Dear Dad

I remember growing up: the Saturday projects, going to "shoot one" on the old N64, camping out on Douglas Lake, and through it all, hearing you say, time and again, how much you loved us.

I remember the weekends we spent building a deck on that old Blackhawk house. I hated carrying those heavy planks and making 784 trips to Lowe's because there was always something else we needed. I remember being annoyed with how we had to measure twice and sometimes even three times before each little step of progress could be made, and I remember being horrified at the sound of the skill saw spinning up to make the next cut.

With age, though, I've come to realize that you don't remember that. You don't remember the events of my childhood at all.

At least, you don't remember them how I do.

You remember that deck on that old house, that old house that had an awesome backyard for your kids to play in but was pretty dated and needed quite a bit of maintenance. You remember those weekends, those weekends spent adding sweat equity to your home and, further, giving you the chance to spend time with your boys and teach them the value of hard work. Those trips to Lowe's are still in recall too, along with each and every dollar spent, money that you busted your tail throughout the week to earn. You remember the dread that Monday would bring when you had to go back to earning, but that was nothing compared to the sense of accomplishment and pride looking at your beautiful deck that you built with your own two hands.

I didn't get it back then. Heck, I didn't understand how you saw the world for the first 22 years of my life. But I think, just maybe, I get it now.

I understand how it feels to look at another person and, without a shadow of a doubt, know you love her more than yourself or your family or anything else. I used gag and groan when you would gush about mom and how she was your "greatest treasure" but now, after finding my own treasure, I'm endlessly thankful for it.

I understand the two-edged sword of family, how lonely and scary it is to have the weight of that treasure resting on your shoulders but how grateful to God you are to have the privilege to support them. We were blissfully unaware of the strength it took to walk through your own door every night. The ability to bottle up anxiety and mask the worry in hugs and kisses and smiles was something you perfected over the years. Whether a blessing or a curse, I've adopted those abilities, acquired that strength, and as I said, even if only a little bit, I understand.

I understand how it is to look at the echo of a human being and think to yourself, "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

And shortly after asking, "God, how am I gonna do this?"

We don't remember my childhood the same way, and Lord willing, Mason and I won't remember his the same either. I can only pray that, one day, he looks back in one epiphanic moment and understands, just as his dad did, what a sacrifice, what a joy, and what a privilege it is to be a father.

Thanks, dad, for everything.