Dragged ourselves home from the wedding (more on that later) late late last night, intending to have a home day and begin the monstrous job of painting the barn.  But I woke up feeling this need to be with my dad and the kids, in a rare show of solidarity, decided that they must be with cousins today and even Dan concurred knowing full well that my mom would put out a yummy spread and that he’d be able to watch the Tiger’s game while Lucy slept and everyone else was down at the beach.  
And at lunch over our Lipton burgers with everything on them, but especially green olives, crisp bacon and raw onions, we told stories about my dad.  Mostly funny, but also sweet like the time my Chemistry professor, whose class I was failing spectacularly in, accused me of cheating and I went back to my dorm utterly defeated and so sad and sure I was going to be expelled which would cause the world to stop and preclude me from ever finding gainful employment.  And the worst part was the part where the professor didn’t believe me.  Me.  And the very next day a dozen roses were delivered to my dorm with a card from my dad that said, I believe in you.  And that, combined with the fact that the other girl confessed and cleared my name, made my heart all better.  We both failed incidentally.  That poor stupid girl picked the very worst student to copy.  But the point is his sweetness and willingness to believe in me and so many many other wonderful things that make up my dad.  Like his sense of humor and stunning good looks (both of which I’ve inherited) and the way that he adjusts his watch when he’s telling a story, especially one about Uncle Ted, and his absolute willingness to drop everything and come.  Just come.  To school to pick me up when I had “the episode”, even though I was grown up (sort of), and whenever I’ve been in the E.R. or had a crappy day or when I’ve called on a whim and said, coffee? (which I do far too infrequently).  When my anxiety was crippling me and I couldn’t leave the house, he came and sat and was just there.  I can picture him sitting on the purple couch, telling Ted stories and making me feel safe.  He is good at that.
But the best thing is the way he follows the wild call of the Holy Spirit even when it doesn’t make sense.  His submission had taught me far more about Jesus than anything else.  He is good at that too and it’s not because he was born that way, but because he’s always practicing, always learning.  Trying to make Jesus look good.  And it’s working.  So well.
When my mom prayed this noon she praised God for raising up the next generation of men who are trying to follow Jesus and train their children to do the same and I realized it’s true.  This family is nearly bursting with blessings.  From Brad who is constantly checking the danger quotient of each activity because his adores his boys and would die if anything happened to them to Tony who dropped his life for eight days last week when his son’s school asked him to accompany them on Max’s trip the very night before they left, to Dan who counts a perfect Father’s Day as one in which Lucy fell asleep on his chest and he could feel her little nearly one year old heart beat as he cheered his Tigers on to victory, these men are the chosen partners for three women whose dad set the bar really high.  And they measure up.  There is not a man on this earth better suited to raising these four children with me than Dan.  No one I’d rather be in the trenches with.  I am so blessed.  Happy Father’s Day to these men I love.


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