Tears sting my eyes as I pass the greeting card section. With a pang of sorrow, I remember I don’t need to buy one this year. I’ll have to send my love to the celestial realms with thoughts of treasured memories of my daddy who passed away many years ago; but I stop to look. The plethora of cards and genres are astounding – every shape, color and kind. I realize as I do every year, no matter the price, they never quite say what I feel in my heart. They are either too deliberately humorous or excessively sentimental. The color isn’t right or the texture doesn’t feel good. Even the word “father” is stiff and stilted written out in fancy lettering across the glossy page. Why can’t they call it Daddy’s Day? There is such a warm, lovable sound in that. The written letters are round and flowing. They’re so huggable, just like my daddy.
I guess it’s really not the cards that give me trouble. It’s all the feelings that have no voices to express the gratitude I feel in my heart for the years of sacrifice and love he gave me while I was growing up. A picture is worth a thousand words. My daddy was a picture worth more than all the words. He wasn’t verbose, but what he taught me about success came from the picture he created with his life. The professional cards with all their gloss and glimmer can’t describe him.
If I could send a card across the sky, that would stand for my daddy. The card would be made out of sleek black leather with hand-tooled silver letters saying, “Happy Daddy’s Day.” The leather would remind me that he was a cowboy who worked with the land. He spent many hours of his life hauling water and feeding cattle. It was twice the commitment to keep the milk cows. Spring, summer, fall and winter were demanding commitment for milking chores, at 4 a.m. and 6 p.m. He kept those appointments until he was able to teach my brothers to do the chores.
The black of the leather would stand for the myriad nights and early mornings he rose early. He'd build a fire and check the cars to make sure they were running for the day's travel. We lived 6 miles out of town, and keeping the cars in repair was often a challenge.
The silver hand-tooled letters on the card would reminisce the hours he spent making money to support the family. Daddy worked two to three jobs just to keep food on the table. Feeding eight hungry mouths was hard when wages were less than $5 an hour. I often remember him falling asleep right in the middle of a sentence while he was helping with my homework. I used to laugh. Now, I understand. When money is shorter than the bills, the days get longer and longer. Longer days mean shorter nights. I don’t know how he did it.
On my heavenward card would be an eagle soaring across the black leather. It would remind me that Daddy was a true patriot. He left his new bride of a few months and went overseas to serve in World War II. While he served, his first baby was born and turned 2 when he returned. Many who went with him didn’t return. He was willing to give his life for his country family. He was a silent hero, though he did some great things in the military.
Mother related a story he never told. She knew it because she received a letter from his commanding officer. Daddy saved the air base from an accidental bombing. A young man on duty went crazy one night. He pulled the pin from a bomb. He sat there with the pin in his hand and said blankly, "Listen to it tick.” Daddy took the pin from the young man and carefully put it back in the hole. The bomb was big enough to have destroyed the entire base. To Daddy it was no big deal. To the military base, it was a heroic deed. To me it is a lesson in patriotism, sacrifice and humility.
Inside the card would be elegant, soft blue satin with a small emblem of Peter Rabbit in one corner. Peter Rabbit would remind him of the many nights he told that story. When I was 3 years old, I was burned severely by a pressure cooker of scalding soup. For weeks, I teetered between life and death.
Mother watched me during the day. Daddy took his turn when he returned from work. He would sit by my bed all night. I would cry for him to tell me the story of Peter Rabbit. Over and over, he recited the tale. As the hours wore away, he’d go on telling it. Mother said, “Often he fell asleep, but his words would go on.” I think of the fathers who walk away when things get tough. Not my daddy; he is the eternal kind of daddy.
The soft blue satin would remind me of Daddy’s generosity and kindness. Daddy always made trades with people. He traded horse, cars and equipment, and often, Mother teased that she wondered when he’d come home and tell her she had been traded off. As I look at the results of some of those trades, I can tell they were more for the benefit of those who needed something. It wasn't to get something of value for himself. That’s the way Daddy was. People came before things.
He was synonymous with kindness. One day, my husband was hauling hay with Daddy. Daddy moved a bale of hay from the trailer and found a rat’s nest with babies in it. Daddy moved the nest to safety before he reached for the next bale. He noticed one little baby rat still clinging to the bale of hay. He lifted the frightened creature to the nest before he went on with his task. What a man. Whether it was to help a stranded motorist, a hitchhiker or a family in need, Daddy displayed kindness in a quiet, humble way.
Daddy always took the time to help around the house. When he retired, he claimed the dishes as his job. Ritualistically, he did them every meal. Daddy never cared much for the women’s movement. He was a server long before women decided that men should help around the house.
Finally, in my card, there would be a verse penned in silver calligraphy. It would say, “If Heavenly Father is anything like you, Daddy, I’m ready to go to Heaven.” I would sign it, “With love, Your little girl.” And send it floating into eternity on the wings of the wind.
Sadly, there are not leather cards with satin lining that can cross the heavens, but I hope he can feel my love and boundless gratitude for his being such a daddy. I wrote this poem for him at his passing.
The Hands of the Savior
He was the hands of the Savior
For nearly 100 years.
His heart was the heart of the Savior
As he gave to his fellowmen.
He was the ride to many a weary traveler
Who walked on life’s dusty roads.
He lifted, he helped, he built for anyone in need.
His first thought was for his family.
His last thought was for his family
And all his thoughts in between.
For 75 years he loved with the love
Of the Savior as he blessed his loving wife.
He never lost sight of her comfort,
Even when it came to the end.
He learned the words of the Savior,
And shared them far and wide.
He opened many blind hearts with the wisdom
he gained from fervent prayer.
In time of war, he selflessly gave to his country
His heart, his hand and his life.
Through the mercy of Heaven, he returned to honor
America’s glory with the living and not in death.
He opened the prison doors to thousands as he worked in
God’s holy house.
He cheered and blessed and comforted
even in his greatest pain.
Today, he answered the call of the Savior
To return to His loving arms.
The world has lost a great hero, but Heaven has gained
A Celestial being whose light will shine forever
In the courts of his heavenly home.
