My dad, Erv, would have been 86 years old today.
He died in June 2010.
Been reflecting on my sweet father all day today.
The patient waiter-
outside an antique store in Leesburg, Virginia
while we poked around looking for the "find" of the day.
Dad's last garden-- always repurposing and reusing
what might just be sitting around "out back".
Youngest daughter Sara,
on a last visit with Grandpa.
His diagnosis was mesothelioma-
like the commercial you see on TV.
Who would fill those shoes?
That special father-daughter bond?
-the first man I ever loved.
Dad was the popcorn guy-
I grew up with a commercial popcorn maker
in the back room of the farmhouse.
Think the story goes that my old high school
was getting rid of it-
and right time and right spot and it was ours.
This poem was written for my dad nearly 20 years ago.
Quiet time with Dad was often walking along
fence rows checking on things.
Or a trip around the block in the truck
to look at the forty.
No project was too big for my dad.
He could do anything.
His hands were calloused and HUGE.
They always gave safety to my hand.
Sometimes I didn't want to let go.
And as that changed, he did so slowly.
With a squeeze, he acknowledged
it was OK to come back again.
Time really hasn't changed those hands.
They have taken on new projects and met
The strength in those hands
still greet me on each return.
Now added with a hug and a hold.
I am proud to have been given
the reminder of my father
each and every time I hold out my hand.
For then I see my father's hands.
The strength and courage to
try anything was passed along.
Thank you, DAD.
A parent can pass along so many traits to a child--
the genetic link runs deep and strong.
A parent also shapes and nurtures--
like a simple appreciation for beauty.
Or the filling of the God-shaped hole
that only stories of
His Love can fill.
And for this very best gift-
the grace gift of Jesus-
passed to me lovingly,
I am eternally grateful.