The Everlasting Gift of a Father

There are two signature acts that my dad would do when I was a little girl. One was when we would hold hands crossing the street and he would give me a big tug upward on my hand to step up on the curb--a tug so intentional that my feet would almost dangle off the ground. The second is when he would tuck me in at night and he would wrap the blanket tightly around my feet. Both of these gestures are etched in my mind and no one can claim its affection to me other than my dad. I’ve recently found myself doing both of these things for him. When I took him to his radiation appointments, I held his hand and tugged upward as we stepped up on the curb. And now when I help him into bed to rest, I wrap the blanket tightly around his feet. Who knew that decades earlier those impressions would flood its way back into my memory both to give me comfort and to serve as the passing of a mantle?

I’ve had a difficult time as of late with the aging of my parents. I’ve been clinging to every word they speak, every time I can wave goodbye as I drive away from their house, every chance I can say, “Let me do that for you.” It’s as if I want to make a permanent record in my mind that I’ve appreciated them enough and made up for the times when I wasn’t the ideal daughter. But I’m realizing that the two gestures that I mentioned, which have now reversed in exchange, hold a deep and silent bond between my father and me that allows me to accept whatever comes.

I believe in a loving and merciful Father in heaven. The good that I find in my earthly father is but a small reflection of Him. Even in the absence of words or the limited quantity of opportunities to share, to have had a father or father-figure in any measure, I believe, is a gift—an everlasting gift in a temporary realm.

Let me explain. I had a chance to take my parents to the Commissary today. The crowd inside was insane because of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. My mom maneuvered the shopping cart ahead of us through the produce and I walked closely beside my dad who I set up in the motorized shopping scooter. With his impaired vision, I’m not sure that was the greatest idea, but we made it through sans difficulty. We pulled to the side briefly to sample the apple cider and I bent down to tell my dad that we would wait right there until mom got what she needed from that section. The woman serving the apple cider said, “How old is your dad?” I said, “He’s 79.” She said, “My dad is his age. He’s in hospice now.” With tears in her eyes she continued, “It’s so hard.” All I could do at that moment was hug her and say, “I know…I’m so sorry.” We smiled at each other, nodded with understanding and then I continued on with my father. In hindsight, I kept thinking of all the things I could have said to her, but words seem insufficient. Then again, words aren’t always necessary.

What I’ve come to understand is that pain accompanies loss in any degree. No one wants to experience it, yet without it, we would be blind to the mercy, comfort and compassion of the Heavenly Father. And we, in turn, would not know how to deliver mercy, comfort and compassion to a world that is hurting.

I dedicate this post to many of my friends that have said goodbye to their fathers—ranging from many years ago to very, very recently. Still unsure of words, I want to at least say, you are a special gift to me and the everlasting gift that your fathers placed in you lives on.

No guts, no glory

I only broke one bone in my body in my whole lifetime. My pinky. I broke it when I tackled a girl while playing rugby and she landed on it. Snap! I didn't even feel it happen. The girl who fell on me felt it more than I did. She jumped up and said, "let me see your hand!" She started yanking on my pinky thinking she dislocated it and was trying to realign it. My adrenaline was running so high, I still didn't feel it. I stayed in the game and the next time the ball came to me, I caught it and almost immediately dropped it. The pain set in. I just kept on playing thinking I would ice it later. A few plays later, I took a huge swipe in the leg that not only took me out of the game, but put me in an ambulance headed for the emergency room. That marked the end of my rugby days. No guts, no glory. Whatever.

The ER doctors got such a kick out of my injuries. They couldn't believe a 5-foot-1, then-110-pound girl was playing rugby. I chatted with the doctors, told them my pinky hurt, took a few x-rays and then that's when they told me. "You broke your finger." What? It never occurred to me that I would actually get hurt playing rugby. It was just a game...or so I stupidly thought. My leg was fine--just badly bruised--so I limped out of the ER with the aid of my sister and my pinky was in a splint. I wondered how I would hide my injury from my mom. She always warned me not to play that sport for fear I would get hurt. But did I listen? Of course not. No guts, no glory. That's what was printed on my sweatshirt when I was leaving the hospital, but that's not what I was saying when the bill for the ambulance came in the mail.

