A letter to my father

A year ago I wrote this letter to my dad. I read it to him at his memorial service. I thought today would be a good day to post it here.

Thank you, Dad, for your incredible love and the legacy you have left us. Today I read this letter to you, from the bottom of my heart. I hope that somehow you can hear me. Although I know I've told you these things before, and I imagine they were forever imprinted on your heart. Having my own child now, I think the greatest gift is and will be, to know that he loves me with every inch of his being, that his admiration and affection are endless. I guess that is why God so longs for our love. There is nothing more natural than that longing and the satisfaction, in knowing you have received it.

"But the greatest of these (faith, hope, and love) is LOVE." I Cor 13
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My dear dad,

How do I put into words the impact you have had on my life? How can I begin to express my gratitude? How can I ever summarize how much you meant to me and the amazing way in which you lived your life?

I loved writing you a card on father's day and your birthday – I'd share memories and praise just a few of your qualities. You always seemed to find such joy in receiving these cards – and always praised me for sending them. “Oh, what nice things you said about me, my dear Liz.” Mom told me later, it was not so much the words of praise, but the adoration that you loved. Oh, yes, Dad, how much we loved you.

As a child I adored you – thought you were larger than life, that you could fix things better than anyone in the world, that you were the most handsome of all the daddies around, that you were the best athlete – my hero. Yet as I grew up and came to know you not just as my dad, but also as a person, a friend, I continued to adore you. You made me feel so safe, so understood, accepted, and loved. I felt so special when I was with you. I could feel your delight.

You were always attending. Attending to every need around you. Wanting so to make sure we were cared for, that we had enough, that everything was in working order. “Can I get you anything ?” you'd say, usually in regards to food. “More oatmeal? More mayonnaise? More maple syrup? More ice cream?” You were our “garbage can”, yet you were also the first to offer the best portion, to give away whatever you had, no matter how much pleasure it would bring you, you found more joy in seeing the pleasure we'd received.

You lived life as a servant. Humble, diligent, committed. So many hours dedicated to helping, to fixing. So often in the background, your hard work seemingly unnoticed. How many memories I have of you, outside in the cold, shoveling snow off the pathway, wiping our windshields, head under the hood of the car, no matter what the temperature – you couldn't leave until you had completed the task. You gave everything 100% and never complained when things went wrong. “It's just one of those things” you'd say, and would cheerfully return to re-diagnose, rewire, and relabel whatever it was you were working on.

The concentrated furrow of your brow, the expression you had in you eyebrows and on your forehead, the way you nodded your head when you listened; the way you would squeeze and squeeze my hand and didn't seem to want to let go of it anymore than I wanted to let go of yours; the way your leg would shake under the table when you weren't relaxed, the way you'd breathe in deeply, hold your breathe and then let it out when about to begin an endeavor. I love these things about you, unique to you; the little things that characterized you are things I hope to never forget.


You were a peacemaker.

You always gave praise and credit where it belonged; always lifted people up and made them feel encouraged.

I loved watching you especially in the Middle East, where you seemed to connect with people and life in that land in such a natural, organic way. You were in your element. The hospitality and slowed pace of life resonated with you, as did the demonstrative yet formal displays of friendship and love. I'll never forget you setting off for a trip to the village, plastic bag hanging from your belt loop- you carried nothing else. “Oh, people are so kind,” you said, “someone will invite me in to sleep at their house and give me food”. You had such confidence in these people – both friend and stranger- and a week later, we saw you in the back of a pick up truck filled with men, an hour or so from home, hitching a ride back to us. You were known everywhere you went- I couldn't believe how many soldier's names you knew and how many invited you home to meet their family and how much importance you placed on having them meet yours. You walked through streets and fields taking in everything around you, tasting it and breathing it and savoring it with eyes, and mouth, and hands and feet.

You weren't just a good man, you had a good life. You made it good. You choose beauty and hope and love. You choose to enjoy that to be enjoyed and you could rest at night with the satisfaction that you had done what you could to better the world around you. You never lived for this world and yet you always embraced the beauty and good that you found in it. You were so passionate about living- animated and enthusiastic about the simple, every day things we often fail to find joy in.

