What Should I Do for My Dad.

My dad, kind-hearted, hard-working, life-loving and god fearing man that he has always been, has never asked for anything.  He has always readily given to others as much as he could, teaching me without words that when you give to people, you are ultimately giving to God.  I think about him so much lately as I lie around the house, needing crutches or a wheelchair just to get from one side of the room to the next. With all the fatigue from dialysis and the grieving for my lost summer, I keep wondering how he did it.  How did he work a full time job (plus overtime) in a factory, keep up with two huge gardens all summer, fix every little thing that got broken, find time to take us girls fishing, take us all to church every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening--driving the church bus to pick up people in wheelchairs and old ladies who lived alone...he never sat still for very long and I just can't fathom where he got the energy to keep going.

All I know for sure, is that God was the source of his strength and we were the fuel that kept him moving forward.  He worked in a factory, on his feet with gout so severe that I saw it bring him to tears a few times. He came home with little bits of steel embedded in his eyeballs, cuts on his big hands and sore knees but none of that ever stopped him from truly living.  He worked hard for us, but he pursued his passions too.  He was an amazing fisherman--something that I think must have been a genetic trait in his family, since his brothers were also pretty amazing fishermen too.  He loved to hunt, to be outside with nature, whether he was alone or with one of us girls tagging along.

Our fishing trips were the best.  After a morning of excitedly waiting for him to get the boat hooked up and ready to go, we would all hop into the big blue pickup truck (he only drove blue trucks for years and years) and windows down, head off to the lake.  He taught us how to bait a hook.  How to cast so our hooks didn't get caught on brush under the water.  He taught us that the best things to eat on the water were Vienna Sausages from a can.  We developed a taste for those, along with Saltine crackers, Moon Pies and Mountain Dew (or Pepsi).  He even taught us girls how to pee over the side of the boat.  We learned that fishing was fun but serious too.  He didn't make us be quiet, didn't mind if we spent more time playing with the worms in the tackle box than we spent watching our hooks, and even if we weren't looking when a fish bit, he would hand us the rod and let us reel it in.  I remember a few times that he even reeled a fish in for us, then gave us the credit for catching it because it bit the hook we cast into the lake. It gave him pride to put us in the boat and speed us across the water to a fishing hole.  His face turned red and he beamed with joy when he recounted stories of our adventures on the water; like the time I caught a gar, or the time I didn't pay attention when he said we were moving to another spot and let his new rod and reel fall into the lake as the boat sped away. We always came home so tired we could barely move, often falling asleep in the truck, listening to the low whistle of its big side-mirrors against the wind as we leaned our heads on Daddy's shoulder and drifted off into our dreams.

Lately I look at my father and my heart kind of sinks.  Skin cancer from all those years in the boat has changed his appearance dramatically. He's still a big guy with a booming voice, but he looks more frail than ever. He sits in his recliner (always the furniture of his choice) with his knees covered by a blanket most of the time. Even in the summer he tends to get cold.  He talks about his plans to go fishing, to go camping, to hunt again, but I know and he probably does too, that the days when he could just load up the truck and take off on his own are over.  It seems as though he pushed his body so hard when he was young, with all the hard labor, the tinkering in the car port, the wrestling on the floor with little girls, the hunting and fishing and loading wheelchair bound nursing home patients into the church bus, that his body has given up on him before he was ready.

My daddy sacrificed a lot of afternoons working in a garden, rather than resting his tired bones.  He gave up sleep to take on overtime so I could have a yearbook or new clothes or some other thing I probably didn't need as much as want.  He gave up sleeping in on Saturday mornings, spending them instead working on a boat and loading up little girls to go fishing.  Instead of taking afternoons to rest before going to work third shift in a factory, he loaded cardboard boxes on his truck and took them to be recycled for the extra money. Instead of going alone to "haul cardboard" he took a girl or two with him, stopping to buy them chocolate ice cream that they ate with a flat wooden spoon on the way home.  He didn't spend his Sunday mornings asleep; he loaded his family into the church bus and picked up as many other people as he could on the way there.  He didn't spend Sunday night watching TV, he loaded us all up again and again, picked up others on the way back to church.  He worked, he served and he sacrificed because he loved us and he wanted us to have a good life.

Yesterday I asked a friend, "What should I do for my dad?" I was thinking of Father's day.  Every year it rolls around and every year I wonder what I can do to show him how much I appreciate the hard work he did, the sacrifices he made and the love he gave to us as we were growing up and I can never think of anything that seems like enough.  I wish he had a nicer place to live in his old age.  I wish my mother were more of a companion to him.  I wish he had caretakers who could take him fishing or for walks in the woods. I wish I could buy him all the things he deserves for working so hard all his life, but I can't.

All I can really do, I suppose, is make the most of my own life.  It must mean something, if he gave so much of himself for it.  He wanted happiness for me.  He wanted me to be successful, to be good, to live a life as free from pain and adversity as possible.  I know he could have never had the power to make any of our lives as easy as he wanted them to be, but he worked hard to give us all the love and encouragement he could give. He tried to teach us to love God, to give of ourselves to those less fortunate and to work hard to meet the needs of our families. He taught us to take care of ourselves, to expect more from the men in our lives, to sacrifice for our own children.  Who would I be, had I not followed behind him in the red clay of our garden, trying to place my feet directly in his big footprints as he plowed the field ahead of me?  Would I have even grown up to know what love is or how to give it, or that I'm worthy of it?

Even in my darkest days of depression and discouragement, I have to remember what was given by him so I could live a meaningful, joyful life.  If I waste it sitting around feeling sorry for myself, I've wasted what he gave me.  If I'm not grateful for every minute I get to give, to love and be loved, I have not appreciated his love for me.  So I suppose even in his frailty, my father is still teaching me and I am still struggling to follow in his footsteps.  Even in my grief over what I've lost and my regret over what I've screwed up in my life, I need to make an effort to appreciate what I have.  He gave so much so I could have a life worth living.

Maybe all I have to give him is that life, lived fully and joyfully no matter what obstacle I have to overcome.  Without the strength of his sacrifices, I probably wouldn't have made it this far and if I ever forget that I am worthy,  I need only to remind myself of the selfless way he has always lived--giving me choices he never had, empowering me to live authentically and letting me know that I am always loved, no matter what.

I will call him tomorrow and he will tell me the same stories he told me the last time I called.  He will talk about the truck his brother found for him, he will recall our vacation to Branson last summer.  Maybe he will recall a fishing trip or two we took together years ago. As I listen to his voice over the phone I will feel comforted and I will be reminded that no matter how worthless I sometimes feel, I have always been worth the world to him. I hope I have the sense to absorb the meaning behind his sacrifice and when I hang up the phone, I hope for the presence of mind and openness of heart to embrace my life for all the challenge it is to me right now.   I should thankful for it. I hope I find the strength to go forward and live it as though it were worth something, because to him, it has been worth everything.