A couple of years ago, I wrote a post on Mother's Day about
things my mother taught me. In it, I said, "I have long been in the habit, when I receive any particularly profound compliment, of deferring any credit to my parents. There is so much truth in this that it would be impossible to give anything like a comprehensive account of what my mother taught me, or how she shaped me, or influenced me, since the implications of the person I became, simply by being born into my family, are so far-reaching they cannot be articulated." This, of course, is just as true for my father's influence.
In many ways, in fact, my dad has not only been, but still is the most influential person in my life. Thoughts, ideas, beliefs, and expectations about life that were learned from and shaped by him are a central part of not only my own identity, but my goals and hopes for my children, and my ideals and aspirations for the relationships in all our futures. From me, "like my dad" is the highest compliment anyone can receive. He has defined the standard. This is true in too many ways to enumerate; however, as it's long overdue, I've decided to take a shot at some of the most significant ones. Here are just some of the things I've learned from Dad.
1. Others' time of need is your point of grace.
Teaching is my family profession, and for most of my life, my dad taught junior high math and social studies. When I went into the classroom myself, it was always my preference to work with younger students--from fourth grade on down, and eventually as young as preschool. Once, I expressed some incredulity to Dad as to how he could stand to work with obnoxious junior-highers all those years. "It's a difficult time," he told me, "for all of them. A really hard time in their lives." For Dad, that was reason enough to be there. In retirement now, he often does substitute work, not in the classroom but as a principal. When I (again) expressed skepticism about the desirability of this as a job, Dad explained why it's so great to be the substitute principal--when you're the sub, you aren't responsible for the board or the budget or the personnel or the policies. You simply spend all day talking to kids who are in trouble.
This isn't limited to his teaching career, in case you're wondering. In the classroom, in the church, in the community, if someone is in need or in trouble, that's where you can find him--and if he doesn't get to them first, they come to him. I've spoken often of how the writing of theologian Henri Nouwen resonates so deeply with me. In my favorite piece of spiritual thought ever, an essay called From Solitude to Community to Ministry, Nouwen writes, "To minister, you have to be where the pain is." Christ calls us there, wherever the pain is, he says, not to fix or solve, not to do or advise, but "to have the courage to be with people." This compassion, Nouwen says, is "a great call. But don't be fearful; don't be afraid. Don't say, 'I can't do that.'....Trust that by throwing yourself into that place of pain you will find the joy of Jesus." Every day of my life, I have had the opportunity to see this truth lived out; Dad is the most courageous person I know in throwing himself into the place of others' pain.
2. When you don't know what else to do, you can always do what you know is right.
When I found out my marriage was ending, the first thing I did was go to my parents and tell them what was happening. There was nothing that could be done, there was no way to help me, and I had no idea what to do to help myself. My dad listened to everything, and then he told me about fishing in Canada, in the box canyon. There is only one passageway in and out, but once you're inside, in the boat on the water, the tree-lined shore appears unbroken. You can't find the way out by looking. To find it, you simply have to go toward where you know it is--it only becomes visible as you come upon it. "That's what we're going to do here," Dad said. "We're just going to go toward what we know is right. And when we get to where we need to be, it will come clear."
So many times, life is complicated. We can't know the outcome, and we can't understand the circumstances. It's hard to see how things could ever turn out. Nevertheless, there is always the opportunity to do the one right thing we know. We may not see, we may be operating only on faith, only by the compass even though our eyes tell us otherwise, but we can go anyway, just go toward what we know is right, as long as necessary until it all comes clear.
3. Nothing is too hard for you.
My parents built the house they live in now, and they did it all over the course of a summer vacation, because it had to be ready to move into by the time school started. They did all the work themselves, and one of my clearest childhood memories is from that summer. In the memory, my brother and I are standing outside near the back wall of the new house. It is HOT. We are complaining. Our job is holding the siding on the house so that Dad can nail it down. Dad is saying, "Hold it still!" I was 10 that summer, and my brother was 7. I can't ever remember there being a question or a debate about whether it was possible for children under the age of 10 to help install siding. That was simply the job, so we did it.
I have never seen my Dad hesitate or balk at any necessary task, regardless of difficulty. Even now, he routinely undertakes tasks that most people would hire out to a professional, and he can out-work most men half his age. I often hear people use the expression, "I could never..." do some difficult thing, or "I don't know how you....". When I was in active cancer treatment, people often made remarks of this nature, and I have never been sure how to answer them. Most often, I settled for, "You could if you had to." The obstacles that life presents will happen on all fronts. Sometimes you will have to wait a week for the biopsy results, or singlehandedly manage a family vacation, or get used to sleeping alone, or lift a piece of furniture into the back of the truck and then up the stairs. The secret is, don't hesitate to do the task in front of you. You have to, and so you can. It's as simple as that.
