The story of our lives

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time talking about my father. I’ve written a lot of words about him, too. But I don’t know how much I actually remember.

It was 16 days before my 16th birthday when he went to heaven. That was 28 years ago, today. Sounds like a long time when I say it out loud, but that day — that day still seems like it was this week. I remember what I was wearing when I found him. I remember what I did as soon as I knew: I ran out the back door of the house and into the back yard, screaming obscenities, trying to make myself cry. I don’t really recall a lot after that; the days that followed, or even the funeral.

Those memories play back like scenes from television reruns. Bits and pieces seem clear, but most of the dialogue is paraphrased, muffled, or blurred.

I do remember his mustache – how it would disappear into his coffee cup and how it stung my face when he kissed me goodnight or gave me a “zerbert” before school. I remember his laugh. And I remember his eyes.

He had happy eyes.

I remember throwing the football with him. Once, maybe. We played a lot of football, but I only really remember that one time, in the front yard. I remember the Willow Tree that indicated a touchdown. Maybe it was a Dogwood.

I remember that my dad ran a lot. He was a marathon runner, actually. But I don’t have a clear memory of him actually running. Not a single one.

My dad loved Jesus, and he loved to tell people about how God had changed his life. After he got sick, he was even more excited and vocal about God’s love and grace. I remember getting frustrated about that. I was a healthy, confused, and pissed off teenager.

And he was about to die with those happy eyes.

I didn’t get it back then. I do now.

My story is full of major and minor characters who have impacted me in one way or another. Like the lady I saw in the checkout line at Wal-Mart this weekend. She was a minor character. True, I will not soon forget the chain she had connected to rings in her ear and her nose, but she simply made an impression. My father, on the other hand, was a major character. Someone around whom the plot of my story has been cast. He helped shape me, mold me, guide me, and direct me to where my story will ultimately lead.

I’m getting to a point, I promise.

We all have a unique opportunity to help shape the people around us. Every day we’re here. The things we do and the memories we create – no matter how faded or heightened they become over time – can make a real, meaningful, and forever-difference in the stories of folks we love.

And here’s the really great part: We don’t have to do great, big things to make a difference.

I got cut from my school’s basketball team in eighth grade, and I was devastated. Truth be told, I should have been cut because I wasn’t very good. But my dad knew I was upset, and he ached with me. Later on that day, he proceeded to give me one of the the single, greatest gifts he ever gave me. That night, after I had gone to bed, he wrote me a note. It was scribbled, and hard to make out because he had to write it with his left hand.

He was born right-handed, but the disease he had rendered his right arm useless. So, he sat down at the kitchen table that night and wrote this with his left:

Today is going to be a great day. 

It’s your day. No one and nothing can make your day anything other than what you want it to be. If the weather calls for rain, decide now that you will enjoy being wet. If the test score is low, work hard to make sure the next one is higher. If treated unfairly for something, smile and be thankful for the many things you’ve not been caught for. 

Attitude is everything. Today is not yet anything. Fill it with laughter.

—Dad 

I kept that note for a long time. Somewhere along the way, I lost the original, but the idea of that note – and the words he wrote – have stuck with me. Hardly a week goes by that I don’t think about him and what he must’ve been going through when he took the time to encourage me and reveal some truth about what really matters. It was such a simple act. But the mark it made on me is indelible.

Talk about perspective! Now, I may not remember all the details of my relationship with the man I called “Dad,” but I hope the life he helped shape can become a meaningful character in the story of others. What about your day today will be remembered? More important, what about your life today will shape the people around you?

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3 Comments

  1. I have done a good bit of reading in my 68 years, and I don’t recall any words having had a greater impact on me than these. I knew your dad to be quite a wordsmith. He had the most winsome sense of humor. To be so extraordinary, he was so uniquely humble.

    I suspect that his attributes live on in you in an astounding way. This is truly a beautiful piece in style, in tone, and most importantly, in content. If you write a book…and you should…the title needs to be “Today is Not Yet Anything.”

    Your words went down so smoothly and then thundered through my soul. Few writers have that ability to quietly rock the reader’s life view. You have it in spades! Where can I find more of your pieces?

  2. Ridiculously high praise coming from you. You just made my whole week. Thank you. I just reread the post for the first time since writing it (because I thought maybe you made a mistake and commented on the wrong guy’s blog). I appreciate you overlooking some of the grammar mistakes and poor word choice. And I thank you for your encouragement.

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