Dear Dad

Ten years.

Really.  Ten years.

I remember that first Father’s Day without you, ten years ago.  It was hell.  Now they still hurt.  But that’s okay.  It’s supposed to hurt.  Comes with that being human thing.

Hurting helps us become more loving, more understanding.  More appreciative of what we have, because we know what it’s like to not have.  More aware of the eternal picture, more in awe of our Lord.  You used to have to drag me and my siblings to church each Sunday.  Now I can’t thank you enough, just as I can’t thank you enough for having taught me all these things.  You’re still teaching me all these things.

The book’s done.  I’m pretty sure you would have liked it.  Mom said you’d probably turn into a sentimental bag of mush at the last chapter.  Maybe.  Strange how the toughest man I’ve ever known could also be that way, yet you were.  I’ve picked up on the latter; working on the former.  Your toughness was forged by struggling to merely survive the Great Depression, then fighting in World War Two and Korea.  Being a cubicle warrior doesn’t quite measure up as a learning experience.  But it’s all I’ve got.

Come to think of it, I’ve picked up on quite a bit of what you handed down to me, father to son.  Still root for Notre Dame.  Still love sports.  Still enjoy making people laugh.  I wouldn’t have minded if you wouldn’t have passed on the hypertension and ulnar nerve entrapment.  But it’s a package deal.

You’re still the greatest man I’ve ever known.  I believe it will always be that way.  You were wise; a genuine intellectual.  Yet you were never afraid to get your hands dirty.  You were an engineer back when it meant whipping out the slide rule and physically building the machinery.  I’m more the creative sort, in my own fashion.  You could do that too, though.  Even if you were somewhat tone-deaf as a singer.

Love you, Dad.  See you again when it’s time.