My dad spoke Kid — even Adult Kid. He knew that in challenging times, an "I'll be OK" from my brother or me really meant, "Stick with me." Even when unsure of exactly what to do, he would just show up. I do not mean he would move in or plant on our couch — I mean that he would help us come up with a game plan, and then call every three hours even if just to say, "I love you." In Kid, these calls translated into: "You are not alone."
He practiced the gospel of the "FUNdamentals," as he wrote the term he preached from our first lacrosse toss in the backyard and through his team dad years. Behind-the-back shots and fancy dodges did not impress. Rather, showing up and doing the fundamentals well, day in and day out, even when the wind was blowing against you — that was greatness. And so is the story of his parenting.
While my dad was a scrappy athlete and a hardworking businessman, I am struck by how he practiced and played hardest at loving his children. In our culture, we speak explicitly of studying hard in school, practicing hard on athletic fields or in dance studios, and working hard at our careers; on this Father's Day, I am thankful for those who teach us to practice and play hardest at love. A creative arsenal helps.
Some might struggle to see love in the rockets my dad fired at us at net across the tennis court. If we wanted to return them, we had to keep our eyes open and step forward into the fire. With each return, we stood higher and stronger, our smiles widening. We laughed and called it target practice. He laughed and called it life.
Our culture can be filled with bombarding distractions — busy schedules with little breathing room, life in different time zones, and fears of not knowing what to say, so saying nothing. We are refreshed when instinct pierces this fog.
When I was little, I wanted to swim across a lake that was almost a mile long, but I was scared to do it alone. I looked up, and my dad intuitively responded that he would dive in with me. He did dive in, and then floated — yes, floated — the whole way, buoyed by his spirit.
My dad was not perfect, far from it. Some even thought he was crazy. But his efforts were always stronger than his imperfections. His own fears, confusions and mistakes smacked of the human. His actions in response to them, though, hinted at the divine.
My dad did not know how to cook, but that did not stop him from hosting Thanksgiving one year. He was previously of the sort who thought turkey came from the cold case, or from my mom (kind of like my brother and me). Determined this time around, he Googled "brining," interviewed the Graul's meat attendants, and then got started. He emailed us hourly updates, detailing his rapidly evolving understanding of brining, until we could arrive to witness the miracle ourselves.
He attended a church that fed his soul but passed harsh judgment on same-sex couples. This meant they were talking about me, the crazy female version of my dad. One Sunday, when the minister asked the congregation what had been difficult in the past week, my dad raised his hand. He spoke: "It is difficult for me to understand the church's position that a loving God would deem sinful a loving relationship like the one my daughter has been in for so many years." I was not the only person to thank him.
Dad has been gone a little over a year. I will show up and work hard at learning how to love over a distance much greater than the drive up to Timonium. I might have to float, interpret, pray and be nourished by him to get there. And it may be next Thanksgiving before I arrive, but I will keep trying. It is the craziest route I have ever travelled, but I will follow the buoys he left in his wake.
Alli Harper lives in Baltimore. Her email is alliharper13@gmail.com.