"It was a dark and stormy night"

Those of you who are "Peanut" fans will recognize the title as the first line of the book Snoopy would start writing on his doghouse.

Sunday was not a dark and stormy night but it was Father's Day. Now, I have always had a love-hate relationship with Father's Day as have many men. First, I think I am jealous of the attention that is paid to the women in my life on Mother's Day. They get taken out to eat, preacher always extol them in sermons, and gifts, they get such gifts and flowers as to be shameless in their excess.

Then Father's Day comes along, and its like opening a "past sell date" bottle of pop. There is no fizz and no sizzle. For years, I got the mandatory tie that often glowed in the dark. I only know of one local funeral director who would wear such a tie and only if it had a semi-nude girl on it. I thought that when I died, I would ask the presiding funeral director (not the one with the semi-nude tie) to put all those ties at my feet, so that no other man would risk receiving such a thing. But time passed and largely Father's Day was sort of another day with just a touch of fizz to let me know I was appreciated in a semi-fizzle sort of way.

I also join a host of other father's who feel guilty about their presence and perhaps their lack of presence when their children were growing up. For me, I was gone a lot, and in the second church worked six days a week, early morning till late at night. I was not there as I should have been. I made adjustments, and was more present, but still not like I should have been. So the gaudy, garish tie was a commentary to me on my fathering. So, Father's Day is both envy and guilt--what a day to look forward to!

In my older years, I have grown, I hope, a little wiser.

For the problem of envy, I started shopping for myself on Father's Day. This year,Father's Day started with a new sport's jacket, three new shirts, and a beautiful tie. I might be buried in it, not on it, if that time comes soon.

For the problem of guilt, I sit back and listen to my children. It helps more than they will ever know. Last year the whole flock, brood, herd,(whatever one calls such a group)was home and it was the best Father's Day ever. The grandchildren peed in my bed, we laughed and had fun, and cooked outdoors and it was super.

This year, it was just the three of us,(Anna, myself, and the youngest youngest child) but it was good. The oldest son called. He works several jobs but mainly he is a police officer. It is always good to hear from my children. The oldest youngest child called and sent presents: hence the title of this blog.

Joe(the child formerly known as Joseph and formerly the only youngest child)had sent his mother a hand decorated mug for Mother's Day. Joseph is an artist and a wonderful cartoonist. So, he sent his mother a huge mug with a black and white caricature of them on it. This year on Father's Day, I GOT A COLOR mug with a caricature on it! As we say in my family as one sticks one's tongue out, "Nanny, Nanny, boo, boo." It is usually followed by something like, "My gift is best!" So much for the envy.

However, the handle was broken, but the caricature was priceless. Joe has his arm draped over my shoulder in a male token of affection, while, when you turn the mug around, he is lifting my wallet.

Now, Joseph and I have always (until the last few years)had a stormy relationship. Everyone says it is because we are so much alike. I beg to differ. I think it is because he is so much darn smarter than I am that it brings out the worst in me. Before the words are even on my lips, he has anticipated them, and spoken the rebuttal. So many of our discussions were not discussions, but rather me sputtering, "But, but,but, but wait just a moment, slow down!"

However, this picture on the mug, brings back an ongoing conversation that Joseph and I had across the years of his youth. He would ask for money, I would say, "Where am I going to get that kind of money? Do you think I have a tree in the back yard that I go out and pick dollar bills off of?" To which he would reply, "Show me the tree and I can do it myself!" So, Joseph began to ask for money like this, "Dad, you know that tree in the back yard?" To which I would say, "What tree?" To which he would reply, "You know, the tree that grows money! Well, I need a little off it."

Fast forward a few years and Joseph is in Chiang Mai, Thailand and he has miscalculated his bank balance, so from half way around the world, Joseph(name change has not happened yet) I get this short e-mail: "Dad, have miscalculated my bank balance, am out of money, can you deposit some money in my account till I get paid."

