This week, I returned from a two-week adventure in the outdoors. We took the occasional break in a hotel room, but we stayed at three different campsites that took us on a loop through northern Idaho and into western Montana. I posted some pictures on my social networking sites, some of which were playful and in good humor, while others were serious and reflective. I definitely received the typical razzing I would expect from friends as they commented on the “glamping” I was doing in a camper loaned to us for the trip (what a blessing!), the Crocs I was wearing, and the Dora the Explorer lawn chair that belongs to my daughter. I received those jokes with joy.
But for me, this camping trip was deeply personal. This trip was about my dad.
The personal nature of this trip was planned and intentional; I was mentally engaged in this trip from the outset. It was not something that snuck up on me. My dad and I are similar and different (as I’m sure is the case with most all of us). I have some things about me that are dead ringers for my father, but our personalities are — in many ways — miles apart. My dad was always a man’s man as I grew up. He loves to build and fix things and work with his hands. My dad seems to be most at home when he has power tools in his hands, or when he’s under the hood of a car. As far as I know, this has always been true about him.
This has never been true about me. No, I seem to have the reverse feeling regarding things I build. I’m always slightly scared of power tools (a bad combination with my ignorance). And when I fix things, there’s an irrefutable law of the universe I deal with I call “Marty’s Law”; Marty’s Law is similar to Murphy’s, except it has an added financial component: If something can go wrong, it will — and it’s going to cost you exponentially more money.
I hate working on cars because I’m horrible at it and very impatient. I don’t like building things because of my incompetence. And the only power tool that ever felt comfortable for me is my brain. My poor dad had to have his only son prefer an encyclopedia to radial arm saw.
You see, I went on this camping trip partially because it’s one of the things I remember my dad doing with us as a family when I was young. And while I might not be able to fix your car or build you a bookshelf — dang it, I can camp. So I set out to do something without the help of anyone else. I wanted to be the hero for my kids that my dad was for me. I wanted to lead my family to somewhere that resembled the places my dad tried to lead me. I wanted to be like my dad.
Now, I know part of that seems ridiculous for a thirty-three-year-old man to be talking like this about his dad, but I know I’m not the only one who wrestles with these things. And I know that when I started out on this camping trip, I started under the false impression that I wanted to “make my dad proud.” And so I set off to prepare for the trip. And I made my lists and I bought the supplies. I researched the driving routes and the common pitfalls I would experience along the way. When I went to pick up the camper offered to us and I realized that what I thought was going to be a 10’ pop-up tent trailer was actually a 28’, 9000-pound camper — making me a 42’ mass of moving vehicle on the back roads of Montana — I gulped down my fear, thought of my dad, and hitched it up. There was even one point on the trip where I believe I subconsciously “chose” to take the ridiculously perilous road, just because I wanted to be like my dad.
And you know what? We did it.
I use the plural “we” to speak of my family. I use the plural “we” to remind myself that this trip was never about me on my own. My wife and my kids were always there with me. There was never-ending provision and blessing from God throughout the entire adventure. And so I use “we” to remind us of these truths.
But I also use “we” to refer to my dad and me. We did it.
And at one point on the trip, I remember a tear rolling down my cheek as I thought to myself, “Yeah. Dad would be proud.” And in that same moment I realized this was never about whether Dad was “proud of me.”
You see, my dad has never done anything to make me question whether or not he was proud of me. My dad has told me with his words and shown me with his actions. My dad has never — to my memory — talked down to me or belittled me for who I am or who God’s made me to be. I have never felt like a failure to my dad; even in my moments of failure, my dad has never let those moments define me. He’s never held them over my head or kept a scorecard of my screw-ups.
My dad is a model of humility and faithfulness. As my dad has grown older, it seems he’s become even more of a learner; the older he gets, the more he has been changed. Maybe that’s just my eyes maturing as an observant son, but as a guy who makes his living by dealing with people, that kind of humility is so incredibly rare. My dad’s faithfulness has astounded me throughout the years. In a world where it becomes difficult to find someone who isn’t driven by their own shallow desires and comfort, my dad has shown me what it means to be disciplined. Day after day after day, my father has gotten out of bed to do the things that need to be done — work, lead the family, help his wife, raise his kids, serve others — day after day after day. To my knowledge, my father has never complained about his career, resisted in his relationships, or given up on his children. My dad does the things you need to do because, well, they need to be done.
So, this recent trip really wasn’t about “making Dad proud,” because I’ve always known I have my father’s approval. This trip, for me, was about honoring my dad.
As I get older, I keep hearing this phrase from my wife and others (with increasing regularity): “That was just like your dad.” Usually a facial expression or a saying that I’ll use will solicit this comparison. It struck me recently how blessed I am to hear those words as something that makes me proud. Far too many people seem to live with the desire to, no matter what, not be like their parents. I guess I’m just blessed to have a dad I want to look like (and no, I’m not talking about physical appearances; my father certainly never grew a huge beard or shaved his dome). If I can pick up even a bit of my dad’s character, I’ll be a far better man/father/husband than I am today.
Maybe we spend so much time searching for our father’s approval that we forget to extend our own.
So Dad, I’m proud of you, in the deepest sense of the word. And we did it — me and the legacy you’re leaving in my life. We went camping and towed the trailer and used the camper stove and made fires and even rented a canoe. (So maybe that last one was just me; you never really were a water guy.) And there were times I wanted to take the easy way out and there were times when I was even a little scared, but we did it. We did it because I want to be a hero to my kids the same way “Grandpa” was to me. Most importantly, I hope that when they’re older, they too will say the greatest hero moments in their lives weren’t campfires, trucks, and trailers — but they were the moments when my character looked a little like yours.
I love you, Dad.
Happy Father’s Day.
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