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Father’s Day Stories

Father’s Day.

This day that serves to celebrate and honor the men that love and serve us so well, so faithfully without recognition.  This day that now serves as a painful reminder of missing all the sweet ways my Dad faithfully yet imperfectly served and loved me so well.

Stories.

Stories have often functioned as a healing balm for our gaping wounds over the past year as we have so missed our Dad, but so enjoy remembering how well he loved us and all that he continues to mean to us.

 Legacy.

Our family has discussed this word often.  My brother had friends and loved ones whose lives had been impacted by my Dad stand at his funeral, charging them that they were his legacy.

So here are a few stories to try to encapsulate the man we got to call Dad.  The man we celebrate today.  And the man whose legacy we are honored to bear.


M I C H A E L

One night when we were really little, Andrew and I fell asleep with our Mom for some reason.  Daddy found us there and rather than disturbing us went and slept in our bunk beds.  In the middle of the night there was a loud crash and Daddy came rushing into the room to check on everyone.  The sound came from his wooden shelves in his closet breaking, but he, still out of breath from his panic, said “I thought the boys’ bunk beds had fallen!”  “Honey, you were in the bunk beds.” My mom responded.

Emily Katherine had some stomach problems as a baby and had the hardest time sleeping.  I remember countless nights of Daddy pacing the living room walking her back and forth so patiently, whispering so softly.  There was not a light on in the room.  He just kept walking back and forth bouncing her softly.


A N D R E W

Every summer when we were young, my dad would shave our heads. We spent summers shut out of our aunt’s house and released into the woods, so the buzz cut made it easier to check us for ticks. Our ever utilitarian parents also used the summer to save money on haircuts. We would commemorate the start of each summer in the driveway, on top of a overturned five gallon bucket-made-seat where our dad would shave our heads and ring in summer with us.

The summer after my freshman year of college, I went to the Philippines to work on a farm for several months. My dad came down and moved me out of my dorm and we spent the several days getting the necessary supplies together. The night before I left, he showed me a weather report that showed my first glimpse of the triple digit heat I had signed up for. I began to grow my hair in the second semester of my freshman year, intending to use my time abroad to allow my hair to grow. My dad used the weather report as a bargaining tool and convinced me to let him shave my head. We went to the garage, flipped a bucket upside down, and removed my sought after hair. When my hair was on the floor and about my shoulders, my dad kissed the top of my head, thanked me for letting him shave my head, and told me he loved me.


 E M I L Y   K A T H E R I N E

I once was working on a music video project for school.  We were driving all over downtown filming in different spots.  We stopped in front of city hall and my car key wouldn’t come out of the ignition.  The longer I sat there trying to get it out the more my car kept overheating.  Not having the slightest understanding in the world of cars, I called my Dad crying, terrified it was going to catch on fire at any moment.  “I’ll be right here.”  He said on the other side of the phone.  In about five minutes, he pulled up next to me and walked up to the car.  I got out to let him assess the situation.  His tone with me got really gentle, but I could tell he was fighting not to laugh.  “Baby, I’m not trying to make you feel… Baby, you key won’t come out because your car is in reverse.”

When I was four years old, I was a bumble bee in my dance recital.  I was on stage at dress rehearsal dancing my heart out.  When the song ended, I stood there proudly expecting a grand applause from our teacher of how well we did.  Instead, all of the lights came on in the audience as our teachers whispered.  Mine walked right over to me with the microphone and said, “Where is her mother?!”  My mom had a work meeting that night, and I watched my Dad, still in his suit and tie from work, stand up to claim me.  They called him onto the stage to show him how a few of my velcro dots that held my tutu up were off and he listened so intently to make sure we could get it right for the recital.

 

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Making.

“You are working in our waiting
You’re sanctifying us
When beyond our understanding
You’re teaching us to trust”

“Sovereign over us”

I’ve learned I have a hard time living in the present tense.

The fact that “He is making all things new” and they aren’t already made new, while we long for them.

The journey, the slowness, the pain of being made new, when my heart is desperate for the quick, the immediate, the already accomplished.

You are working.  You are sanctifying.  You are teaching.  And I’m begging to be done.