Now I have to tell you that such a message could have said several things and not cut to the heart as deeply as that note. It could have read, "Being held by a band of renegade mobsters with low monetary expectations, please put $50 in my account for ransom. All I could see was my poor child homeless on the streets, half way around the world starving to death. Quite the opposite, he had a nice bachelor pad, transportation and a world of really cheap food. But, that was the note. So, I rush out and put some money in his account, and send the following message back, "Have gone out into the back yard and picked off a couple of leaves, you are safe for now!"

The response I get back is one sentence,(did I mention he was the IT guy for his office) "Thanks Dad, is that tree still alive?"

So, the mug tells the story. At the bottom of his box were two "Peanuts" books that he had found out shopping. He wanted me to have them for all the ones he and his brother destroyed. Enclosed was a deeply touching note(the best part) and what was left of the mug handle.

Then, in irony of ironies, James and his mother bought me a wallet with gift card in it. I had the fleeting thought, "I am so glad Joe is half a continent away!" But frankly, he is well past those years and the money now flows the other way.

So, it wasn't a dark and stormy night, it was a wonderful Father's Day. "Nanny, Nanny, Boo, Boo!"

Mom but mostly Dad

Mom has been a widow since 1982. That year was when she lost the love of her life to cancer and I lost my dad. I was 32 with a wonderful wife and two boys four and two and pastor of an amazing church that knew how to love and minister to their pastor. The boys don't remember their Grandad, but I do.

I would tell the guys stories as they grew up about my dad, about growing up in a service station, about my love of cars that grew out of that, and about the quirky things that happened in a place that sold gas and offered service with each purchase no matter how small.

Dad was a pretty amazing person. He served in the U.S. Marines in the South Pacific, was awarded a Purple Heart, and came back home to marry and raise a family. He birthed three boys and he was the youngest of two boys. Something in our family about boys and the women who must suffer raising them.

After a stint in the oil field, Dad went to work for himself in a service station and that is where we were raised. There are times when I think about my experiences and laugh. There are other times when I get just a little sad. Life played out before my eyes in ways that I was often too young to understand. With years came understanding and a quiet appreciation grew for my dad.

I noticed that widows trusted him. I noticed that Dad would go the extra mile to make something right with a customer. Even if the customer was difficult and belligerent, he would do what he could to make things right--then he would tell them never to come back to his station! I like that part of his pluck. I once watched him cold-cock a man who took a swing at him after this man caused one of his employees to get burned. I decided then, I would not pick a fight with the "old man." Dad was generous and supportive of his children and did his best to teach us how to be men of integrity and faith. And at work, he was a hard task master. He wanted from his children a hard day's work for paltry pay. But years later that paltry pay would pay rich dividends.

Dad was diagnosed with cancer around 1980. Then what followed was a stream of radiation, surgery, more surgery, a promised respite of cure, and then a vicious return of the cancer that chemo could not touch. Hospice was a Divine gift. Long before anyone was sold on the idea, Midland had a volunteer program. Those were the days of no government money or interference. The people were great and Dad stayed home until it became obvious we needed him in the hospital.

Cancer is a dark, mean disease. It plays with your body, it plays with your mind, it plays with your emotions, and for the person and the family it is an endless roller coaster ride to who knows where. Are we going to beat this? Are we going to lose?

For many cancer patients, it is a slow, painful, way to die. That is what it was for Dad. That is what it was for all of us: a slow, painful, death that would leave a gaping hole in our hearts for years.

I think that is when I decided for sure that what mattered most is not how long one lived but how well one lived. The decisions to put that reality into practice took several years. It took time to slow the pace of ministry where I had time to pick up the boys from school and take them for a soda. It took time to realize that every emergency was not a crisis and most emergencies had been weeks in the making. That is when I began to sift what made my father the man he was and desire in my heart to be a man like him.

I am a year older than my father was when the cancer finally won. I think about that from time to time and wonder if I am the man now my father was when he died?