Thirty years ago this month I faced my first Father’s Day
without my dad. It seems like forever
ago, and my Winner High School math tells me I have officially spent more days
without the blessing of my dad’s presence than with him. The years have travelled on without Dad and
boy, today I could really use him. And the most difficult thing on this day of
celebrating all things “Dad”, is that Scott now joins me in this club. He’s even younger than I was when my dad
died. I hate this reality for Scott. Writing this is still a punch in the gut and frankly,
I’m pretty tired of being in the ring.
I was a new mom, balancing a teaching/coaching career when
Dad died at the all too young age of 56.
Thankfully, we lived right down the road in Gregory, and I was able to
enjoy my parents with that move. The coaching
grind is a busy life and sometimes your plans follow the “game schedule”. Ours certainly did so being a half hour away
was a bonus for my family. They were
able to come to games and we got together often on the weekends. The weekend we moved to Gregory was the same
weekend they dropped my youngest sister off at USD. So much for empty nesting….I was there often
as I had been fortunate enough to get a job teaching in Winner. It was not unusual for me to run home to have
lunch with mom and dad. (The daily menu of Mrs. Grass’s Chicken Noodle Soup,
crackers, cheese, and lunchmeat…with Oreo’s for dessert. Bob had a pretty
simple palate.) Sometimes I would spend
the night or even stay for supper. I’m
guessing they didn’t mind most of the time, but I was so wrapped up in my life during
this era, I didn’t even think about them actually having the house to
themselves for the first time 27 years…. I regret that now. Not the time I spent with them, but absolute
oblivion on my part of giving them some time to adjust to the empty nest. (Like my little friend Spencer Shanks would
say, “Come on, Lynn!” )
Blessedly, Dad was gifted with the title of Grandpa on April
1, 1992. We were all thrilled to finally have a baby in the family. In dad’s eyes, Tate hung the moon. He found out his diagnosis of esophageal
cancer in the middle of my pregnancy. He
was in the middle of chemotherapy when our dear boy arrived, and this was a
huge motivator for Dad. They loved taking
on the role of “day care” for the last two weeks of the year when I returned to
school. I’m not sure how they divided the
cuddling time with Tate, because my mom was ALL IN with this gig too. I know Alice did all the heavy lifting—diapers,
feedings, baths—but most days I returned after school to Dad sitting in his den
with Tate holding court. Yes, Tate, even
at the mere age of 6 weeks was in charge with Grandpa Bob and Grandma
Alice. He ruled the roost, and they
loved it. And for exactly 358 days, Dad relished that role. His
cancer battle was over on March 25, 1992--7 days before Tate’s first birthday. We
were crushed.
I received a card after Dad died and its message perfectly summarized
what I was feeling. This great gentleman
had lost his dad a few years before also and, in this card, he wrote how not
only was he mourning the loss of his dad, but the loss of all the things his
kids would miss out on with their grandpa.
I remember sobbing as I finished reading that kind card. He nailed it.
My loss while incredibly hard, wasn’t bothering me as much as what Tate
(and later, Scott) would be losing with Dad’s death. My kids were missing out
on their grandpa. I distinctly remember
Tate’s last basketball game as a senior.
We had played an incredible tournament in Aberdeen—Tate and his
teammates had knocked off the number one seed and after a semi-final loss, were
playing for 3rd place. It was
a full house and right at the tip off, I teared up. All I could think of was that I wished my dad
had been able to enjoy these days with him.
All the things—concerts, school plays, baseball, football, track, hoops—I
wanted him to see all the joy we were experiencing. Mom and I often talked about what Dad would
have done as the boys grew older and events, especially state events Tate was
fortunate enough to be involved in, occurred on Friday nights. Fridays were sale days. There was a joke amongst our family that you
weren’t married, buried, or born on a Friday in our family. Dad had only missed 3 sales in his entire
life before his illness—one was the day I was born. The other one involved the
Blizzard of 1966 and another a health issue involving my grandma. Fridays were for paying the bills. Sale days were sacred. Mom claims
he would have been cancelling sales or making the entire ring listen to DT Meyer do play by play of the Charger games during
the sale. We had a few laughs over what
might have been Dad’s decisions for these game days. I wish we knew.
Today is the day to celebrate all things Dad. Mark was not one to get all hyped up for this
holiday. He didn’t need the attention. He was usually at some team camp or teaching
driver’s ed. Some of our best Father’s Days were spent watching the boys play
baseball. I forgot one year to get him a
card and as I apologized, he said in his incredibly sarcastic, calm,
non-coaching voice “That’s okay, I’m not your dad.” I laughed for years about that. I still do.
And I’m still regretting that I didn’t get that card. Mark took care of so many things for us….he
made sure we had what we needed all the time.
Rarely took the time or funds for himself to make sure we had what we
needed or thought we needed. He was just
so solid.
I know there are so many others today who are also missing
their dads. It is a terrible club to
join and the older I get, the more of us there are traveling along missing
their dads. I try hard not to get
consumed with what I don’t have –the things I miss are rarely material
things. I miss the people in my life who
have gone on before me. Too many of them
and I struggle to grasp why God placed me on this journey. I have had well meaning folks tell me to keep
the faith and how tough I am. I don’t particularly
feel tough, but I am realistic enough to know that I cannot do anything to
change this journey.
I watched with great joy and pride on Tuesday night as Scott
coached the littlest group of T-Ball players ever assembled in the history of
T-Ball. Tiny, excited, helmet-wearing,
dirt playing, littles wearing their adorable purple jerseys, while Coach
Senftner and Coach Kayla navigated the evening.
Some of them didn’t know where first base was located. Some needed help putting on gloves. He coaxed some of them to their spots in the
field. I heard his big, booming voice
encouraging them and helping them hit the ball.
The stands were full, and my heart was too. His dad would be so proud of him. He is good with kids and has a gift of
drawing kids into whatever is going on. I
pray he always uses his talents wisely and shares his gifts with those who need
him.
Today my heart hurts for Scott who continues to show me that
despite what we’ve been dealt, that the glass truly is half full and to keep on
drinking…(sometimes old Scott Robert takes that a little too literally I’m
afraid. #BunkhouseKaraoke LOL) But his outlook shows me that you need to keep
moving forward even on the hard days. Scott seems to do this. He always has. He was blessed (?) with Daughters’ voice
volume and Mark’s unwavering faith to just keep going. I’m not going to lie about this, it has been
a tough month. But we are not alone in tough journeys…so
many are living days they never planned with circumstances they’d love to
change in a heartbeat. We aren’t special. And there are so many who have huge mountains
ahead of them that just don’t seem fair. We will be okay. Broken and sad some days, but we have much to
be thankful for also.
Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there. I pray you
know how much you mean to your family. The dads in my life made everything better….and
you do, too.
