The Original Class Act

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.”