My pinky healed, but I have what you call a mallet finger. The extensor tendon in my distal interphalangeal joint was torn. In other words--the tippy top of my pinky won't make straighty no more. It's crooked to this day. It totally improved my fourth finger vibrato when I played the viola, but that's another story. It was the pain of the healing process of my broken bone nearly twenty years ago that is so applicable to my journey today.

I'm hurting right now. Overworked, overwhelmed, over it. When I pray in times of distress, I tend to finally tune my ear to God's wisdom. Just like with my mom scolding me about playing rough sports, I finally heard her only after I was in pain. Why do I always wait until something goes awry before I listen? God told me that I'm broken. And if I'm going to heal the right way, he had to immobilize me, put me in a cast so I can't move. He had to hold me in place, however painful, until my bone was set straight. As if my leg were in a cast, I want to run, but I can't even walk. The pain of waiting. The pain of knowing that I could be doing more, but can't. Because I've played so recklessly throwing caution to the wind, I'm now facing the pain of repair. When I broke my pinky, I never realized how important that little bone was in my daily activity. Everything that I did with my hands hurt. I struggled to wash my hair, put on my clothes, drive my car, pick up my books. I was never unaware of my brokenness.

Today, I'm in a state of spiritual brokenness. I have to give myself time to mend in the hands of the Ultimate Healer. I don't like not being able to move. I don't like not being able to fix things on my own. I don't like sitting still. It takes intestinal fortitude for that. It takes guts. No guts? Then no glory--for God. As opposite as it seems in our culture to deny ourselves selfish glory, it's more profitable to live a life with an awareness of our brokenness. His voice is clearer to me in that state. And when I heed Him, I just might find myself not immobilized, but free.

I want to end this with a few lyrics to what has become my theme song. "In the Waiting" by Vicki Yohe:

I want a peace beyond my understanding

I want to feel it fall like rain in the middle of my hurting

I want to feel Your arms as they surround me

And let me know that it's okay to be here in this place

Resting in the peace that only comes in the waiting.

Soli Deo gloria. For the glory of God alone.

Where are you?

Life gets in the way of life, doesn't it? I've become acutely aware that my existence over the last several years has simply been a reaction to the "tyranny of the urgent". Everything is urgent--kids, laundry, business, job, bills, taxes, exercise, meals, Facebook, emails, texts. What's NOT urgent anymore?

I was becoming disheartened with it all so I sought out a life coach. After two months of "oh yeah, I should probably call her", I finally did. Eye-opening. She asked, "on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most urgent that you think you need coaching, where are you?" I said without hesitation--"ten". She sounded surprised. I suppose it was because there was a calmness in my voice and I wasn't coming apart at the seams. She asked, "why do you think you're at ten?" I explained, "even though I spend a lot of attention on details, I like to see the big picture. And the big picture shows that there is a huge cliff ahead and if I don't change course now, I'm going over that cliff." There's an urgency for me to make changes, yet the urgency of maintaining where I am can't be ignored. Cognitive dissonance. Until I verbalized where I am, I was pretty much unaware of how I actually arrived there.

Small tangents have separated what I value from what I practice. I was a personal trainer once upon a time. I played rugby. I spent four to five days a week taking tae kwon do. I worked out all the time. Then life changed. I went to grad school, studied all the time, ate all the time, worked full-time. I drowned out fitness altogether for what I thought were urgent matters. Here I am now--fifty pounds overweight. It's not like I don't KNOW what to do to fix this. It's that the knowledge never really made it down into my heart to PRACTICE what I know to do. I was in the gym practically 24/7 so I never had to think about working out. I was just surrounded by it. So when I surrounded myself with books, I just adapted to that environment. I valued fitness, but I no longer practiced it. How does that happen? The subtlety of not knowing where you are over a period of time.

I often think about how long Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden before they shared that apple. That sneaky snake was subtle. It probably only took a slight glance away from the value of the entire garden to eventually partake of something so small in comparison. Who knows how many years Adam and Eve just succumbed to the beautiful garden environment without internalizing the value of their existence there? As soon as they turned, God said, "Adam, where are you?" I venture to say that it wasn't a sing-song "Aaaadam...where arrrrre yoooooou?" It was probably more like, "Adam. Where are YOU? Because I didn't move." Adam had to come to terms with the fact that he separated himself from what he valued most. Was it overnight? I dare say it wasn't.

The good news is that there's redemption. We can turn back to what we value. We can ensure that every step we take is toward what we treasure most. It's not going to matter what you do or how you do it. Just be certain that in that moment you know where you are.