Mine taught me how not to throw like a girl.
He taught me how to jab, jab, jab with my left, then hook with my right.
He taught me how to drive a stick and stand up for myself.
I learned how to cuss, drink beer and enjoy the opera from him.
And I learned how to be really, really hard on myself.

We are still trying to figure it out, my Dad and me.
He fancied himself on dying young like all men in his family, but 84 years later, he is still kicking.
I keep telling him he is still around so we can make things right.
He doesn’t quite know what to do with me.
He never has.

I can’t blame him.
I am a lot.

But I wonder if us kiddos want to know that there is a father out there who is big enough and brave enough to go to the ends of the earth for them? I kind of think we dream of being rescued by a great father in the sky willing to swoop down to snatch us from danger in just the perfect time. The gospel story of salvation seems to point to these realities that may or may not be happening just beyond the veil.

This June, I am celebrating the dads in my life – from my own Dad, to the father of my children, to those of you I know who are dads and the ones I consider second dads in my heart of hearts. You all are going to the ends of the earth. I know you guys swoop down and rescue from danger in just the right time. And I see how your faith keeps you hoping, believing, trying and breathing. Thank you.

We need you all. We honor you all. We love you all. We can’t live without you all.

Thank you, Dads.

We love you,