Dear Dad,
Here it is, another birthday, another year on the earth, full of sermons and lessons and Bible studies and cabinetry and travel and family visits. It would be nice to stop time for awhile so we could all come down together and celebrate it with you, catch up on all the things you've done and seen, all the new friends you've made, all the old friends you've kept up with, all the joys and sorrows you've experienced. It isn't the same hearing about it all from so many miles away; there's something about hearing it from your own voice. Even when we do get a chance to hear it, there's still a tinge of wistfulness knowing that we only get to see you now and then, here and again, whenever we manage to find ourselves in the same place at the same time.
But I think about you all the time, even more so now than ever before as the years have gone by, as I've been watching my own children growing up and leaving, starting their own lives, remembering the years we spent trying to raise them up, hoping all the lessons we taught were actually making a difference, worrying about them even though we know God is watching out for them. It makes me wonder about the thoughts that were going through your head when you were watching your own children move on, move out, how the worry doesn't really stop but becomes different somehow, knowing that you can't be there for every moment, every instance. You miss some things, you hear about a lot of things second-hand, you wonder when you'll see them again face-to-face.
These last two years as we've worked on the basement, it felt as though you were right here beside me, talking me through all the things I needed to do. I could never do as good a job as you do, but your voice was in my ear the entire time, the memories of how you taught me to work with my hands, the skills you taught me, the hints and tips and methods that enabled me to do things that a lot of my peers can't do. Every time the sawdust fills the air, every time the blade cuts clean through a two-by-four, every time the corners turn out straight, I think of you.
Working on these cars, the memories come flooding back of how you taught me to tear those engines down and put them back together, how you'd have me help with the brakes, the timing, the tuning, and everything else that smells of oil and grease and gasoline. The joy of watching you and Bill working on those old VWs, how patient and kind you were to each other, that camaraderie, the aroma of his coffee (and your tea!), and the satisfaction of putting something together that actually worked.
For all the years I've been teaching in Sunday School, putting together lesson plans and creating activities and games and drawing maps and making lists and helping the kids to remember the books of the Bible, I am always reminded of your passion for teaching and how much joy you received from passing on your wisdom and knowledge to others, especially the younger folks. It is my passion as well, and I credit you with passing it down to the next generation. And I want you to know that I am striving to pass it on to the next generation as well, with some success.
As my favorite book says:
Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.
[Proverbs 22:6]
I hope and pray that you have a wonderful, joyous birthday.
I love you!
Rob
p.s. Cheryl and the kids say Happy Birthday, too!
Here it is, another birthday, another year on the earth, full of sermons and lessons and Bible studies and cabinetry and travel and family visits. It would be nice to stop time for awhile so we could all come down together and celebrate it with you, catch up on all the things you've done and seen, all the new friends you've made, all the old friends you've kept up with, all the joys and sorrows you've experienced. It isn't the same hearing about it all from so many miles away; there's something about hearing it from your own voice. Even when we do get a chance to hear it, there's still a tinge of wistfulness knowing that we only get to see you now and then, here and again, whenever we manage to find ourselves in the same place at the same time.
But I think about you all the time, even more so now than ever before as the years have gone by, as I've been watching my own children growing up and leaving, starting their own lives, remembering the years we spent trying to raise them up, hoping all the lessons we taught were actually making a difference, worrying about them even though we know God is watching out for them. It makes me wonder about the thoughts that were going through your head when you were watching your own children move on, move out, how the worry doesn't really stop but becomes different somehow, knowing that you can't be there for every moment, every instance. You miss some things, you hear about a lot of things second-hand, you wonder when you'll see them again face-to-face.
These last two years as we've worked on the basement, it felt as though you were right here beside me, talking me through all the things I needed to do. I could never do as good a job as you do, but your voice was in my ear the entire time, the memories of how you taught me to work with my hands, the skills you taught me, the hints and tips and methods that enabled me to do things that a lot of my peers can't do. Every time the sawdust fills the air, every time the blade cuts clean through a two-by-four, every time the corners turn out straight, I think of you.
Working on these cars, the memories come flooding back of how you taught me to tear those engines down and put them back together, how you'd have me help with the brakes, the timing, the tuning, and everything else that smells of oil and grease and gasoline. The joy of watching you and Bill working on those old VWs, how patient and kind you were to each other, that camaraderie, the aroma of his coffee (and your tea!), and the satisfaction of putting something together that actually worked.
For all the years I've been teaching in Sunday School, putting together lesson plans and creating activities and games and drawing maps and making lists and helping the kids to remember the books of the Bible, I am always reminded of your passion for teaching and how much joy you received from passing on your wisdom and knowledge to others, especially the younger folks. It is my passion as well, and I credit you with passing it down to the next generation. And I want you to know that I am striving to pass it on to the next generation as well, with some success.
As my favorite book says:
Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it.
[Proverbs 22:6]
I hope and pray that you have a wonderful, joyous birthday.
I love you!
Rob
p.s. Cheryl and the kids say Happy Birthday, too!
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