It is the week of parental birthdays!! I’m celebrating two of the most important souls on the planet this week. What a joy to have them as my parents. 😊

Some time ago, I shared some ways my Mom is important to me. It’s high time I share about Dad.

We’re twins, you know, Dad and I. I can’t recall the first time a stranger recognized me as Larry’s daughter, but there have been innumerable instances since. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that he’s never shaved his beard in my lifetime because there’s a chance I’d be asked to fill out someone’s 1099 or 1040 or Schedule K. And that would be far more tragic than revealing his long-hidden, single-dimpled face (my dimple’s on the right side).
What a gift to be proud to be recognized as his!

Dad always let me be his pal. His shadow in the garage, sniffler in the deer stand, tracker in the woods. Hunter of agates, peerer of grand canyonly depths, reader of signs. Tire kicking jump starter, lawn mowing lap sitter, hand-holding rock jumper. We even finish each other’s sandwiches (honey mustard or BBQ win most often).

I’ve stacked towers of trees in neat piles while darting deftly around Dad and his Jonsered. He rarely told us to help make wood; he simply quietly showed up in the kitchen wearing jeans and work boots, reaching for the black stocking cap with cyan and magenta trim on the way out the door, trusting that a train of 5 or so bobbing blondes would soon follow. Sunday mornings smelled of oak and elm, while afternoons held the tock of the old grandfather clock, the warm smell of clean carpeting, and comments on the play of men clad in shoulder pads and purple. If we were especially lucky, we’d share frothy root beer in icy mugs.

Dad rarely complains. Ill, tired, burned out, whatever – he is always a provider. If you were careful not to stir at the end of a late night van ride, you could be scooped up and carried up the stairs to your bed, feeling especially cunning by sneaking your arm around his neck without him seeming to notice. Long days and late nights at the office led to family celebrations of the April 15th holiday, but never to public fatherly grumbles about the work grind. We were always happy to welcome him home in his red Mazda pickup truck, clambering for a spot to hug a leg, and on rare occasion to nab our favorite flavor of Dilly Bar (chocolate or heath, please).

My Dad is a pillar. Reliable, dependable, full of integrity. A testament to his community of unswerving commitment to Christian belief and duty. He is a source of wisdom, though he will not share his thoughts if uninvited. Words are carefully considered and chosen. He has the gift to say in few words what most cannot say in many.

Many feel welcome in his company. He seeks out the marginalized and draws them into meaningful conversation and the joy of acknowledgment. He makes a point of greeting each one.

He loves stories. Stories of the recent past, of the distant past; history and his story. Card games and Vernors are his weak spots – as are his girls. And I’m lucky enough to be one of them.

My Dad often speaks to me, but he rarely yells. When it comes to the hard conversations, he quietly waits for a private opportunity to discuss clearly and without distraction. When he speaks, I am careful to listen and to implement. I actively seek his counsel.

My Dad is my gift from God, a window into Who my Dad in heaven is. The One who often speaks, but rarely yells. The still, small Voice which never turns away a listening ear. He Whose affection is expressed in concise words, but abundant action. A Dad Who loves.

❤️