A Tribute to My Dad: Father’s Day 2021
My Dad is my hero. He may be surprised to hear this since he often expresses deep regret for not being the Dad he imagines he was supposed to be while my siblings and I were growing up. He has this regret because, to be honest, he often was not there.
Why wasn’t he there? It is because he was working hard to provide for his wife and four children. One summer, I worked for my father in a factory where he was a foreman. It was then that I gained a deep appreciation for my father’s work. For most of my young life, my father worked the second shift. This means he was often asleep when we left for school, or he had already headed off to work when we came back home.
Me and my Dad, March 6, 1966. After he broke his leg on sheer ice as a milkman on February 28, 1966.
My Dad worked hard. He wasn’t blowing his hard-earned money going to bars or buying things for himself. In fact, when he was around, he was often fixing old cars, lawnmowers, or something that broke around the house. On the weekends, my mom helped make ends meet, so my Dad held down the fort as four wild and energetic children lived out what I consider now an idyllic childhood.
From left to right: My Dad, Aunt Carol, and yours truly.
We lived on five acres of beautiful land in Burville, Connecticut. When we were young, we had a shetland pony named Blastoff. I remember my Dad had chickens, rabbits, and some noisy geese that honked in incessantly. I learned how to make maple syrup in early spring by watching my Dad tap trees and boil down the sap until it became a golden syrup that we’d slather on our pancakes. My brother and I have a love of honey bees that started when my Dad and his sister Carol, bought some hives many years ago.
It wasn’t always fluffy white clouds and rainbows, though. My parents often fought, though their love and commitment has lasted well over 60+ years. On a few occasions, I remember my Dad losing his temper with me. I can’t imagine why he would because I was nothing but an obedient angelic child (cough).
As I grew older, I saw my father struggling with what I now understand as depression. When I was 16 or 17, I don’t remember exactly; I wrote him a poem about how much I appreciated him and his work. He was in the middle of some project when I handed it to him. When he read it, he broke down in tears while those tears broke my heart.
It’s fascinating to me how fathers and sons can differ so much. My own Dad was a factory worker for much of his adult life, and my son has the gift of fixing automobiles. I have a more philosophical bent and thrive in the concrete abstractions of the theological discourse of men like John Calvin, Dr. Cornelius Van Til, and Dr. Greg Bahnsen. Perhaps my father’s and my son’s proclivity to bring order to a broken mechanical world is manifested in my enjoyment of the theological precision of the Westminster Confession or Presuppositional Apologetics. God only knows.
There is a side to my father that surprises many people. My Dad often stumbles over his words, which some misinterpret as a lack of education. While my Dad did eventually get his GED, the gifts God gave him are not in the academic. Yet, I sit and philosophize with my Dad. He holds his own as he contemplates the mysteries of God’s sovereignty and Man’s responsibility, the theology behind holy communion, or the work of the Holy Spirit, to name a few. He might not recognize these musings as doing theology. Still, I assure you, he grapples with deep questions with acumen and wonder.
My father is a gifted musician. Not only does he love to sing, but I remember as a boy my Dad putting on Handal’s Messiah, rosining up his bow, arranging his sheet music, and watching his fingers dance over his violin’s fretboard as he kept pace with the professional recordings of the Overture. It thrilled me to watch horse hair shed from his bow. He played along at church for many years until arthritis conquered his hands. The last time I heard my father play his violin up to capacity was on my parent’s 50th wedding anniversary, where he serenaded my mom to the haunting yet comforting melody of Ashokan Farewell. There is a video copy of their anniversary, though I have not put my hands on it.
I could go on, but my wife tells me that blogs are supposed to be brief and to the point. I have a tendency to go on far too long and perhaps lose my reader. But I am not writing for the general public as much as I am to God, to my loved ones, and to the “kindred spirits” who, through divine providence, stumble across my page.
Be that as it may, I hope you know I love you, Dad, and I hope and pray you to have a wonderful Father’s Day. You are loved by me and by many, and I appreciate you and all the sacrifices you have made for your friends and family throughout the years.
