My Father's Daughter

Have you ever noticed that when a holiday occurs, with no real deep memories to trigger reflection, you still end up reflecting?  It's somewhat ridiculous that I can think of no deep meaningful moment my dad and I had on a Father's Day, yet every year when Father's Day rolls around, I think of my dad.

The only Father's Day I have any distinct memory of is the year I left for camp on Father's Day.  My dad drove to my friends home and her incredibly good looking older brother loaded my stuff from one car to the other, and whispered to me in the process "Say happy Father's Day to your dad."  So of course I did, and I don't remember my dad's response at all, but I do remember thinking I would go to the moon and back if this guy suggested I should.  Not really a good father memory.....

My dad was not a warm fuzzy kind of dad.  There were no father/daughter dates though he seemed to like me just fine, particularly when I got married young and moved out of the house.  He was more of a spectator, and occasionally a critic, though not excessively.  Music was his life, always had been, so he didn't really enjoy my musical education from others, and while not personally critical, he was certainly displeased with my instructors.  "Argh!" was a frequent comment on a variety of subjects.  He like his children best when they were off being good somewhere close by but not too close by.

My dad was extremely private and he was not given to share his deep thoughts on many subjects.  If pushed he would respond briefly, uncomfortably, often with another argh!  He never wore shorts, and he never swam.  I don't know why, as in his young years he worked as a life guard and there are pictures where he clearly has legs.  I never did get to know why, though as a persistent little person I asked over and over.  My mother took us to the pool often, and he said she was Esther Williams, and they laughed, but my siblings and I had no idea why that was funny, or who Esther Williams might be.

My dad was fascinated by his Scottish roots, taking us the highland games every year.  The bagpipes when they were all played together always made me cry.  He wore his tartan with pride, and fit right in with all the clan.  I thought I might like to take up Scottish dancing, as it looked fascinating, but there didn't seem to be many Scottish dancing classes close to my home in Pittsburgh.  For his funeral my father requested a bagpipe player in the cemetery.  A friend made the arrangements and there he was, dressed to the nines, standing in the cemetery with the snow blowing past him.  First time I shed tears was listening once again to him play Scotland the Brave and thinking how much my father loved that.  Of course, the second thought was, how did we know they didn't bury my father with his head pointed the wrong way?  Nothing rational about funerals.

My father taught all his life, and he had some brilliant students along the way.  He wasn't great with his hands, he wasn't terribly athletic, and looking at pictures of him now, I realize he wasn't really all that tall.  He was pragmatic, and forward thinking.  He was always moving on, and didn't suffer with the 'what if' syndrome.  He accepted things as they were and he stoically faced most of life challenges.  He had struggles professionally and personally like everyone else, but you would have never known that from the outside. 

The last week we spend together he talked of the major events in his life.  The places he took his choirs that he was proud of, the music that spoke to his heart, the things he found enjoyable.  In the end he found peace with God in the most ordinary of ways when an Episcopalian priest brought him communion, literally the last meal he ever consumed.  He wanted me to know he was peaceful and at home with God because I had badgered him with my desire to know God the way I did all of my adult life.  I badgered God too.  Neither paid the slightest attention to me, but both honored my heart when it mattered.  When I lost my dad, I knew he had gone home to my Father.

Almost 15 years later I have come to some real peace about my Father too.  I realize that though my dad may have missed some key moments in my life, my Father never did.  My dad was a good man, a wounded man doing the best he could with what he had.  My Father is the dad my heart has always hungered for, and of course the Mother too.  That deep need for love, acceptance, belonging, home that I have looked for in every significant relationship in my life, and always felt some disappointment, was always present, possible and just as hungry to have me.  By far the most amazing, miraculous, unbelievable joy in my life was discovering God wanted me as much if not more than I wanted God.  And a billion others, just like me.

So thank you, dad for being who you are and were to me through some roller coaster years.  Thank you God for being the Father I need and hunger for.  Thank you for waiting for me to figure out that when our relationship is right, relationship with others is so much better because I don't need what they can't give.  Happy Father's Day.