Adam and I have the same birthday.
So do our dads.
I know, it's weird.
His
The first time I came to Seattle, Adam and I had been friends for a long time but we were newly dating. His parents were friendly and hospitable and played tour guide for us. His dad, Linn, kissed me good-bye when I left.
Which was really sort of startling.
Adam hadn't kissed me yet.
But it was really Linn. As I learned as time passed, that is the sort of person Linn is. He takes people into his realm of kindheartedness and makes you feel welcome.
It's been a blessing in my life to live near Linn. In the woeful proximity of my own dad, he is the one to turn to for advice on practical matters and he is the one that selflessly gives aid.
But (I know, I know) it's not all about me. Grandfather is the role Linn was destined to play. He is just really, really good at it. And children know it. Even unrelated children in his neighborhood.
He's the kind of grandpa that let toddlers crawl over him on the floor, devises fun, stocks snacks, listens to long and endless tales, and taught Braeden to play chess. None of them, as old as they get, will ever doubt their grandpa loved them.
And what a gift that is.
Now, in the face of serious illness, my admiration for Linn has only deepened. He has met his challenges with grace and composure. He always has a smile to give and an ear to lend to a chatty grandchild.
And we feel blessed.
The first time I came to Seattle, Adam and I had been friends for a long time but we were newly dating. His parents were friendly and hospitable and played tour guide for us. His dad, Linn, kissed me good-bye when I left.
Which was really sort of startling.
Adam hadn't kissed me yet.
But it was really Linn. As I learned as time passed, that is the sort of person Linn is. He takes people into his realm of kindheartedness and makes you feel welcome.
It's been a blessing in my life to live near Linn. In the woeful proximity of my own dad, he is the one to turn to for advice on practical matters and he is the one that selflessly gives aid.
But (I know, I know) it's not all about me. Grandfather is the role Linn was destined to play. He is just really, really good at it. And children know it. Even unrelated children in his neighborhood.
He's the kind of grandpa that let toddlers crawl over him on the floor, devises fun, stocks snacks, listens to long and endless tales, and taught Braeden to play chess. None of them, as old as they get, will ever doubt their grandpa loved them.
And what a gift that is.
Now, in the face of serious illness, my admiration for Linn has only deepened. He has met his challenges with grace and composure. He always has a smile to give and an ear to lend to a chatty grandchild.
And we feel blessed.
Hers
When I was quite young, back when he had cattle to run, I'd help my dad (which I did before my brothers came along and I had to go inside and do girl things with my mom), he'd tell me, "Thanks for the good help," when we were done. Five words that would make me float into the house on a cloud of happiness.
I was good help to my dad.
(I probably wasn't but what difference does that make?)
Once we were riding and my dad instructed me to ride one way on my poky old horse, South Dakota Pete, and gather the cows towards him and he was headed the other direction on a much younger and faster horse. South Dakota Pete stepped in one of the large holes that peppered the field, dug by some animals. This spooked the horse and he took off at a dead run across the field (I didn't think he had it in him). I was hanging on for dear life...too afraid to even cry out for help. Suddenly, coming up behind me on my right side I saw my dad riding his big black horse, Liberty. He quickly overtook my poor steed and reached down and grabbed the reins. South Dakota Pete came to a slower trot then eventually a walk.
All of the hero worship I'd hitherto had for my tall handsome dad intensified on that day. He had saved me. I firmly believed he always would.
Years later, one heartbroken morning, I wouldn't get out of bed. It was about a boy. My mom sent my dad upstairs to talk to me and he did. And I got up. And felt better.
That's what it was like growing up with my dad.
He quietly went about saving the day and teaching me lessons by his example.
When I was going to seminary (about the only time I was up that early), I'd always find my dad reading in the living room. Reading the scriptures.
My dad is a bit and spur maker and felt the relentless press of starting his own business while raising six children with big appetites and crooked teeth that needed braces. He'd work from before breakfast until after dinner. Except for on Sunday.
And usually, when he was walking to or from his shop (that was happily steps away from our house giving us Access to our dad), he'd be whistling. I never once had the feeling he resented all that hard work.
Or that he didn't welcome me when I went into his shop to have him fix something/take out a sliver/tell me I was OK even though I didn't feel like I was. (He would always tell me that I should get some shoes on but then he'd take out the slivers.)
My dad.
Unfortunately, I can't slip (barefoot) into my dad's shop now whenever I have a crisis.
I can call him though. And I do. I tell him my troubles. I ask for his advice. I ask him What is Right.
And he tells me. And I feel better.
This picture has nothing to do with anything but I like it. It's a picture of my dad...as a rodeo clown..well before I was born.
I was good help to my dad.
(I probably wasn't but what difference does that make?)
Once we were riding and my dad instructed me to ride one way on my poky old horse, South Dakota Pete, and gather the cows towards him and he was headed the other direction on a much younger and faster horse. South Dakota Pete stepped in one of the large holes that peppered the field, dug by some animals. This spooked the horse and he took off at a dead run across the field (I didn't think he had it in him). I was hanging on for dear life...too afraid to even cry out for help. Suddenly, coming up behind me on my right side I saw my dad riding his big black horse, Liberty. He quickly overtook my poor steed and reached down and grabbed the reins. South Dakota Pete came to a slower trot then eventually a walk.
All of the hero worship I'd hitherto had for my tall handsome dad intensified on that day. He had saved me. I firmly believed he always would.
Years later, one heartbroken morning, I wouldn't get out of bed. It was about a boy. My mom sent my dad upstairs to talk to me and he did. And I got up. And felt better.
That's what it was like growing up with my dad.
He quietly went about saving the day and teaching me lessons by his example.
When I was going to seminary (about the only time I was up that early), I'd always find my dad reading in the living room. Reading the scriptures.
My dad is a bit and spur maker and felt the relentless press of starting his own business while raising six children with big appetites and crooked teeth that needed braces. He'd work from before breakfast until after dinner. Except for on Sunday.
And usually, when he was walking to or from his shop (that was happily steps away from our house giving us Access to our dad), he'd be whistling. I never once had the feeling he resented all that hard work.
Or that he didn't welcome me when I went into his shop to have him fix something/take out a sliver/tell me I was OK even though I didn't feel like I was. (He would always tell me that I should get some shoes on but then he'd take out the slivers.)
My dad.
Unfortunately, I can't slip (barefoot) into my dad's shop now whenever I have a crisis.
I can call him though. And I do. I tell him my troubles. I ask for his advice. I ask him What is Right.
And he tells me. And I feel better.
This picture has nothing to do with anything but I like it. It's a picture of my dad...as a rodeo clown..well before I was born.
3 comments:
You lucky, lucky girl. :)
Oops. That was from me, Janet. :)
Nicely done.
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