I have been thinking about my dad a lot lately, especially this month. He would have been 100 years old on January 4, and as of today, he has been gone 50 years, the same amount of time that he lived in this world. It is sort of a weird milestone, one that most people don't have to ponder, and it has caused me to think about my dad maybe more than I normally would.
I wonder what he would think of this world of ours, if he could come back today and see it. When he left us, we were in the midst of wrapping up the Vietnam War (that was the day before the peace accords were signed,) the Watergate hearings were in the news, Richard Nixon (remember him? Shady presidents are not a new thing) was inaugurated for the second time but already on shaking ground, and we were in the midst of the early 70's with free love, drugs and rock and roll. I wonder what would he make of computers and a cell phone in every hand, big screen televisions, video games and the much fancier cars and trucks we drive? And what about all the other changes in the lives of the people he loved the most?
I know he would be so very proud of my mom, for all that she has accomplished through all those years that he wasn't here to help her. He would be amazed, but not surprised, at how she has managed everything she had to cope with, because she has always been diligent and disciplined and steady with all of us. They had plans that they never got to achieve, but he would be so happy to know that she went on with her life and did a lot on her own, because that is what he would have wanted for her.
He would also be so proud of my brother, for the man he has become. His road was not that easy, but dad would be thrilled to see him now. My brother is a fine man, a great father, a caring husband, a devoted son (trust me, he wins the brownie points!) He is a loving brother, too, and I am grateful that I have him and his wife to turn to when I need them. And no one could ask for a better friend. I truly believe he would give you the coat off his back if you needed it, and think no more about it, because that is who he is. Dad would be glowing with pride, I am certain of it.
I am not too sure what he would make of my life, but we'll just leave that untouched! Perhaps I would have made some better choices if he had been around to guide me! I do think he would be glad to know I am here for mom, close by and ready to lend a helping hand whenever she needs me, which at 96, is surprisingly little. Perhaps that is the best thing I can do for him now, because I know he would do it himself, if he could. Maybe I can be her little slice of heaven on his behalf. If so, I'm glad.
So of course, on this day more than any other in the year, I miss my dad. Even after all these years, how could I not? But over the last few years, I've noticed a change in how I feel, one that has sort of gradually moved from acute grief for myself and everything I lost out on to more sadness for him and everything he lost out on. It has been an interesting transition, and one that I didn't expect. (For anyone who doesn't know, grief is apparently a lifelong process. You are never really "over it" because just when you think you have it figured out, it changes on you, and here it is in a whole different iteration. My mother, who lost her mother 73 years ago, still gets tears sometimes when thinking about her mother. Love doesn't end, it just transitions, I guess.)
Anyway, the deepest regret I feel for my dad is missing out on being a grandfather. How he would have relished the fun of being with his grandkids. He always loved spending time with kids - teaching them, working with them, leading them, playing ball or fishing or canoeing or Scouting or just hanging around. He always seemed to have a niece or nephew along on our camping trips, and led the Luther League group at church on some fun outings down the Cannon River or wherever they went, which people still talk about all these years later! A lot of people remember him for those qualities, and it always makes me feel good to hear how well remembered he is. He would have shared all those things with such joy with his grandchildren, and it is sad he never had the chance.
I have other regrets, too, but they are mostly unimportant, and probably pretty universal. Everyone regrets the missed hug, the words not spoken, perhaps the words you said but should not have, the thing asked for that never got done. But dad wouldn't have cared about any of that, because I know he knew how much we loved him, and that is really the only thing that matters in the final analysis, I think.
Because I was young, I still mostly see my dad with a child's perspective. I still think of him as daddy, because that's who he was to me when he died. In my mind, he was still all knowing, all powerful, could do anything, never made mistakes or messed up or got things wrong. Seeing him with imperfections has been a process over time, as I talked to people who knew him, especially my own family, who saw him more clearly and in greater perspective than I could. But somehow, those very imperfections are what draw me even closer to his memory, because they make him real, honest, genuine.
So anyway, I have been thinking today about how to measure the life and worth of the man I was lucky enough to call my dad, and I don't think I really have the full answer. But I know this. If people remember me 50 years from now as lovingly and joyfully and with as much giggling and laughter and fond stories as people remember my dad from 50 years ago, I will have lived a successful life. He may have lived on a small stage, but he was a star to me.
You took a piece of my heart with you, but you left a piece of your heart with me. Someday that broken heart will be whole again in heaven. Until then, I'll be missing you.
