I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad today. You see, it was ten years ago today that he was killed in a car accident. At the time, I was living in Wisconsin with my brother and his family. Within hours of receiving the news, my brother and I were on a plane headed to Utah. I remember sitting in the Minneapolis airport during a layover, watching all the people rushing about and thinking to myself, “Don’t they know? Don’t they realize that the world was forever changed today?”
In the days that followed that tragic event I learned a great deal about hope, faith and goodness as our family and countless others came together to honor the amazing man that my father was—and is. The bitterness of losing him was made so much sweeter by the legacy of love and faith that he left us. His life was shorter than we all would have liked it to be, but he had no unfinished business. He never hesitated to tell us that he loved us. He enjoyed life and happily served everyone he knew. He taught us the truths that made his passing a celebration. We were sad, but not devastated. We miss him, but it doesn’t make us miserable.
My father was one of the most remarkable people I have ever known. I am who I am because of the lessons his life taught me.
My dad was his own man. He marched to his own drum and never seemed to care what other people thought of him. (He did, however, realize that I did care what other people thought so he took great delight in embarrassing me in public. Once as we sat in a movie theater waiting for the feature to start, he suddenly let out a long and loud Tarzan yell—just for fun. I whispered an exasperated “Dad, please!” to which he responded, “Who cares? You don’t know any of these people!")
My dad didn’t care about stuff. Even as a successful university professor he drove an old run-down work truck with a mismatched door and beat up interior. And he honestly didn’t care. He was known to use duct tape to repair everything, including his pants and found clever ways to reuse household items. He understood that money was merely a means by which to bless the lives of others and he was always generous.
My dad’s life was centered in service. Throughout most of my childhood my father was in fairly influential leadership positions in the church. I grew up understanding the importance of magnifying callings and giving of your time and talents. But it didn’t take a calling for him to help people in need. He lovingly looked after his aging mother, coached my brothers’ basketball teams, went the extra mile to help his students succeed and was always available when his children needed him. That’s just who he was.
My father understood the value of work and working together as a family. He was always busy. In addition to his career as a professor, he was a part-time beekeeper; apartment owner, plus we planted a giant garden every year. And he did all of that for us—his children, so that we would have the opportunities to learn t work and to spend time together. He often said, “I’m not just raising bees, I’m raising boys.”
My father’s greatest joy was his family. We knew he loved us, he told us and showed us often. Despite his many responsibilities in life—we always knew we were his greatest priority. He took advantage of little moments to give each of us kids individual attention. He would often take one of us along on errands or trips so that we could get some one on one time. I remember once when I was about twelve he let me skip a day of school and go with him to a meeting in a city about two hours away so we could spend the day together. He took me to lunch at a “real” restaurant and asked about school and my friends and he listened to me. I’m sure if you asked any of my ten brothers and sisters they could each tell you a similar story.
Some days I miss my dad terribly. I’m sad that my children don’t know what his laugh sounds like or that my husband never got to really know him. But more than anything, I’m grateful. Grateful for the example he was. Grateful that he is still ours in the eternities. And grateful for the inspirational and inspired life that he lived.
7 comments:
Sarah--that was really sweet. I had almost forgotten that he was in a car accident. 10 years seems so long ago-doesn't it? I really enjoyed that little tribute.
What a beautiful tribute. I'll always remember him complimenting me on my smile every time I came over, and making me laugh.
I love your dad.
You had me laughing and crying both through this. Your dad really was a remarkable guy--and so funny. I can't think of him without smiling.
I've read these memories several times and have been a bit too emotional to post a response until today. You wrote the truth and said it well. This is probably the longest blog that you've written, and what you didn't have room to say could fill a book--and someday it will when we kids and Mom sit down to write it. Until then, here are a few of my memories to add to what you’ve started:
Dad was once invited to an event and graciously turned it down because he had a previous “appointment.” That appointment was to take his grandchildren to the zoo.
Dad’s best friend was our Mom. They shared professional interests as educators and would sometimes get going on a line of thought during dinner that left the rest of us bored or confused, and we’d say something like, “There they go! Talking about the curriculum again!” When Mom and Dad needed some time alone, they would sometimes go out to the garden to pick beans together because we all hated to pick beans and they knew that none of us would follow them.
Dad’s next best friend was his brother. They built houses side-by-side and raised kids and bees together. Since our Dad’s passing, we’ve been blessed to have an uncle to be with our family on occasions when a Dad or Grandpa is needed.
Dad could have a meaningful conversation with many different types of people. He could talk to farmers, university professors, pre-school children, best-selling authors, and elementary school teachers, and get along with them all. He would stop strangers in the parking lot and ask them about the car they were driving. I was a truly shy child (and am still mostly an introvert) so this extroverted behavior of his was a bit uncomfortable for me (as illustrated with the Tarzan-yell story).
In the week after Dad was killed, I was somehow able to channel him and become an extrovert for a few days. Hundreds of people attended the mortuary and the funeral and lined up to express their grief and condolences. At large gatherings, I tend to want to hide in the kitchen or talk only to those people I know well. In a small miracle, I was able to think, “All of these people love and miss my Dad, so I need to get over myself and talk to them.” And I was able to do it without any trouble at all.
p.s. Sorry this is such a long comment. I'm still too introverted to start my own blog.
Hey, Sarah. I found your blog from a link on Kate's, and read your words on Uncle Jim. I hope that's okay. I appreciated what you had to say about him. It makes me appreciate my family--our family on a bigger scale.
Thanks.
Hey Sarah, I think about your Dad all the time. I tell my husband stories about him and wish he could hear his laugh. You got it just right. You said he could talk to anyone. Well, I very much remember him interviewing me the day before he died in the back of a car. "So red, you going to marry this guy?"
Also, what a picture of life to sing Happy Birthday to my mom in your kitchen the evening of his funeral. Well done.
Sarah- Your dad sounds like a pretty special man. This is funny, but it was a little crazy to read this and realize that your Dad and my dad were both a lot alike. My dad also didn't care about what others thought of him at all and loved to embarrass me too. He drove clunker cars and even also fixed everything with duct tape. My dad died unexpectadly almost eight years ago and as I flew home that same day I also had the same thoughts about noone else around me know about the major thing that just forever changed my world. That was a beautiful tribute. Thanks for sharing.
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