Like Fireflies

Summer evenings in June and July, whenever Mom and Dad let us stay up after dark, were dedicated to the capture and containment of fireflies. We had no desire to harm them (we won't talk about what happens when you squish them during a "glow"), but to place them in a jar and use them as natural flashlights. My brother and I tried to "train" them to glow at the same time.

As it turned out, the fireflies weren't interested in being trained, but it didn't matter to me; they were the only bug I ever loved. Other than ladybugs (the REAL ones, not the orange Asian Beetles that have infringed in the last 10 years or so).

Ahh....childhood. The Good ol' days.

You may be rolling your eyes, but for days, I've been in a nostalgic mood. 

While I wish I could provide photos, a camera/computer glitch has prevented me from revealing incredible photos of something many of us remember and considered to be a staple of our society. What was it?

A....phone booth. Right. The kind you'd put money into and dial, maybe while holding the handset in a handkerchief,  shirt tail, rag, kleenex...etc...depending on your location when using it.

I used to go out always having enough change for a phone booth, because that's the advice given to young women who might be in need of a ride home if her friends either got too fresh or too wasted to get them back home.

Do you know I STILL carry the proper change on me for that purpose?

Even as I watch them fade away, and a point brought to bear: the one I photographed is no longer in existence...I can't help but carry the change in case my pre-paid cell decides to die.

Home

Today at Mass, I don't really know why, I was especially weepy. All throughout, I worked hard to maintain my composure, and didn't realize until Father gave the blessing to Fathers for Father's Day why I was crying.

 I weep for what I no longer have and what I can no longer celebrate. You'd think I'd "get over it" after 15 years, but with the date falling so close to my birthday, it's impossible to ignore. The man half responsible for my life is not here to share it with me in any way.

Related Tangent aka God's Sense of Humor

Last night, for my oncoming birthday, my surviving family took me out to dinner at our favorite restaurant, which, unfortunately is in a modern strip mall which as of late began to host a Planned Parenthood clinic. The office next to it advertising some other service had a far more important message, and although they did not have any intent for their message to reflect upon the business next door to them, it was impossible to read without seeing it. I pray any woman walking into Planned Parenthood sees their neighbor's prominent advert: "Permanent Choice".

Yes. That's what stands out. Right next to "Planned Parenthood".

Heh. That business wasn't there a couple months ago; I hope women see it and realize that abortion is, in fact, a permanent "choice".

Meanwhile back in my nostalgic musings...

There's also been another twist in our life: the aunt, my dad's sister, somewhat estranged due to certain actions taken after his death, has invited us to visit their new home, which just happens to be across the river from the neighborhood where I grew up.

There's a lot of history there; much of what we become as adults is contained in our earliest years, and even though we moved when I was only ten, I can't help but remember, fondly, the sunny summer days of running through the woods and joyful winter sledding of my childhood.

Although I look forward to this trip, which I hope and pray my brother and I can make this summer, I can't help but be a bit emotional about it. The last time we were there we were with our Dad, and this time, he will only be a memory.

A part of me knows that when we return, I will be disappointed for the character of the uncommon  neighborhood will have changed, and so I will no longer be able to remember it as it was then. Yet another part of me cries out for this vision of  "home", in hopes there will be something of comfort there, something that has remained, a sign a constancy, a sign that in spite of the passage of time, some part of our childhood innocence has been preserved.

Yes, I'm weeping today. Weeping for what was, weeping for what (and who) I never appreciated properly, weeping for a world that passes by too quickly to capture.

We all live our lives as though this is all there is, but as I've gotten older there is one thing I lament: we never appreciate what we have until it's gone. Movies and books have been published on this topic to no end, in every genre and form, but still, we never learn.

Our lives pass by like the glow of early summer fireflies; and even when we try to capture the moment, it is gone, and even a mason jar covered with foil won't allow us to keep time from slipping through our fingers.

I guess, though, I'd rather have this bittersweet nostalgia to temper my musings than no memories at all.

You know what? I hope that if we go this summer, I'll have time to wait and watch for fireflies, and capture them once again, only to let them go free in the nighttime breeze.

Independence

This evening I was watching a movie about a young woman with a protective father, and how her feminism, by the end of the movie was softened, granting her not less, but more independence. This one tempered by a greater wisdom, one gained through a greater understanding of love.

