My Daddy

I grew up with a man whose heart is as tender as they come. I was a firecracker of a kid, and he knew just how to handle me. Mom was a fly-off-the-handle type. Big spanking and it’s all over. But not Dad. First he’d send me to my room. Then, after an appropriate pause, he’d come and sit on the edge of the bed. Before he even opened his mouth, I’d be crying because of the sorrow in his eyes. He’d sit quietly for a minute. “I’m so disappointed.” That’s all it took. I’d be weeping with remorse.

When I brought home my report card with less than A’s, he’d look at it, then at me. He’d ask questions. We both knew I could make A’s easily at the public school I attended. He never got angry. Just explained what he expected. And I wanted to please him. I wanted him to be proud. My academic success is largely due to that desire.

Dad always bragged about his kids. He’d introduce me to his friends, then go into a glowing report of all my “talents.” I’d smile patiently. I knew his friends didn’t really want to hear it, but they knew Dad and loved who he was. They understood that he loved his family enough to die for us. They enjoyed his enthusiasm and knew he meant every word. We knew it too. We grew up confident.

When I tried on my wedding dress at home, my mom said, “Don’t let your father see you.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t let him.”

On my wedding day, I understood. Dad walked me down the aisle. Then, before he gave me away, George sang to me. I was smiling at George, then glanced at Dad. Tears were streaming down his face. I looked away quickly. Didn’t want to melt down right there at the front of the church. For years, every time Dad heard the song George sang, he cried.

When the kids were six, four, and two, we moved from Texas to Virginia. We borrowed Dad’s Suburban to pull the trailer. The day we left, he stood in the driveway, weeping silently. As we turned onto the street, George looked back at him and started to cry, too. “I’m breaking your father’s heart,” he said. “I’m taking his daughter and grandchildren half-way across the country, and I’m killing him.”

I didn’t know what to say. The two men I love most are the most tender-hearted men on the planet.

My Daddy still cries sometimes when we say good-bye. Some men might think it’s a sign of weakness. But, to me, he’s the picture of masculinity. A man of wisdom, devotion, and sacrificial love.

I need to close this now. I want to go call my dad.