A reflection on Father's Day and Dads

Your dad is an integral part of your life. Whether you're a son or a daughter, he is a teacher, a protector, or a person you admire in some regard. Maybe he fought that "monster" under the bed for you, told you funny stories when you were sad, or taught you to ride a bike or drive a car. Perhaps he played your favorite game with you sometimes. Did he help you with your (math) homework or that contemptuous Science Fair project? Possibly you are still close, or maybe you don't talk as much anymore. But one thing will never change: he's still your dad.

My dad is German-Irish, extremely tall, and has the best laugh - we used to watch reruns of "Sanford and Son" or "All In The Family" together. I would hysterically giggle when he burst into his boisterous guffaw. We watched baseball games together, and he sometimes attempted to explain the finer points of America's Greatest Pastime to me, to no avail. Suppose I were really feeling like a glutton for punishment. In that case, I might watch what he called a "spaghetti" western with him on a Saturday afternoon (it usually featured Clint Eastwood and some very questionable acting). He had a compulsive yet endearing habit of twisting a piece of his hair around his finger while watching TV.

When my dad talked to us, he mainly did so in movie quotes. I kid you not. One of his favorites was "Now you're getting nasty!" (Harrison Ford, Raiders Of The Lost Ark). He also loved to quote Dirty Harry movies. Incidentally, my dad is handsome and looks a bit like Harrison Ford. Well, kind of a combo of Alan Alda and Harrison.

He had a physical job and worked hard, rarely missing a day of work. I remember him only wearing blue work dickies and these truly awful Cleveland Browns sweatpants he would wear on the weekends, whether it was football season or not. Sometimes, he wore a robe around the house. Over the sweatpants. My dad would never be accused of being the pinnacle of fashion.

He is super tall (it's where I get my height), absolutely loves sweets (I get my ginormous sweet tooth), and smokes like a chimney. I used to love taking car rides with him, especially to the gas station, where he would send me in to buy his cigarettes (yes, they allowed that back in ancient times) while he pumped the gas, and he almost always bought me a candy bar. Usually, a Baby Ruth. He loves Motown and doo-wop music; we would listen to it (or the baseball game) on the car ride. He is a human trivia machine when it comes to movies, actors, and music.

To my mother's dismay, he didn't do a lick of housework, but he fixed things, mowed the lawn, weed-whacked the hedges as if it were his religion, and always took out the trash on Sunday night. He didn't cook, like, ever, but he sure could barbecue some chicken on a charcoal grill. He coached both of my younger brothers in Little League for years, even after coming home exhausted from his job. He wasn't much into the musical or dance stuff I did, but without fail, he would pick me up from my various high school jobs to ensure I got home safely, no matter what time of night.

My dad is a Vietnam Veteran and served his country proudly, as did his father in WWII. As I approach midlife and start taking stock of my existence, I am only now beginning to comprehend the toll this must have taken on him as a human being. Sometimes, he opened up and shared a little about what he saw and experienced there, but at other times, he grew quiet if asked about it. Through my life experiences, I have come to realize that there is such a thing as the unspeakable, which you sometimes can't share with anyone but God.

Admittedly, I sometimes felt anger towards this man who seemed cold and distant at times (almost passive-aggressively) and could be callously chauvinistic. I also recall that when he was angry with one of us about something, he might not speak to us for days as a form of punishment. As the oldest and only girl, I was treated differently from my brothers. This fact stung, and I carried the hurt for a long while. But as the years pass, the anger fades, and I see him increasingly as not just "my Dad" but as a human being. I can now see our many similarities through the clearing fog of my resentment. He is intelligent, but an underachiever (as I am). He is reserved but can be almost disarmingly charming (except for the Dad Jokes). He is an observer, as am I. He doesn't like the spotlight or being a figure of authority (nor do I). He is one of the most stubborn people in God's creation, aside from me. The biggest lesson I have learned from my 51 years of life is that one's perception often stands in the way of truth, and sometimes takes changing your perspective to see the truth—perception vs. perspective.

I interchangeably speak of my dad as if he were in the past or the present. That is because we haven't talked in many years. I can't say I even know the real reason or that it matters anymore. I'm unsure whether writing this will upset him or clear the air between us. All I know is that he is still my dad, my only dad, the only dad I will ever have. As I navigate new relationships with my adult children, I pray they afford me the same compassion and capacity for forgiveness that I willingly and lovingly bestow upon my father. Forgiveness is a choice; it's within our power to grant, and it is reciprocal – we must be willing to give to receive.

So, if you have a good relationship with your dad, reach out to him, hug him, thank him, and tell him you love him. If you don't, reach out anyway. The day is short, tomorrow is not promised, and none of us is infallible.

We'd all do well remembering that it is called Father's Day. Not a Perfect Father's Day.