You were silly and playful and loved to tease. At 58, you could still dream of adventure and castles and what it would be like to live in the Middle Ages, and although you would sheepishly admit it was silly, you found pleasure in these mental escapades; how fully you enjoyed the precious year and a half you had being a grandfather and dreamed of the future with your grandchildren, teaching them baseball and telling them stories- delighting in them in the way you delighted in us – you were so young, dad. You still looked at mom, with excitement on your face. Your eyes danced as you commented on her beauty, a boy with a 34 year crush.

You continued to believe the best in people. You chose hope over cynicism and apathy. You believed everyone had something to offer and so genuinely showered encouragement and praise. Perhaps this desire to lift up played out not only in people's lives but in the lives of the many cars you kept on the road and the many microscopes and lab equipment repaired- you hated seeing anything good in someone or something passed over and neglected. You sought to bring both people and objects alive and see them flourish.

I wanted you at Simon's birth because I needed your presence. I needed the combination of your quiet strength, tenderness, attentiveness, and compassion and your passionate enthusiasm and joyful excitement about what was to come. And oh dad, I just needed your love.

You were so generous – giving to your children and family, to the homeless man on the street, the toothless man on the train, to widows and orphans and colleagues and friends - to most anyone in need. Trying not to let your left hand see what the right was giving. Doing it cheerfully, with thanksgiving. You have given me more in this life- in 29 and a half years- than a child could ever hope to receive. How can I be angry with God when I have been so blessed? He has showered blessing upon blessing on me, through you.

And yet I wonder why and I agonize that surely there could have been another way.

Did you go away, my dear father, knowing that something better could follow? Just as Jesus told us that he went to prepare a place for us, that He would send us a comforter, that something better would come, I feel you telling me, daddy, that something better will come, that my tears will turn to gladness, and that there is one greater than you- the source of your greatness and your love- who is here with me.

I want to remember, to dig through your belongings, to uncover more of you, to interview friends and family members and find stories and images. I want to hold on to you as dearly and tightly as I can and never let go. And yet, it wouldn't be enough. I realize that although I will always see you here, feel you here, and be able to quite accurately guess what you'd be doing if you were still here with me – I realize that there is more to you to be found and that together we can indeed journey through life. For you and I are hidden in Christ and it was His words that guided you. It was His life that gave you life and His love that brought you alive, and His death that guarantees that this is not the end, but only the beginning. In honesty, I used to wonder how you really could love God more than us, and felt somewhat jealous that you did – and yet now, it has become so clear to me. Without that love you never could have loved us the way you did.

The love that led you to the store that cold winter day when you had a mission in mind. After hearing me rave about how much fun I'd had singing with a karaoke machine, how nice it was to sing again as I realized I hadn't done so in far too long- I was feeling misplaced and lonely and wondered what I had to offer the world. And you picked up on what I was feeling and knew that that night with a karoke machine and surprised colleagues who didn't know I sang – made me feel alive and hopeful. So off you went, without me knowing, to purchase a $150 gift that you knew would make my heart sing. Such extravagant love. We later discussed the woman who poured oil over Jesus' body.... I told you that at the time you had made me feel like Christ himself, and in fact, your mind had also been on that very story that day when you went from store to store. Oh dad, oh I wish I could have prepared your body for burial in such a way.

You gave us so much dad – in word and in action, each day of your life – through your mistakes and the way you sought to make things right- you have given me a manual – you have nurtured and guided and taught and lived, in such a way that (despite my failure to keep records and label and record all the details I now want, to get through the next day) we will know how to get through the next day. We will know how to see good through the pain, we will know how to find beauty, we will know how to have hope, for we have seen these things in you. You have lived them. We can feel your presence here with us, and yes, I know you still delight in us. I can feel that sweet sweet presence, and dad, one day, when I hold your hand in the next life, we will raise our hands together, and shout,

“Oh death, where is thy sting?”
“Oh death, where is thy victory?”

For yes, Dad, God is good.