A letter to my dad on his 90th birthday

I'm going through old emails today, doing a little e-purging as part of my daily regimen in my new job:  throw away at least one folder of outdated material from the file cabinets in this office and remove from my email items connected to my old job.  I found this email I sent to my dad last year, just a week or so before his 90th birthday.  I had to write it early, because we were planning to surprise him on his 90th birthday by showing up, all six of his living children, to join him for his morning run that day.  If I hadn't sent him something about his birthday before then, he might have known that something was up, so I made sure I got this off to him early.  I should have posted it here then.  He doesn't read my blog, but if I'm going to post things about other people that I love, I should post this, too. 

He's the reason I run.  He's one of the anchors of my faith.  I don't think he's perfect, but I would not ever wish to have had a different father.  Here's what I told him:

Dear Dad,                                                                                           February 23, 2012

When I turned fifty, I said I was halfway done.  Some of my friends asked me if I really expected to make it to one hundred years.  Modern medical science and you have given me reasonable hope that I just might.

When I turn ninety, I hope I’m walking four miles every day.  I hope I have a meaningful interest/ hobby/job that I work on every day.  I hope it’s not too much to hope that others will find those contributions worthwhile.  I hope that I’m trying to utilize the newest technologies and keep myself abreast of current news and world trends.  I hope I’ll have the good health and the financial freedom to travel and visit family and friends; to hold great-grandbabies and hug my children.  I hope I’m still serving at church and making a positive difference in the lives of people around me. Some might say that those things are a lot to hope for, but hope is a staple in my emotional repertoire . . . a gift you gave me long ago.

When I was a little girl, my brightest memories of you were of your pant legs.  That’s what I saw most of the time.  I recall being at church and holding onto your pant leg and waiting until it was time to go home.  I looked up, and the face belonging to that pant leg was not yours.  That was unsettling, but you weren’t far away.  You were a source of security for me – a stable force in my life, someone I could count on.

You had high expectations of me.  I knew that as much as you loved me, you were not going to be impressed with excuses for chores undone.  It wouldn’t be accurate to say that I feared you, but I was afraid to disappoint you. You taught me that it was important to expect things of myself, as well.

You taught me that I was special, but that I was no more special than my brothers and sisters.  I recall how excited we were as kids to have you come home at the end of yourwork day.  Many times, especially when I was small and had not quite learned the lesson yet, you would tell me lovingly but firmly, “Linda, right now it’s (someone else’s) turn.  Soon it will be your turn.  You need to wait.”  Waiting was not my strong suit, and I didn’t like it.  What I did like was that when it was my turn, it was my turn, and your attention belonged to me.  As I grew up a little, I recognized your fairness in this, and was grateful for it.  I learned how to respect other people’s “turns” in the spotlight.

You taught me that to be trusted was the most liberating gift of all.  I also learned that I could become trustworthy by being obedient.  This two-edged sword of freedom has blessed me my whole life.  I remember very well the day you told me that you thought I was old enough to be trusted.  I remember recognizing that you were talking to me like I was a big kid; I was probably 9 or 10 at the time.  I liked being talked to like I was smart enough to understand.  I liked knowing that you were going to trust me to be honest with you and do what I said I was going to do.  I didn’t always live up to that trust perfectly, but I was always aware of it, and it shaped the choices I made.  I learned as a teenager that if I just made a phone call to let you and mom know where I was and what I was doing, there weren’t any tense conversations to have when I came home later than planned.

You taught me perspective.  I still remember crying one wintery day when you refused to cut down the big pine tree that I wanted and instead chose a tiny thing that was barely any taller than you.  Somehow that little Christmas tree managed to fill the entire corner of the living room.  It was like magic.  More than once you helped me to see things as they really were. 

You let me choose for myself, even when I secretly wished you would just choose for me.  The first time you told me that you didn't know what I should do and that I needed to pray about it and make my own decision was a bit of an awakening for me.  I had never considered that the day would come when my dad wouldn't have all the answers for me.  It was a little unsettling, and a little wonderful, to have responsibility for my grown-up life. 

I loved the run-and-jump.  I loved chug-a-lugging up the hill.  I learned from your matter-of-fact approach to the world.  I came to understand that life isn't fair, and sometimes that means we don't get what we want most of all, and sometimes that means that we get way more than we ever hoped for.  You taught me to be grateful.  You taught me to hold my tongue.  You taught me to expect to be treated with respect and kindness by the men in my life, and to accept nothing less than that respect.  You taught me to respect myself.

And when things were hardest and I was tired and wondered if I would ever have the desires of my heart, you gave me your love and compassion and listening ear.  You told me I was wonderful and that you believed in me.  You told me I was a good mother and a good wife and a good daughter.  When my hands were hanging down and my heart was heavy, I always knew I could call you and mom and you would tell me all the things I needed to hear to dredge up enough energy and courage to continue on another day. You gave me hope.  I can't ever thank you enough for all that you have done to bless my life.  There aren't enough words to express my gratitude for your example and your goodness and your constant belief in the power of hope. 

That said, maybe there is time to try to find all those words . . . I am only half-way done, after all.