dear dad,

That day we first met - August 17, 1986 - you were nearly two years younger than I am today.

I can't imagine what was going through you head the first moment you held me - hopefully one day I will have my own understanding of that moment.

As children you were that man that wore white and taught each of us the fine art of sleeping.  Not much could be better than an afternoon nap with you.  I was slightly scared of you but adored you to no end.  I admired your intelligence.  You were so studious.  I tried to convince you at three that I could read the story of little red hen.  The gig was promptly up when you pointed to a page and asked to me read a word for you and I had no clue what it said. 

I admired the way you could rock Josiah (or was it Lewis) to sleep. 

The scar on your arm always held a deep admiration.  You stood by me in the hospital when the doctors lied to me and counted to twenty-five as I cried and screamed in pain as they solidified my biggest scar - all forty stitches of it.

You brought home appliance boxes and fashioned them into incredible "forts".
You were always getting the gum out of my fine blonde hair - by peanut butter or scissors.

On street corners and in prayer meetings I learned of your passion and longing for our Divine Father.  Through your example I learned the importance of sharing His great Love with strangers.  You also showed us by example to hold sacred the family which you were entrusted.

You taught me that real men cry.
You taught me the importance of tenderheartedness.

A deep sense of responsibility and respect was always present in your home.  That respect was to be maintained for each other, for our home, and the animals we shared it with.  Even the loss of a stray kitten hit on the road was mourned.

When you said you would do something - you did it.  I remember being very young and it was a very small task that you said you would do with me and you turned down an offer from someone else to do this mundane task with me.  I felt so lucky. 

You always filled our house with music.  Even now you just lay in bed and listen to it in the dark.  I watched as tears came to your eyes listening to a brother's Choir Christmas concert.  In that moment you showed me what it meant to allow the beauty to touch my soul.  I always feel honored when you request music from my collection to play or when I found a CD of mine in your car's player - to think that I could have inspired you.  You have always been my inspiration.

I knew you could draw - every once in a while you would take up a pencil and replicate the face of one of your children on paper.  Once we moved to Wakarusa your work expanded to all around us.  It was in that wall you built, the fish-pond you dug, or the brick path you laid.  And then, you would always do something so strange, you would just sit there.  You would sit by the pond or in the yard next the grass you just mowed or the grape arbor you had built and just take it all in.

You taught me to sit still.

There was so much sitting still on that day a few years ago when I took you to the hospital.  It was your peace and resolve that I held in my heart as we faced the unknown when they said you had a mass.  It was the peace that I held as I slept in the chair next to you in recovery and as I helped you walk down the hall.  But it was the humor that got us all through it.  Your insane sense of humor.

You taught me what it really means to tell a joke.

It means getting this crazy pent up look on your face and then telling it as your hands flutter like a bird getting ready to take off and it always ends with a giant robust whole body laugh and a wicked grin.  Your sense of humor - kookie.  You should take pride in the fact that some of your sons have inherited this trait.  Seeing a whole group of you giggling at a party is usually a sign of the jokes to come.

It is that same sense of humor that douses all of your artistic work.  You have taught us so much in these years you have been learning.  You learned that bad grades happen and then taught us a new sense of understanding in our scholastic shortcomings.  You learned that your work is never going to be like anyone else's so it is more important to just be authentic and make something you like.

Authenticity.  You have definitely taught me that.  When you would not so whisper a comment in public that was not meant for the world to hear, that is when I had to learn that you will always be you-er than you and maybe I should be too.  (I'm still learning that one.)

In high school you made me make you a promise.  I promised that when I was older that I would still include you.  You wanted to know that we would still hang out when we were both adults. 


Well, Dad. You know that I always will.  You are always in every moment that I feel love.  I know you miss us in this time as we reshuffle our lives in the transformation from children to adults.  I know you are just as excited at the beauty the future will bring as we are.  It was only a few days ago that Mom's relaying messages about Sam and Laura's wedding plans brought tears to your eyes.  We know how excited you are to have a daughter-in-law.  We know how excited you are to see the love that you and Mom put into us be shared.

It's your tenderheartedness, your sense of responsibility and strength, your eye for beauty, your amazing humor, your passion, your authenticity, your appreciation, and your love that is in me and each of your sons.  I can't think of any other greater love a man could have for his children than giving them this legacy. 

Thank you Dad.

Love,

your Sharon Rose