This is a picture of my Dad on his sixth birthday. He is
happy, full of mischief, and surrounded by people who love him. This picture
captured my imagination because my little boy, C.J., will turn six this year.
It is hard for me to imagine my Dad as a little boy whose biggest conflicts are
what time he has to go to bed and whether or not he gets dessert after
dinner. Imagining my Dad as an impatient
and ornery little boy is difficult
because my Dad is the most genuine and sincere man that I know.
As I was growing up, genuine and sincere was often mistaken
by my friends for loud and strict. My Dad has a commanding whistle that can
stop traffic, wrangle kids into a car, or force an umpire or referee to rethink
a crappy call. His whistle is his genuine signature. His way of letting others
know his excitement. Truth be known, it is ear-piercingly loud. My twelve year
old plays soccer, and even the girls on her team get excited when my Dad shows
up because they love to hear that whistle. Grace loves to hear it too because
there is nothing like knowing that Papaw is near.
As I got older I realized that other kids my age didn’t
always recognize sincere. For example, when I was fifteen a group of my friends
were jumping in the back of a pick-up truck to ride on back roads. I wanted to
go so badly, but I remember telling them I couldn’t. My Dad had explicitly told
me that if he ever caught me riding in the back of a pick-up he would “tap
dance on my forehead.” I had to translate so my friends understood that this
was a promise that things would not end well for me. It was a sincere promise. Even at nineteen
when Bryan and I went on our first date I remember telling him I wasn’t allowed
to go further than Piqua in a car with a boy. Bryan laughed so hard he pulled
over on 1-75 and jokingly asked if I had a curfew too. I responded, “Yes.
12:30, and when you meet my Dad you will understand. It is just easier if we do
things his way.”
Because he is so genuine and sincere he has been my moral
compass for the better part of my life. I look to him to figure out if the
world is working the way that it should. When I was in high school, he would
leave notes on my windshield when he knew I was having a hard time. He probably
doesn’t remember writing them, but there was always some sort of encouragement
or advice, metaphorically expressed in a way that only he could. “Don’t do
anything half-ass” or “Just remember that 50% of people have it worse than you
and the other 50% are glad you have problems.” One of my favorite was when he
would say “Sara, be a ‘class-act.’” It took me years to understand what he
meant by this. I still struggle with it
sometimes. I used to think it meant to always agree with him. That is not the case.
What this means is that even when things are worse than you could have imagined
them to be, take the high road. Even when your instinct is to lash out at
someone, instead, embrace them. Pray for them. Even when it would be easier to
do anything other than the thing you are being asked to do, you must do the
difficult thing if it will benefit others. Be sincere, be genuine, be a
“class-act.” He wrote it as advice and
demonstrated by example.
When I was little I was amazed by how strong my Dad was. He
could move huge bags of mulch, enormous boxes, even furniture. I thought he
could carry anything. As an adult, I realize I am not too far off. I am still
amazed by all that he can carry. He carries others many things for many
people. He carries his unflinching faith
daily. He carries problems for people so they don’ have to carry them alone. He
carries the daily burden of missing his parents. He carries an immense love for
my mother and his family. He carries the
imagination and curiosity of his eleven grandchildren. And… he carries the weight of being my hero.
Dad, I don’t know what you wished for on your sixth birthday, but I hope you
got it. You are the original “class-act.”
