Before You Go...

I want you to be proud of me

I want you to know

That you did a good job raising me

That I am kind and generous

That I am good with my money

And that I can still out-drive all of the boys

I want to tell you all of my stories

Like the one about the time I helped a little girl be adopted

Because I was convinced that all little girls

Should get to be daughters

I want to tell you about how

I am so much braver because of you

About how I am no longer afraid to love

And to love with abandon

I want you to know that I love you

To know that all of the best parts of me

Are because of you

I want you to know that I am happy

I want you to know

That when I teach my sons to drive a stick shift

I will show them how you always shifted using just three fingers

As if to say this driving thing is no big deal

I will teach my daughters to ride horses and shoot guns

And to never ever take a breathing thing for granted

When my children are four

I will gather them on my knee at my kitchen table

And teach them that dimes are worth more than pennies

Even though they are smaller

My daughters will know that they are strong

And my sons will know that they are beautiful

And when I teach my children to love

I will show them how you loved me

Fiercely and completely

I want you to know

That you will always be my prince

The knight on a horse who showed me

That there are such things as knights on horses

The one who told me I was beautiful and valuable

So I never searched for my worth

In any godforsaken place

I want you to know that I was listening

I was listening when I was five

And I watched you crawl through raw sewage to fix a pipe

And you said, “Sometimes daddies have to wade through the shit”

I was listening when I confessed

That I had been playing with matches

And instead of berating me

You told me you were proud of me for telling the truth

I never lied to you after that

I was listening

When you told me you were proud of me

I want you to know that I was paying attention

To the way you would flick your tears

Away with your finger when you cried

The way you would sing silly songs off-key

When you were happy

I was paying attention

When you would drink too much

And when you would start fights just because you were lonely

I was paying attention

The way you never believed me

When I said you were more valuable

Than your ability to pay the bills

I was also paying attention the day you let go of lonely

And loosened your grip on duty

The day you finally believed that you are loved

Just because you are you

That was one of my favorite days

I want you to know

When I miss you I go driving

I even put on that old Lyle Lovett album you love so much

And the other day when I found a dead rodent in the yard

I thought of those broken pipes and chuckled to myself

“Look who’s the daddy now”

I buried that rat in a field of wild strawberries

And marked his grave with dandelions

Most of my good one-liners I stole from you

Because it’s true that

“I feel more like I do now than I did a little while ago”

I even make up songs to old gospel tunes when I am happy

Just like you

You taught me to be generous

And gave me the strength that it takes to love well

But more than all of this

The most important thing I want you to know

Is that I am proud of you

You may not have ever figured out

What you wanted to be when you grow up

But maybe that never really mattered in the first place

Because what you became

Is a man with Love in his eyes

And that is much more impressive

Than any line on a resume

I want you to know

That you have been and always will be

My hero and my Daddy

The man who won

Part of a Love Story...

I was the kid who would go back and read all of the possible outcomes of the "choose-your-own-adventure" stories.  The unwieldy-ness of life caused my heart to fear pain, the result of which was an extreme need for personal control, a need to know all of the options and to choose my own destiny.  But real life is not so easily tamed.  All of our best laid plans rarely amount to much, and even when they do they often become a distraction from the truly beautiful and meaningful things.  If my parents had not divorced, if my Dad had not gotten sick, I don't know that he would have ever been able to see past all of the "important" things and into the wonder that is this strange thing of existence.

I have been watching my Dad learn to love his life in the face of death.  I have watched as he, perhaps for the first time, has discovered that he is truly cherished just because of him.  I have been watching as love has mended all of his broken places.  It's not about all of his life accomplishments or the things that he can do for people or even his strength of character.  He is loved just because he is.  In realizing this, it is as if he can finally set all of those other things down, as if he can breathe in the light because love has set him free.

Love is funny in that way.  It barges in, unannounced, and alters the very fabric of our souls.  Love is not a "choose-your-own-adventure" story, it is a train that you hop not knowing where it will take you, an ocean that you swim in, a narrative of the heart written in the language of Heaven.  Witnessing even the small moments of my Father's story compels me to see life differently, to dare to set my own heart free.  I want to live my life as a love story.  I want to see where it will take me when I loosen my grip on the panic, when I decide that for all of my efforts I cannot contrive one ounce of meaning.  So, without intending to, my Dad has helped to give me perhaps the greatest gift I will ever be given: For the first time in my life, I, too, believe in love.

I Am Only 26.