Suddenly I was struck as I considered my own history. How I had to be "independent", and therefore, a "feminist" long before it was time. How my own ventures in adulthood through a few careers were, in a sense, seeking what I lacked. Not only was I seeking God, but I was trying to become what I didn't have.

I don't really know how to say this, and yet, it's so true, that perhaps all I can do is be blunt.

It has to be said. Please bear with me as I try to find the words.

The Psalms Speak God's Heart

When I pray the words of the psalms in the Liturgy of the Hours speaking of the "precious daughter", almost always, I tear up, at least a little. If not that, then I at least pay closer attention to what is being said. Trying to find the meaning, to understand it, and even to identify with it.

When I consider great Biblical women, cherished by their fathers, and Mary, held so close to her own family and then given into St. Joseph's protection, well, I can't really understand that from a personal perspective. I have a "romantic" sense of it, knowing it was real, but it seems like a fairy-tale to me. It's never been my experience, so even praying these psalms is a scary act of trust.

Never in my life have I EVER felt "protected". I've never dwelt in the security that comes from knowing there is someone to defend me.

I've never been defended.

In The Princess Bride, the Dread Pirate Roberts quips to Inigo, "You have an overdeveloped sense of vengeance."

I'm not interested in vengeance. I've no need.

I have an overdeveloped sense of defense.

Everything I've done as an adult is about...defense. Defending the less fortunate. Defending the law and seeking justice. Defending the powerless. Defending those whose lives have been in danger. Defending the Church, defending our Faith. Defending myself from those very same threats.

It's as though, at some point in my teenage years I went into full survival mode and I've never found the occasion to come out of it.

Even now, living alone as a single woman, I'm very conscious of my safety. I chose a German Shepherd partially for defense, partially because I've always loved Shepherds. I still have my guns and consider my training. I'm still willing to shoot first and ask questions later if someone breaks into my home.

If there is no one to defend my honor, even honor that has already been lost, then I will do it myself. I have no choice. There is no one else.

If I called for help, all I would hear is crickets, if even those.

But I weary of this state of vigilance. For once, I want to be able to relax and know that someone else cares, someone else is there to defend me, and...dare I say it? I want to finally know that I am that cherished daughter worthy of defense.

Perhaps this has been so much of my struggle in my discernment. Even as God invites and says, "All that I have is yours" I have a hard time believing it.

Even as He welcomes me home from the battlefield, I flee from His care, not trusting, never having been given a reason to trust.

God throws open the doors, He kills the fattened calf, He holds out jeweled rainments, and still I stand ready to flee, not believing any of this could be for me. I don't want to be a daughter for a day. I want to be a daughter for life. I want to be that cherished daughter.

And yet I fear that if I step through that door, I'll find that it was never what I wanted or who I was meant to be. I fear that I'm sentenced to a life on this battlefied without backup, skulking in the shadows so as not to be noticed, staving off the attacks because there is no one else to do it for me.

Can I ever let go of my vigilance? Can I ever stop being on the defensive?

Can I ever really, truly believe...and live...the reality that abandonment to God is where I'll find true freedom and protection?

Can I ever really believe those words Our Lord whispers in the silence and through the psalms, that they aren't speaking to history, but through it...to me?

*

The Little Things - Happy Father's Day

(Originally posted June 14, 2008)

I've never seen my father's grave. He died early in January (1995) and so he wasn't buried immediately. His burial took place the following spring on a lonely day when we, his entire family, were away living our lives...without him. My brother saw his grave some time after, but I've never been there. I was a college student and couldn't even afford to contribute towards the headstone.

Someday I MUST make that sad pilgrimage to the UP and lay flowers at the graves of my Dad and Grandparents.

We are only dust, and if those who survive us don't remember us, even our dust is worthless to the world.

My Dad wasn't perfect...but he wasn't worthless. He's still not worthless. And it's the small things that I remember about him and his life that really mean the most to me.

I've written before, many times, that I was a "Daddy's Girl", like so many other little girls. I always wanted to be with him, and he was so easy to be with! He indulged my every little concern, I was the apple of his eye and he was the apple of mine. I even remember a discussion with Mom; I was going to grow up and marry Daddy. I saw a conflict even then, because of course Mommy was married to Daddy, but I think it was the most sincere expression of love I could muster. (Yes, I know about the Electra Complex. Don't bother my reverie with psychobabble facts.)