This week, I sat under the teaching of a RUF minister who shared, “If I were the writer of the grand narrative of Scripture, I would have brought in crucifixion, resurrection, and glorification, by like Genesis 4.” Yet, He didn’t.  He took thousands of years to take us on our journey home.


I’m currently riding on what feels like an endless journey home.  Our high school students from my Church attended a camp in Colorado and we took a bus.  Our plan both in coming and going from Rome, GA to Estes Park, Colorado was to stop half way in Kansas to stay the night.  Last night though, this didn’t quite go as planned.

We were sitting at dinner in a Mexican restaurant when a terrible storm came through.  Upon, finishing eating and paying for our meals, we boarded the bus to head to our hotel for the night.  Once we reached the hotel, we discovered the entire area had no power from the storm.  In the background we heard tornado sirens.

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Sitting on the bus, it was so dark we couldn’t even see the hotel next to us.  The students were exhausted, ready to shower, and ready to use the bathroom, having boarded the bus at six that morning.

The hotel had no power so we got back on the bus to keep traveling.  Soon, we reached a gas station.  We went to the bathroom and tried to call hotels to see if we could find somewhere for our students to stay.  As there is very little between Kansas City and Kentucky, there was little to nowhere to stay.  Eventually, we decided to pull over at a gas station and continue to sleep on the bus, allowing our bus driver the required amount of time to rest before continuing to drive another full day.  We rested and continued to drive.

Around 10:30 this morning we stopped for breakfast, all of us talking about how desperately we wanted to shower, to be in our beds, to be home.  To be made new by rest, family, hospitality, and cleanliness. But as we were stopped and sharing, we were still a six hour drive from home.


Making is messy.

It means unraveling, needing, missing, losing sight, and having to remind yourself there is home and hope to come.

And I’ve taken a break from writing, a chosen fast really, because of “making” that needed to take place in my life.  Hurts, cynicism, and bitterness that needed to be walked into.  Reconciliation that needed to be sought.

And right in the middle of it, I took a night to make biscuits.

One of my favorite quotes from my Grammy is “Making biscuits is not for someone who minds getting their hands dirty.”  and goodness is that so true.  I mixed the batter with my hands, folding in the right ingredients.  I spread flour all over my counter and dumped batter into lumps.  I folded the lumps of batter in the flour until they resembled a ball and placed them on a pan to be baked.  My hands, shirt, and honestly hair were covered in flour and dough, but those biscuits were delicious.

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As I was walking through the process thinking how messy it was, I started to wonder if I was doing it right, but remembered countless times watching my Grammy or my Dad make biscuits, knowing this messiness, as wrong as it felt was right.  It was what making biscuits took.


I don’t think I take enough time to recognize the weight of what it means that Jesus took on flesh to be in the “making” with us.  That He “didn’t consider equality something to be grasped”.

This week, that same pastor shared a story of a lady who was running in the Boston Marathon when the bombing took place.  She was running and when the bombs exploded, some scrap metal flew into her legs.  She immediately fell to the ground, hysterically crying.  Many tried to console or help her but she was inconsolably in pain, crying out for help that no one around her could provide.

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A man walked up who had served in Iraq who also had wounds from scrap metal.  He walked up, showed her his side, and said something to her and her screaming quieted.

Her pain didn’t go away.  But He got it.  He knew the pain too.


I think if I were God, I would do everything in the world to keep my kids out of the “making” process.  I would just want them to be born, made totally new.  Which was His plan.  But even as we ruined it, as we thought we could figure out how to care for ourselves better than Him, He didn’t abandon us.

He entered the making.  He was brought low, felt pain, grief, hunger, betrayal, temptation, and His journey home felt never ending.  When He was in the Garden crying, “Lord, take this cup from me.”  He knew his journey home still had many trials to come.  But He was wounded in the making to be with us in it.

And as He is making, refining, sanctifying, and reminding me of my emptiness, I’m reminding myself that He is wounded too.  That as I am crying out hysterically to be done, to be out of pain, that He continues to reveal His wounds.  His wounds that bring me grace I can never deserve.  And as the journey home continues to be endless, I press on knowing that the making He is doing in “preparing a place for me” is better than I could ever ask or imagine.

 

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Hey there.  Thanks so much for reading.  My name is Emily Katherine and I’d love to get to know you.  Feel free to comment below or click the FOLLOW button to stay in touch.