The Saturday Journal: Thank you, Daddy

He didn't say I love you. I think it was his generation and honestly, I believe he was afraid of the words. His love came from more than three words--the showing of his love came from his actions--his ways--his teaching.

Thank you, Daddy for including me with my brothers and you in the nightly baseball games in our front yard. LIttle League told me I couldn't play--I was a girl, they said, we have rules and girls are not allowed to play. But you never said those words to me. And you never made it any easier on me on the playing field, just "because" I was a girl. Thank you, Daddy.

I heard you one day talking to your friend a few feet away. You said, "That girl of mine right there--she's that much like me." And I didn't have a clue what you were talking about. It didn't matter. I heard all I needed to hear. Thank you, Daddy.

Deep in the pasture on the bank of the waters--you found a beaver's home. And you said, I'll take you to see it, if you want to go. Thank you, Daddy for taking me on the four-wheeler--you, me, and my camera--to see a side of nature I had never seen and pointing out so much more of God's beauty along the way.

Thank you, Daddy for teaching me it's good to sometimes be a little mischievous and have a little fun. Like the time the sign clearly read--painted in bright red--Do not Feed the Sea Gulls from the Deck!

And I turn around and there you are on the deck--the sliding glass door wide open and a flock of sea gulls are hovering overhead and you are doing exactly what the sign said not to do! And me, I rush over to shut the door and yell, Daddy, you're not supposed to feed them out here--go out on the beach. And you smiled your crooked smile and laughed. Thank you, Daddy.

Thank you, Daddy for showing me it's not shameful to have a little temper now and then--like when the weed eater string kept breaking and the only thing to do is slam the aggravating piece of junk down on the ground.

Whether it was blaring on the stereo in our house or coming through the speakers by the way of the portable AM/FM radio while you were working outside--music was always a part of you--a part of our home. And you introduced me to the greats--Conway Twitty, George Jones, Johnny Cash, Waylon & Willie and the Boys, Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, the Oak Ridge Boys--and the list goes on. Thank you, Daddy for teaching me music can soothe--music can be your best friend--music can stir up lost memories--reach deep into a person's soul.

This man--his grandmother was a full-blooded Chippewa. He wore a braid down his back and a bandana around his head. I called him Willie and reflecting back, I'm not sure if that was his real name. He was a constant at my workplace for a few months as a member of a construction crew. And you came to visit me at work one day and I introduced you to Willie. You reached out to shake his hand and Willie, he said, 'my hands are dirty--you don't want to shake my hand' and you said, 'that don't bother me none.' And I watched your firm hand shake--your hand stained and scarred, like his from years of working with your hands and you gripped his hand in respect--in kindness--in brotherhood. Thank you, Daddy for showing me there is no such thing as an "ordinary" or "common" working man or woman.

It was my first tennis match as a high school athlete--many moons ago. Daddy and Mama came for a little while to watch. And after about two games into the set--Daddy walks up to the fence just as I was about to serve and in his outside voice--he says, 'I don't know too much about this game but when the ball hits inside the back line of the court--that's fair right?' And me, kinda stunned, slowly answered, yeah. 'She's calling them out.' he said, and then turned and walked back to take his seat on the bleachers. I went on to win the match and my opponent--she changed the way she called the "so-called close ones." Thank you, Daddy.

I found this old bench in the woods. Our neighbor had left it there down by the creek. I showed you the photo I took and you lit up like a candle--where's that? Where'd you find that? Thank you, Daddy for sharing your love of walking in the woods with me--of beauty, wonder, and the outdoors.

I tried a while back to fix a pipe under my kitchen sink. I watched you do it once or twice. But what I wasn't prepared for was when the pipe broke and the water--it was a mess. Pipes never broke like that with you. Thank you, Daddy for crawling under the house--fixing broken water pipes--trimming my bushes--for allowing me to watch you work--hand you tools--fussing when I would hand you pliers when you clearly asked for an Allen wrench.

And speaking of tools--you were at my house one day and we were getting ready to do something and I couldn't find my hammer. Now, needless to say, this was a pattern at times. Losing tools. So, you went home and brought me back a brand new hammer. And on the hammer you marked my new tool with a strip of red tape. 'Now, you'll know it's your hammer.' Thank you, Daddy.

I often wondered why you got up before sunrise to go sit in the dark of the woods-- on the coldest of winter mornings. And you told me it wasn't so much about the hunt or the big buck that hopefully would pass by--but to you it was more about the beauty of the quiet and time alone--time with the Lord. Thank you, Daddy for teaching me there is beauty in solitude--in the quiet. And it's okay to be okay with needing time alone--to walk--to sit--to be.

Thank you Daddy for teaching me--our notes and words and reflections and scriptures and thoughts and prayers are worth penning to paper. Because someday--somewhere--someone will find those journals and read them and they will serve as a comfort on one of their worst days, and a treasure to hold tight--on the difficult days to come.

Daddy, you weren't perfect. You didn't claim to be. Nor was I the perfect daughter. We all have regrets.

And I've heard people say when love ones pass--one of their deepest regrets is they didn't say I love you enough. And I understand that--I do. You knew I loved you and I knew you loved me. But, I'm not so sure you truly realized just how thankful I was for you--

Daddy, I would have said thank you more.

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