The tears burned hot behind my eyes in church today as we prayed for all the dads in the parish. As my husband stood there with our children gazing at him while the pastor blessed the men scattered around the church, I just was so proud and happy that they were lucky enough to have a dad like him to be their rock.
The tears burned hot because so did I.
For the first 30 years of my life, I had a dad whose love was unconditional, whose presence and strength were a comfort, and who delighted in me. We shared a love for sports and country music, cooking and power tools. He taught me to cook from scratch, repair and not replace, sing harmony with Willie & Waylon, and skate my heart out on the rink where I grew up in a small, western Canadian city. My dad served in the Canadian Navy before I was born. He was a firm but loving disciplinarian. He was a scratch golfer and had plans to train and qualify for the Senior PGA Tour – his grit, determination, and patience were remarkable. He taught me so much about who I wanted to be in the world and who I wanted to marry.
Did I mention that I was one of the lucky ones to have a dad like that?
On a hot June day in 2007, on his way home from golfing 18 holes on one of his favorite courses, his heart gave out. He breathed his last on the side of the road, alone.
We had spoken the day before about a country song he loved and thought of me when he heard it. That was nothing new. He often called me randomly and played a song for me over the phone, allowing the music to shrink the distance between us. I was a young mom when my Pops passed away and I am confident that our last phone call was shorter than he would have preferred, since I was likely rushing off to tend to the needs of our small children.
The void left in my heart and in my life ricocheted through the weeks, months, and years ahead. In reflecting on the past decade and a half, it’s safe to say that for the better part of the time he was gone, I was lost. I had lost my anchor in the world – my true north. While my faith in God has always been deep, the absence of the man whose steadfastness was felt at the deepest levels day in and day out left a gaping chasm. The stark difference in the way in which I experience the world without him in it is unnerving on a good day and deeply sad on the harder days.
I miss his voice so much that sometimes, it hurts to breathe. Belting out country songs together in the car, annoying my mom who did not like country music was a pastime that filled both of our love tanks. On a recent visit to RCA’s Studio B in Nashville, I sat in the room where Waylon and Willie (and Dolly, and Elvis, and the Everley brothers to name a few) recorded in the 60s and 70s and I wept. It felt like holy ground. Not just because of the incredible music created there, but because I knew how much he would have loved to sit in that room together.
It’s been 15 years since my Pops passed away and I have grown from a young mom with two toddlers to a not-so-young mom with seven children and those toddlers are now adults. I ache when I look at our five younger children who never knew their Grampy and I miss his wisdom and laugh every day. But with that ache comes a sense of joy and gratitude that I had the kind of dad who was worth missing. He wasn’t perfect, no dads are; but he was present and engaged in raising me and my older brother and he loved us deeply.
Sitting there in the church pew tonight, I was overcome with joy for my children that they have the kind of dad they do; and keenly aware of the children around our country who are not as lucky. I am praying tonight for the kiddos whose dads are struggling in whatever way to be who God has called them to be for their children.
