dad

*I wrote this in November 2011, and posted it for Fathers Day in June. I'm filled with gratitude that by God's grace I was able to see my dad for what he was: a gift. A funny, hilarious, wise, feisty, devoted, adventurous, loving Dad. 

"Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing." -Helen Keller

I hate that it takes me losing something to find out just how much I loved it. The thought of losing my dad, after watching some of my closest and dearest friends lose theirs, well, the thought makes me feels as though someone has hold of my insides and is twisting their hand and clenching a fist.

I have my dad – a wonderful, loving, giving, funny, fireball of a man – everyday. To call or text or harass or hug. Everyday. What a gift.

He went to Mexico for four days last weekend to see his dad, a man he learned much from, about life and loving well and parenting. I thought of my dad in Mexico as I sat at my desk in Houston – a desk and a job I would not have if not for my dad (and mom, too.) His influence and encouragement to “give back” and “love your country” and “swing for the fences” fueled my application to intern at the White House, and that opportunity has led me literally everywhere else after.

I thought of my dad, barely taller than me yet so much wiser, and longed to hug him. Longed to tell him how much he means to me and how much he defines me and how truly blessed I am to have known him twenty-five years.

I was not worried he would not make it back from Mexico, just as I do not really worry my pilot father will die in a plane crash – he’s living life. Why would I want to worry about doing what we’re called to do: live bravely?

My friends and my students who are less fortunate than I remind me that my hero of a dad is  not something everyone’s got at their house, in their corner, in their world. As a teacher with Teach For America, I saw numerous kiddos with absent dads, or dads who brought pain into the lives of their children. I came to appreciate mine in a way I never had before. That day, sitting at my desk, I wanted to hug mine. I’m not great at hugs, something I most definitely inherited from him. So I did what I can do: I wrote.

I remember being carried on my dad’s shoulders often as a child, sunlight all around me, my five year old feet dangling with his hands safely wrapped around my ankles. I did not think, there on my dad’s shoulders, of one day being an “adult” nor what devastating sorrows and delightful joys life would one day bring. I did not know, either, that I would, in many ways, be propped on my dad’s shoulders for always.

The founder of the charter school where I taught in 2009-2011 often talked about building upon the work and success of those who have gone before us. He says: “We stand on the shoulders of giants.” My dad may not literally be a giant, but for me, that is an everyday truth.