Go deep, deep to the depths of your mind.
Think of a hero, a hero of flesh.
You are five years old, barely old enough to remember. Tiptoe to the windowsill, a hand to the glass, as you watch him come home from his 9 to 5.
You are thirteen years old and the world’s out to get you. School day ends and there he is waiting in the car, waiting to ask about the tumultuous day of a junior high student.
You are out of the house. Realize that perhaps he’s not too bad; perhaps he’s not too weird. That is until he writes you to “come back taller.”
One night though, just like tonight, a clear and beautiful night, you see the world how he saw it in the reflection of the stars. You are five and he’s at his 9 to 5 to provide for you. You are thirteen and he wonders what happen to the child who was the little helper. You are out of the house and he does not have anyone to tease (except for the wife, but he can’t very well do that) so he writes.
Writes to catch up. Writes because he may not have Little Legs or his child, but he does still have something. He is still a father.
Go deeper in your mind. Close your eyes, fall into the abyss of otherworldly realms. Remember of the one who made him a Dad.
Not a father, but a Dad. A father is a title; a dad is a gift.
A time before you were born, before a thought, a man became a Dad. He taught his children from right and wrong. He taught his children about God. He taught his children to make time for their own.
That Dad became a grandfather, yet the title rendered useless shortly afterward. Just like once a father, now a Dad. That grandfather dropped the title for a new name of Granddad. He taught his grandchildren from right and wrong. He taught his grandchildren about God. He taught his grandchildren that family’s important.
Pull out; pull out from the depths of the depths of your mind to the clouds. Yet maintain the images of those men’s heroism. They may not be perfect. Maybe the Dad in your life did not sire you or maybe the Dad struggled quite a while. Within the clouds, form the words in which you call him.
Say it again.
Somehow this imperfect man was given the name Dad, a name of heroic legends. For it is not a name bestowed upon by priests or saints, but a name only you can give.
A father is made. A Dad is given out with careful consideration.
Here’s a few Father’s Day well wishes to a few men I know:
Happy Father’s Day to Luke, my big brother, who is nothing but a great Dad to his kids.
Happy Father’s Day to Grandpa, the Dad of my Mom. Many call him “sir” or by his given name. Many respect him and he is fair and kind to many. Words cannot describe how honored I am to be call his granddaughter.
Happy Father’s Day to Granddad, the Dad of my Dad, the one who taught my Dad what it is to be a Dad. The one who recently passed, leaving a fairly good size hole. Many call him “doctor,” “sir”, or “pastor.” He was gentle to many. Words cannot describe how honored I am be call his granddaughter.
Happy Father’s Day to Dad, a man who showed me what love and grace is. I am proud to be called his daughter.
And a happy father’s day to all the men I know who are fathers. Whether through marriage, adoption, or by blood, I hope you know you are indeed honored by having the name of Dad gifted unto you.