Father's Day

Sunday, June 20, 2010

My father is my hero. He's pretty much the strongest, toughest man I know. I mean, he hunted rogue elephants and leopards in Africa growing up and played Rugby for the South African national team; it doesn't get much more tough than that. He's also the wisest, most funny, caring, and stubborn man I know. I respect him more than anyone. Probably more than he will ever know.



One of the hardest things about him being sick is watching the man who has been my rock my whole life struggle against something that he has no power over. It's hard watching him slowly disappear, but it's most difficult in the moments when I know he's aware of what is happening. When he says "There are days when my mind just goes blank and I can't remember anything..." And I feel so helpless because I don't know what to say or what to do to make it better. I'm sad because I know he is scared. I know he feels helpless and weak and useless. And he's never been any of those things. Ever.

In a sermon one Sunday, many Sundays ago, the pastor used the analogy of our life on earth being a hotel room. He said, you don't go on vacation and redecorate your hotel room. You don't buy new furniture or paint the walls or hang up family photos. Because you know it's only temporary and that you're going home soon. And so it is with our life on earth. It's only temporary and soon, we will be going home.

That truth is what I cling to in moments when I want to cry for the unfairness of my daddy being sick. When I don't understand and can't comprehend why. When I feel helpless and weak. Because I know that this is just the hotel room. And at home, my daddy will be well again. Strong and whole and radiant.

In the mean time, I cling to the funny moments and cherish the time I have with him. Days like today when we go out for mediocre Chinese buffet and dad asks the waitress how to say "Thank you very much" in Chinese, then repeats the phrase to everyone he sees as we leave the restaurant.

Days spent eating ice cream and celebrating Father's Day.








Days spent laughing at my mother who asks my sister if she spray tans because she's so dark and my sister looks at her like she's crazy (because Sharon does not need to spray tan) and immediately turns to dad and says "Dad, do you spray tan too?"



Days when I just smile and say "he's working at camp in Fulton for the next two weeks" when dad asks for the 8th time where Austin is. "A camp for delinquents? I always knew he was a delinquent!" Then he laughs at his own joke and says in his quiet, reflective tone, "Nah. I like him. He's a good boy. He's good for you. I like him."

I agree, Poppie. He reminds me a lot of you.