I remember going to visit my great-grandmother fairly regularly as a child.  My great-grandmother, and namesake, lived in a lovely little neighborhood off of South Blvd. in Charlotte, back when there wasn't a great deal going on.  The main highway was just miles of telephone poles and ugly buildings and, to be honest, not much has improved since then either.  That being said, on one particular visit, I don't remember whether we were coming or going, my Dad and I stopped for dinner at a Captain D's nearby.  Being that I was tiny, my Dad ordered the battered and fried shrimp kid's meal for me.  I don't really remember if there were three or four shrimp, but either way, there wasn't much.  By the time we sat down, I was ravenous; and before my Dad realized it, I had eaten all of my shrimp, tails and all.

As he assessed the situation, he smiled, chuckled, and said, "Baby, you're not supposed to eat the tails."

Somewhat embarrassed by my apparent faux pas and still a little hungry, I looked toward my empty plate.  I didn't even know which part of what had eaten was the tail of the shrimp.  Shrimp had tails?  Why had no one warned me?  I thought for a moment and looked back towards my Dad, defending myself I declared, "Daddy, I am only five.  I don't know everything."

The Time We Ate Donuts.

When I was young, Dad and I would go out driving together, often in the middle of the night.  As an only child who was often homeschooled, I had plenty of time for such adventures and I always loved spending time with him.  One such night, I think I was about nine years old, we headed out from our home in the country in search of manna from heaven, some people call it Krispy Kreme.  So we hopped in my Dad's 1986 red step-side Chevy pickup, affectionately known as "Little Red", and meandered our way into the city.

As an adult, looking back on this adventure, it probably wasn't too late at night... maybe nine or ten.  It didn't really matter in those days though, because that particular Krispy Kreme was 24 hours "Hot & Now"... may it rest in peace.  Our excursions were where my Dad taught me many of the lessons and much of the wisdom that I attribute to him here along these pages.  Mostly he would talk, and I would listen.  This story, however, is mostly just funny.

Arriving at the donut shop, I watched the donuts being made on the giant conveyor belt as the dough would rise and then be dropped into the fryer to then put on its jacket of sugary sweet glaze.  If you have never had a Krispy Kreme donut, I highly recommend it.  As many folks do, arriving at our journey's end our eyes may have gotten a little bigger than our insulin and we decided to order a dozen of those warm little circles and a couple of pints of milk.

The first one is always heavenly.  It melts in your mouth and offers an almost immediate sugar rush.  And, the second one is just as good.  So, before we knew it, we had eaten nine between us -- five for my Dad and four for me.  We were absolutely miserable.  I remember curling up on that cloth bench seat next to my Dad as he drove thinking that I would surely lose my stomach before we reached home.

Even now, years later, we laugh over this story.  We always reminisce about how much fun we had together laughing and eating donuts... even though it made us sick.  To this day, I don't think I have ever again tried to eat more than two of those things, and I usually stick to one.

---

Today is the day my dad starts chemo.  That, too, may make him sick.  If it does, I hope that he remembers our story, maybe he can imagine that the real cause of his ailment is simply too many donuts with his little girl.  Maybe remembering the beautiful times can help him through the difficult ones.

Just because we may be in pain now, doesn't mean our story isn't a good one.

An Introduction.

My father always told me, "God loves you no matter what, but if you keep failing the test you are just gonna have to keep retaking it.  So, you can either buckle down so you can move on to the next grade or stay in this one.  Either way, God loves you just the same.  But, I don't wanna stay in third grade forever, so I figure I gotta learn my lessons quick so I can move on."

I suppose this is what this blog is to be about... lessons.  Lessons handed down to me by my father who has always been wiser than he's known, kinder than he realized and more generous than folks imagine. This collection of stories is my gift to my father, so that he might know how precious he is to all who know him, and that his legacy endures.  These words are so that my dad might be able to see himself through my eyes.

He taught me how to drive tractors, ride motorcycles and shoot guns... he also taught me how to be gentle, gracious and kind... to be generous beyond measure.  It's true I don't always apply his wisdom in ways that he would like, but the lessons have been learned all the same.  I am unsure of who may come across these pages, who will read them or who will dismiss them, but I write them all the same.  I promise to be more honest here than I am perhaps anywhere else.  There will be many stories over the next days or months that not two people know of as yet.  I may change the names in some and leave them in others.  Some will be of my childhood and others of being an adult.  Some may be good and others bad, but all are of love.  Some will be only about my dad and others only about myself, but all are because he has loved me well.  If you decide that some are boastful, read them only as testimonies of my father's love for his daughter, because almost everything good about me is because of him.