It Wasn’t Until Years After My Father’s Death that I Truly Began to Realize the Many Gifts He Gave Me

Oh, I was always grateful for him and his wisdom — It’s just that lately I’ve begun to see him with greater clarity.

I was an adult when a massive stroke took down the gruff World War II veteran that was my father.

In that regard, I consider myself lucky. Too many people lose the significance that comes with the guidance of a strong parent figure as children, thereby being forever robbed of a critical relationship that leaves a gaping hole at some level.

I am fortunate to have plenty of memories to sustain me for the rest of my life.

And, at this point in time, I have to say he was a gift that gave me enough strength and wisdom to carry on into adulthood.

Before I paint a picture of the perfect “Father Knows Best” type of patriarchal figure, please understand that I was, and am, quite capable of seeing the flaws and cracks in that rugged exterior.

As I said, my dad was a World War II veteran. He enlisted at the age of 31, with a wife and two year old daughter (my sister) at home. He enlisted because he chose to heed a call to be something larger than himself.

Sadly, my dad rarely talked about his two years in the South Pacific, at war with Japan. He was on a Navy vessel that he referred to as a “garbage truck.” The vessel would show up after a battle and gather the remnants of war — dog tags, weapons, supplies and, yes, bodies.

What sort of mark must that experience have left on his psyche?

If he were alive today, I promise I would have tried much harder to pursue the depths of what must have been a tortured soul.

When he returned home, he and my mother had two more children, born at opposite ends of the same year. It would be much more than a decade before child #4 — Me — would arrive on the scene.

I know for a fact that my three older siblings had very different relationships with my dad than I did.

The father they grew up with was still processing the pain and anger that he, no doubt, carried with him. My dad could be loud — very loud — and angry. I’m guessing he drank much more in those early years after the war (a habit he immediately discarded the day my brother came home and announced his intention to enter the seminary and become a pastor).

The father I came to know had mellowed — somewhat — thus giving me a gentler view of his inner workings.

My earliest memory, I think, occurred when I was very young. I was coloring with a crayon held in my left hand. My dad took the crayon out of my left hand and put it in my right hand. I immediately transferred it back to my left hand. He repeated the transfer. I repeated the transfer back to my left hand.

He stood back, laughing — realizing that his little girl was a “south paw.”

I have memories of being five or six years old and going for a walk with my dad. He picked up a couple of those little “helicopter” type of seed pods that come floating down from maple trees. He split open the sticky seed part of the pod and we stuck them on our noses — playing rhinoceros, running around like crazy fools.

Now, while these memories are cute and delightful, there are also memories of lessons learned that I know shaped my character forever — and for better.

Again, at the age of six, I was standing outside our house with my dad. The man who owned the house my parents rented was doing some much needed restoration on one of the support walls in the front of the house.

The man indicated to my dad that he could really use a certain type of wrench on this project and he knew that my dad could obtain one from where he worked. His implication being that my dad would simply take this tool when no one was looking and no one would be the wiser.

I don’t remember what my dad said in that instance, but I do remember that me and my dad made a trip to the local hardware store where my dad showed me a display of various tools. He said we would buy the tool in question. He took me to the register where we purchased it.

We returned home and my dad, with me still right by his side, gave the tool to this man and told him he bought the tool and would give it to him as his contribution to the project.

My father was not a thief and he was not going to allow his daughter to see him as such. He made sure I was witness to every phase of this interaction with someone with less integrity than he wanted his own daughter to possess.

Fast forward a number of years. I was about one year into what would end up being a decades long career in corporate America. My company was offering me my first stock option.

I was young, naive, and believing that my relatively modest salary would never be enough to sustain me and my wants and desires, let alone allow enough extra money to purchase stock.

After all, I saw a long stretch of employable years ahead of me — plenty of time to build my financial reserves (did I mention I was naive?)

My dad put in his two cents worth on the topic. He told me that his company had a similar type of offering but he was unable to participate because of the financial obligations of a wife and four children. If he had participated, he explained, he could have accumulated a substantial nest egg.

He also said that while I might miss the extra money out of my paycheck initially, with future raises I would soon forget about this relatively small deduction and never miss it.

Still uncertain of how to proceed, I chose to take his advice and sign up for the stock.

Let me just say that now, well into retirement, the dividends I reap from that stock make it look like there is someone in my household with an actual job. At the end of each calendar quarter, I still say, “Thanks, dad.”

My dad also knew when not to speak. I will go to my grave believing that my parents were probably not overwhelmingly thrilled with my choice of a first husband (ultimately taken far too young by an ugly disease).

While he was a good person, treated me well, and respected my parents, he lacked the level of ambition that I’m sure my parents found disappointing in the man they hoped I would marry.

He said nothing about my decision to marry but I will always believe the tears on his cheeks at my wedding were not just the tears of happiness/sadness that most fathers shed when they lose their little girl.

Sadly, neither of my parents lived to meet the man I would eventually marry after my period of widowhood. Their faith in me would have been restored.

At the end of the day, I lost my dad before I fully understood his gifts and definitely before I could ever hope to tell him that I reached some level of understanding.

I just hope that some how, some way, he knew.

If you enjoyed this article, perhaps you would like to check out a few of my other thoughts on living and growing in a rich, full, vital life.