A lesson from my father

Most little girls worship their fathers.  Some of the lucky ones have fathers deserving of worship; I was one of those. I believe the sun rose and set in my father, for every day of the 30 years we had together on this planet.  I’m so grateful that my hero never fell, that my admiration was never misplaced, at least as far as I could see.  Two months shy of my 30th birthday, Dad lost his valiant fight with cancer.  It’s a regular-size tragedy, one that all families bear.  He died enveloped in our love and we are all OK.

I am OK, but not great.  It still sucks that my father is gone.  The pain didn’t really get better; I just got used to bearing it.  I got a little stronger to carry the grief, a little tougher to bear the hurt, a little more tender when I cry.  It still breaks my heart that I can’t talk to him.   I want to tell him that my oldest daughter can sing all the words to the Gambler, that she rode in a horse show at the age of 3, that she prays for him in heaven.  I want to tell him that my youngest daughter, my little spitfire, is just as charming as my adorable grandmother and just as cantankerous as my stubborn, lovable, grandfather.  I want to tell him about our new puppy.

There’s a special moment I want to tell him about, a certain lesson I’m just beginning to learn.  My family is big on the lessons; it seems our family motto is, “see what you will learn”.  We like to turn life experiences into “growth experiences”.  One of those lessons was a long, long time coming to me, and I wish he knew that I am beginning to learn it.  When I was 22, my dad helped me move from Ohio to Illinois to start a new job.  Stifled by small-town living after college, burning with ambition, I left everyone I knew to move 400 miles away on the promise of a career.  When the offer came, I didn’t give a second thought to anyone and anything I might leave behind.  Opportunity knocked and I nearly broke the hinges running out the door to meet it.  I was off to become a professional horse trainer and nothing was going to stop me.

On the drive, I thought of some of the people I may be leaving behind and said, “Dad, I just don’t know if there will ever be someone in my life who will make me change my plans.  I don’t know if there will be anyone that I will consider first.”  He replied, in his understated wisdom, “Squirt, I hope that’s not true, because that would be really sad.”  I didn’t know what to say.  At 22, brash, confident, with the world by the tail, why would I want to slow down for anyone?  I was chasing my dream, finding my bliss, and that was the way to happiness, right?

All these years later, I realize what my dad meant.  He meant that to put your own ambitions always first, however noble they are, is a lonely way to live.  He meant that the fire of driving ambition is a cold one, and that it burns out quickly and leaves you with very little.  He meant that the real meaning of life comes when you do consider someone else first, when you balance their needs with yours, when you put your effort into supporting them.  It took me a long time to see it, many years of marriage, a few disappointments, a few losses, and some wonderful, lucky, blessings.  

In the years since that conversation, I learned many things.  I learned how my mother could care for my father when his cancer paralyzed him.  I learned how a community could rally around a family, support their needs, grieve with them, celebrate with them.  I learned how my husband could care for me through infertility attempts, disappointments, treatments, and finally, two beautiful children.  I learned to negotiate the regular life of work, kids, and marriage, finally understanding what it means to change your plans for someone else.  I learned to find joy in giving, in waiting, in supporting, instead of pushing, demanding, and controlling.  

Dad, I’m a long, long way from mastering it, but I finally see what you meant.  You are right, without this lesson, my life would have been really sad.