Dear Dad

Dear Dad, I am so sorry that in the haste of the last two weeks, much of which I’ve spent on the road and during which we’ve celebrated two graduations, a wedding, a college orientation and a volunteer stint with Appalachian Service Project and work in between it all, that I did not get a Father’s Day card or gift into the mail, but maybe spending this beautiful Sunday morning reflecting on some of the things that I appreciate about you will be the more memorable gift. Working now daily with people—many at the end of their lives--I am well aware that too often we don’t say the most important things that we carry in our hearts. Here is my attempt to do so.

When I was young, I often had nightmares. I remember quite distinctly you bringing me downstairs for milk or sitting by my bed, repeating the Lord’s Prayer over and over and over until my restlessness quieted. I remember one campfire at Camp Tekoa, which we would attend every fall with our church, singing Puff the Magic Dragon, which Hardy Tippett would accompany on the guitar, glimpsing your eyes watering. I now know, as a parent myself, that these are some of the sweetest moments of life. Something so simple can take your breath away.

I was secretly proud that I lived in “the modern house” in the traditional neighborhood of Eastover in Charlotte, the house you had designed in your late twenties, for goodness sakes, and with mom, built it primarily with your own hands. I remember mom pregnant with Erik up on scaffolding holding a beam for you. I remember this because I was calling up to her that a bee had just stung me. I knew the house was something special not only because we were the only ones who had a genuine Finnish sauna in it, but it was featured in Southern Living and so many other places. I didn't need other people’s comments on how creative you and mom were to know that Erik and I were lucky to have you as a parent.

I love that in our living room there was (and still is) a woodblock print you made in college from a photograph of the rug beaters along the harbor in Helsinki. I appreciate that you and your two brothers, Joe and Jimmy, still pull out your instruments from your days in the Smithfield High School marching band to play Christmas carols when the extended family gathers each year on December 26. This tradition made Grandmother so happy, especially as she declined. Though our extended family jokes about how out-of-sync or in-tune the clarinet, Saxophone and trumpet are, we still all look forward to and get real joy from this tradition.

I so appreciate when, at some very tough junctures in my adult life, you have quietly and steadfastly said, “You are stronger than you think.”

I was so moved on our trip to Finland to celebrate you and Mom’s fiftieth anniversary, how each day we walked to destinations with stories attached to them from your period of courtship.

On a recent visit to Raleigh to celebrate your first grandchild’s graduation from high school, you recounted how exhausting it was to plan the itinerary of the 57th reunion you and mom had hosted days before of the Joe Bell group you traveled to the World Methodist Conference in Oslo in 1961 with, but you weren’t complaining. In fact, you had the wisdom to say that these kinds of efforts at this time in life helped you continue to grow.

And you’re still growing. I laughed when Mom told me on the phone this week how, when the fridge recently broke, you pulled it out enough to squeeze behind it with your computer open in order to watch instructional Youtube videos. You fixed it!

Of course you fixed it. You’ve fixed and done so many things well. From the far side of fifty, I can recognize just how fortunate I am. Thank you.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

I love you.

- Liisa