loves me just as I am, because he was a good dad, and that is how a good dad would feel. But I still wonder what he would have thought in his heart of hearts, because I just don't know.

I wonder, too, what my view of him would be if I had gotten the opportunity to know him as a grown up. I know the essential person would be the same, but would I notice other traits more clearly, once I was old enough to appreciate them, or would my view have remained pretty much the same.

I wonder how well we really know anyone, when it comes right down to it. We know our family members fairly well, I suppose, at least superficially. We know what they like to eat, we know what their favorite color is, we know their likes and dislikes, and perhaps even what their gifts and talents are. But how well do we know the heart of those we see each day?

Would people be surprised at my inner life, I wonder. Would they be shocked at what I am thinking? I pride myself on my integrity, I am as honest as I can reasonably be, but honesty doesn't always mean I reveal every thought and feeling, either. I wonder if anyone would be surprised at the frustration and occasional rage that can be found seething inside me?

I once participated in a fun activity among friends, where a sheet was passed, one for each person, and everyone had to write one word to describe that person. They didn't get to see what anyone else wrote until we were done, so it turned out to be a rather good analysis of how people perceive each one of us. I was considered, not surprisingly, truthful and funny. When eight or nine people all use the same words, I guess you have to accept that they are probably pretty accurate.

I wonder, if a sheet were passed about my dad, what words would be used. How would the people who knew him well describe my dad, if they had to choose one or two words to do so?

He was known for his sense of humor, so would it be that? Would it be kindness, because he was, at heart, a genuinely kind and helpful person? Would it be faithful? Or spiritual? Smart? Or possibly a perfectionist? Driven or willful? What words come to mind, I wonder, when his name arises in a conversation amongst his relatives and friends that remained here to mourn?

When I think of him, there is a rich variation of traits, but his humorous approach to life stands out. He found humor in almost everything sooner or later, a trait that I share, and thus appreciate greatly.

It wasn't always funny to me, I must admit, when he was making jokes. When I was little and foolishly crying over something insignificant, he would tease me that he loved my singing, and beg for more. It would make me so mad, but in the end I would have to laugh, because of course, he was right, and the situation usually was funny, when seen in the right light.

He worked full time at the local elevator, and then came home and farmed, as well. His work ethic was undeniable, as he was usually outside before first light and not back in the house again until after dark, while he struggled to get everything done in the day that required his attention.

Sundays were an off day, however, a day of rest, and my family rarely worked on Sundays, other than what was absolutely necessary to keep the animals fed. One year, the hay had been cut and baled, and it had to get put away before it all rotted in the field. I don't know why the timing was what it was, forcing us all to work on Sunday, but that afternoon found us out in the yard, putting up hay into the barn.

It was a hot and miserable task, and we were all out of sorts and crabby about it, while one thing after another went wrong. Finally, the hay lift, which brought the bales from the wagon below up into the hay mow, broke, leaving us without a way to get the hay into the barn. My dad, with his usual dry humor, said he reckoned that this was God's way of telling us to quit working on Sunday, and we all had to laugh. We also took him at his word, and I remember personally running for the house before he could change his mind!

I followed my dad around when he was home as much as possible, and I got to spend more time with him than a lot of girls probably spent with their fathers back in those more distant times. I was in the barn with him most nights, and learned from him to feed calves with a bottle, and to muck out the floor. I saw his work ethic, and I benefited from his endless patience in explaining things to me.

He was a boy scout troop leader when my brother was young, and a 4H leader when I was growing up. He took time for kids, and not just his own. He was there for any kids who needed his attention, and I have heard from a lot of people over the years how much that meant to them. He was especially active in teaching about the outdoor life, and made it possible for a lot of kids to fish and skate and camp. At the same time, he quietly modeled a respect for living right that many of us have taken forward into our own adult lives.

My dad was human, and thus fallible and imperfect. If I am to be honest in drawing this verbal portrait of my father, I have to acknowledge that there were flaws that could be added to this list of accolades. No one knows better than my brother and myself what happened when we fell short of his high expectations, for example! But I also know that my dad set the bar high because he loved us, and wanted us to be the best people we could be. I can forgive him for not being perfect, because he forgave me for the same.

When I look back on my dad's life, I know that it wasn't a story which would write a best seller, or be noticed by those we consider to be important. When he was buried on a frigid January day, (my poor cousin's 18th birthday!) it wasn't national news.

But the church was full of people who knew him, who cared about him, and who missed him when he was no longer here. His wife and children, his sister and brother and in-laws, his nieces and nephews, and his many friends, all of us lost someone that was important in our own small world.

I used to have a recurring dream that my dad came back to me to give me one last hug. I dreamed that same dream for many years, but I was never able to reach him. If I could spend an hour with him now, I would take that hug, of course. But I think I would also want to know who he was, who he wanted to be, and what was important to him.

There are no guarantees in life, and tomorrow is not a promise. Take time to share yourself with those you love. Give someone you love an extra hug today, and tell them what matters to you deep down in your heart. That is the most important gift you can give, and the best gift you will ever receive.