4. A shared life is real romance.
If you hang around my house for any length of time, you're likely to see my dad nudge my mom and utter one of his favorite phrases--"Isn't this romantic?" He says this when they are working side by side in the garden, when they are standing in the kitchen eating a bologna sandwich, and when they are engaged in almost any gross, difficult, or problematic task. "Barb, isn't this romantic?" With a mischievous grin that is guaranteed to cause my mom to roll her eyes and wave him away. The thing is, though, he's got it right.
Romance,
real romance, is true partnership, and there is no one who exemplifies true partnership more than my parents. Romance isn't the flashy gestures, it's the daily details--it's less splash and more substance. Romance is doing the gross, difficult and problematic things, and doing them together. It's in the smallest, simplest moments and the hardest, most difficult seasons. Romance is cleaning the van together after your toddler threw up on the way home from lunch with Grandma. It's buying the kind of ice cream that you know the other person likes when it's on sale and eating it together after the kids are in bed. It's collapsing in a chair together, wordless, with ibuprofen, after a long, exhausting, difficult day. Looking for the guy who buys you flowers is fine, but it's more important that he helps you vacuum under the couch, instead of parking himself on it to watch TV while you're busy washing, drying, and fluffing his laundry.
That's romantic.
5. You are worth it.
If you've known me long at all, you've probably heard me say, "Both my parents were raised on working family farms." I firmly believe this way of life had a great impact on both my mom and dad, and therefore on the way I was raised. Growing up in a two-teacher household had a reinforcing effect on some of the same factors--namely, we were not an extravagant household. The values of my family include frugality, practicality, and necessity. Despite this, when it came to us kids (and Mom too, for that matter) my dad was always ready for the indulgences that were within reach. When we went out to eat, which was rare, since it wasn't often it could be afforded, and I looked at the appetizers and said, "Can I have fried mushrooms?" Dad said, "Sure!" even as Mom, likely conscious of how much we were already spending, was answering, "No, you don't need that." When I'd had maybe two driving lessons and I said, "Can I back the car out of the garage?" and Mom was already vetoing this terrible idea, Dad was handing over the keys. When I went wedding-dress shopping and I found the one I loved, but it was too expensive so we left it in the store, I woke up the next morning to my Dad's direction to "go back and get it". When I said I wanted a Keurig for Christmas two years ago, and Mom reasonably pointed out that it seemed like a rather expensive investment for someone who
doesn't drink coffee, Dad bought me the 2.0 version that lets you make a whole pot.
Nobody needs to get everything they want, and even if life would allow it, it's not a healthy approach for parents to try to come as close as possible to making it happen. However, what my dad did for me was something much different. He told me, with these actions and many more, that not only what I needed, but what I
wanted was important--that it was good for me to have fun sometimes, to be good to myself, to let someone else be good to me. That I was worth it, no matter what I might think or what anyone else might say. And when the frugal, practical me is struggling with the budget or my own common sense, and I'm getting ready to say, "You don't need any," this is one I try hard to remember, so my boys can know the same thing.
6. Showing up matters.
In junior high, for some inexplicable reason, I was on the track team. This will be hard for anyone who knows me to accept, I know, but I was a distance runner. The reason for this is because, in the distance runs, perseverance is a virtue. If you're not fast, the coach still has to find a place to put you, and I wasn't fast, but I could finish. And my dad showed up to watch me finish last every time.
Now, I don't really know if he was at every single meet, but I know he was at enough of them to give that impression in retrospect, cheering me on from the sidelines, or sometimes even coaching me and calling out times from next to the track in the infield as I trudged past. And track isn't the only thing he showed up for. He has been there for everything I have ever done, and for every significant event, good or bad, in my lifetime, beginning on the day he drove to the hospital for my birth. He came to choir concerts, solo and ensemble contests, 4-H fairs, award ceremonies, spelling bees, Bible Bowl matches, and that one bizarre time when someone on the pom-pom squad got sick and I somehow ended up subbing for them. He was there in the hospital when I got my appendix out, and when I got my stitches out, and when I had pneumonia, twice. He helped me celebrate every Christmas and every birthday; he bought me roses on Valentine's Day. He was there when I graduated high school and when I graduated college, when I got married, when I got divorced, when I bought my first house. He came when my babies were born and when I had surgery to take out the cancer that would have killed me.
