Loved

One of the last letters I received from my Dad

I grew up on dairy farm in a small town in western Washington. It was a wholesome, traditional, and humble upbringing where my brother, sister, and I learned to work hard, put others’ needs above our own, rally with the community, and worship together on Sunday mornings sitting between my mom and dad. If scenes from Little House on the Prairie come to mind, you’d be on the right track. I loved my childhood and am eternally grateful for the sweet gift of it. I am sure I have romanticized it to some degree, for even the hardships now seem like the bow on top of an already beautiful package.  One of the things I treasure most from my childhood is the heart-to-heart conversations I had with my dad. I won’t pretend to remember the substance of them, but I remember the heart in which they took place and where they led me.

Many, many conversations with my dad took place in the milking parlor. I still remember what it felt like to sit on the wet, cold cement step watching my dad as he worked. It was not uncommon to see him tear up as he shared whatever he was struggling with or giggling like a little boy over the joke I heard at school that day. His battered hands working hurriedly while the oldies played statically on an old beat up radio in the background; as we would talk about everything and nothing.   I love that we had to yell over the machines at times while at other times, we didn’t need words at all. Just being together was enough. My dad was approachable. My dad was present.

As I grew older, a lot of our conversations took place sitting on the back fence looking out over the pasture while the sun slipped too quickly below the horizon. Dad often would say, “Look at the masterpiece God painted for us tonight”. I loved unwrapping presents like sunsets and sparkling stars and even the aroma of cow pies with my dad. Through his actions, I learned to never take these things for granted, to see them as gifts to be unwrapped slowly, to be treasured, to see God in them and humbly, yet courageously, worship Him. I loved listening to my dad pray.  I loved the feel of his oversized, calloused hand in mine, and the little squeeze he would give me just before he said, "Amen". My dad was humble. My dad was filled with immense gratitude.

I’m a ponder; like my Dad was. I’d like to say I learned it from him, but I think God just wired me like that and used my Dad to encourage me to put voice to my thoughts and questions. I love that my dad wasn’t perfect and didn’t know all the answers. I loved that he lived transparently, passionately, and unapologetically for his beliefs. I loved that he encouraged me to openly wrestle with my faith and not readily accept whatever I heard in church or what he and my mom taught us kids as truth---I can still hear him, “Look it up…that’s how you learn, that’s how you grow, that’s how you discover God for yourself”.  My dad was transparent. My dad was student and teacher.

As I grew older and eventually moved out and married, my Dad often called to ask what I was reading, what I was learning and then eagerly shared what he was learning or wrestling with. I miss those talks more and more with each year that he has been gone.  My dad was my friend.

Shortly after my dad passed away I found a letter he had written me several years prior. I did not like this letter at all and considered throwing it away because it pointed out things about myself I wish had not been true. I saved it because…because I guess I knew there was more value to it than just a reminder of his bubbly handwriting and the odd fact that it smelled like ketchup. His letter began, “I have been burdened for you” and ended with “I am praying over you, Karyn. You have all the Jesus you need, snuggle into Him and rest in His arms”. My Dad was not afraid to speak truth even when it was hard for him. My dad was bold. My dad was an encourager.

My dad sure loved me. I sure love him.

My dad has been gone for four years now. And when I get to talk about him, never once do I define him by what he did for a living, how much money he earned, where he lived, the size of his house, kind of car he drove, or any other material possession he acquired. My dad lived a present, humble life that pointed everyone he met to Christ. He encouraged others by being transparent, vulnerable, and openly wrestled with things he did not understand. He loved others with the love of Christ. We are called to do the same.