Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Every day I think of you and pray for you.

Every day I thank the Lord for His tremendous gift of provision and grace in His design for you to be my father.

Every day I try to live up to a standard that would make you proud of me.

Every day when I see the faces of my kids, I thank the Lord for “the fervent prayers of a righteous man.”

Every day that I have to shave my legs I think of you. ;o)

Every day I am proud of who you are—for your service in the military, your devotion to my mom, and your faithfulness to our God, whom you taught me to love.

Every day I look at the American flag and know that the great respect I have for it and our country I learned from you.

Every day at some point I laugh, and I think of all the times you’ve made me smile and laugh out loud.

And every time Father’s Day rolls around, I get out my simple pencil and try for the life of me to make a mere card explain what my heart can’t even command. I can only hope to love you well every day and to thank you once again for the gift of loving me so well. Through the years you’ve sacrificed & cared for, taught, disciplined, given generously to, befriended, counseled, driven, prayed for, and loved me oh-so-very-well. Trust that these words are sincere and offered in humblest gratitude.

You are the truest friend and the priceless reflection of my Heavenly Father. You are the reason I can trust Him, because you showed me that a father is trustworthy. You are the reason I can love & be loved by Him, because you showed me that I can love & be loved. I am blessed because of you. I love you, Dad.

May Sarton

I found this poem by May Sarton that I had to perform for an oral interpretation class in college, (yes, I went to a four-year college, Tina =). I love it for the sentiment toward her father. It's entitled "A Celebration For George Sarton" from her book Selected Poems of May Sarton.  I even got an A.  Don't know if it's punctuated the way she wrote it because I typed it out with all the pauses, stops, and inflection to read it the way I wanted to the class. I keep losing this old typed copy, so I wanted to put it in a place where I can always find it.

I never saw my father old.
I never saw my father cold.
His stride, staccato vital.
His talk struck from pure metal, simple as gold.
And all his learning only to light a passion's burning.
So beaming like a less god,
He bounced upon the earth he trod,
and people marveled on the street at this stout man's impetuous feet.

Loved donkeys, children, awkward ducks,
Loved to retell old, simple jokes.
Lived in a world of innocence where
loneliness could be intense.
Wrote letters until very late,
found comfort in an orange cat.
Rufus and George exchanged no word,
but while George worked, his Rufus purred
and neighbors looked up at his light,
warmed by the scholar working late.

I never saw my father passive.
He was electrically massive (a little marvel).
He never hurried, so he said,
and yet a fire burned in his head.
He worked as poets work--for love--
and gathered in a world alive
while black and white above his door
spoke mystery, the avatar,
an Arabic inscription flowed like singing
"In the Name of God."

And when he died, he died so swift,
his death was like a final gift.
He went out when the tide was full,
still undiminished, bountiful:
The scholar and the gentle soul,
the passion and the life were whole
and now death's wake is only praise
as when a neighbor writes and says,
"I did not know your father, but his light was there.

I miss the light."