I didn’t know anything about degrees and temperatures, but I did know it was hot out. As a five-year-old, I opted for shorts and flip-flops, while Dad contrasted me with his white short-sleeved dress shirt, his newsboy hat, loafers, and dark pants. Dad always wore pants, indoors and out. I’m pretty sure those pasty thunder-calves of his never saw the light of day.
Mom told Dad that he had to finish mowing the lawn before we went to Sears, and I just knew that the mowing would go faster if we did it together. There was just enough room for both of us to squish onto our black and silver Craftsman riding mower. In my mind, it was just as much his as it was mine. I had “helped” him pick it out, after all.
That day I sat on his lap as we mowed our semi-country lawn. I was in charge of steering, but I wasn’t strong enough to make the turns on my own, so every few minutes he would cover my smaller hands with his giant ones and we’d ride through the tough turns together.
Because that’s how we rolled:
Together.
Whenever he visited his congregants, he took me along in his big ol’ dually truck, singing with Hank Williams at full blast. Only one of us could carry a tune though. And we both knew it wasn’t him.
When he watched those sci-fi movies that drove mom nuts, I was right there tucked against his plaid, flannel-clad chest. I never actually made it to the end of the movie without falling asleep, but it didn’t matter to me.
When he was in the garage building furniture for his kids and grandkids, I was next to him building sawdust castles on the floor; practicing for the day when I would trade my plastic tools for metal ones like his.
When Mom would bring home another instructionless board game from Goodwill, we were always the first testers, creating our own rules as we went. Ok, I usually made up the rules. He just played along until I won.
When he preached on Sundays, I rarely ever knew what he was yelling about, but I knew he was right, because Dad was right about everything. So he always had at least one person in the building who agreed with him every week (not that he was one to care what people thought).
My favorite part of the Sunday service happened after the final song. Dad would ask someone to pray, and as that person would pray, Dad would walk the aisle so he could wait by the door of the church and say goodbye to everyone. I knew we were supposed to close our eyes, but I never would, because I wanted to watch my hero. My hero who…
…patiently taught me how to tie my shoes
…was the only one allowed to pull my loose teeth
…could remove a wooden sliver without an ounce of pain
…planted trees with me
…always smelled like aftershave
…shared my love of Ghostbusters
…ate 19 cereal for breakfast, followed by McBLTs from McD’s at lunch
…could fix anything. Without duct tape.
…gave his life to making disciples of Christ in a city without hope
…taught me to treat others the way I wanted to be treated
…would give a stranger in need the shirt off of his back
Before he'd walk by, I'd find his eyes, and he'd give the smile he reserved only for me. I was instantly and extremely proud that he was my dad. At the end of the day, when the last congregants piled into their cars and left that gravel parking lot on the corner of Stevenson and Dupont, Dad and I would check the lights, lock the door, and walk home to the parsonage next door, hand-in-hand.
Because that’s how we rolled:
Together.
~~~~~~
(miss you, Dad)