Well, Mommy talked me out of marrying Daddy very skillfully and suggested I continue to love him but marry someone else. I agreed. You see, I was a very agreeable little girl. And all I wanted was that stability and love that only a father can provide.

I was always so proud of my Dad. While he had terrible taste in clothing (the man could not seem to leave the 60's and 70's behind) he was maybe one of the most outgoing people I've ever met. He had a kind word for everyone, an easy sense of humor, and a compassionate demeanor. He was agreeable almost to a fault, but this trait made him very approachable to one and all. Whenever I brought friends over, he was thrilled to see them, he smiled and made them feel welcome, even if he was in the middle of an arduous task. Conversely, when I went to my friend's homes, often their fathers were not around, or aloof, or even outright rude. I heard terrible language at one friend's home, language that made me shudder and seek to take cover, while my friend didn't even flinch. Whenever we entered her home, she peeked into the livingroom first to make sure her dad wasn't there. If he was, we whispered and tiptoed to her room or back outside in order not to disturb him.

No one ever had that sense of fear around my Dad.

He really was a wonderful human being, for all his shortfalls. I've written of the bad things, but let me share with you even a short list of the moments forever caught in the shutterclick of my memory:

* Summer afternoons in the backyard with the sound of boats on the river echoing between the banks. Evenings on the patio outside the livingroom bay windows, weeds growing from between the irregular paving stones while the smell of barbecued chicken filled the air. I hovered, waiting to suck on the bristles of the basting brush when the grilling was done.

* Humid Illinois summer days in the hot sun, running towards Daddy on the red Toro riding lawnmower, hoping for a ride, hoping to "drive".

* Sunday morning, being allowed to "dress myself" much to Mom's chagrin when we arrived at the church.

* Friday nights, sitting on Daddy's back, watching "The Dukes of Hazzard" while clutching my "boo bankie" and sucking my thumb.

* The cries of seagulls piercing the clouds on Lake Michigan as Daddy taught me to fish off the pier, tying the lead sinker onto the fishing line. The subsequent "tugs" when I got a bite, and the eventual success as I caught fish...and Dad didn't.

* In later years, in Minnesota, fishing in Lake of the Isles in Minneapolis, MN, catching sunny after sunny as Dad caught nothing, and in frustration tried my spot, fouling my own efforts.

* Dad's sacrifices to give me English riding lessons and his smile as I posted a trot around the ring for the first time. He had no idea what I was doing but it made me happy and that's all that mattered to him.

* My 16th Birthday at Canterbury Downs (Now Canterbury Park) as we entered the "Filly for a Fan" contest and Dad named the filly-to-be "Julie's Dream". (We didn't win the filly.)

* The pennant I recieved from Dad when he attended the 1987 Twins World Series game...and got my brother and I Homer Hankies and Pennants with the names of the team printed on it.

* Dad's advice that I could do and become anything I wanted...even President. (2009: I'm old enough now, Dad!)

* The feature article in the newspaper that Dad sent us from Michigan a couple years before his death, talking about how he and his friends bragged about their children over coffee, and how, among that group, my brother and I took precedence over all the others in our accomplishments and aspirations. We were heroes and he was proud of us.

* The summer stars, the winter warmth, the fall comforts, the spring of hope.

I write about my Dad every now and then, and I do miss him. I wish I could call him and share my life with him. I long to hear his advice and seek his comforting and loving authority. I do envy my friends who still have their parents, but I don't begrudge them this wonderful grace. I only hope they are taking note of the small moments and seeing what's important for one day they, too, will be orphans.

A few years ago, when I was really struggling in my faith, in Confession a priest told me, "God is your Father...and Mary is your Mother. Go to them."

And I have. And they have helped me understand my earthly parents and love them that much more, especially my Dad. I've learned to see his flaws, but also his good points, in balance. And I hope and pray that I can be just like him in all the ways that matter.

I love you, Dad. I miss you. Happy Father's Day.

*

Eternal rest grant unto him O Lord. May your face shine upon him and may he rest in peace.

Year for Priests and Father's Day

I don't think it's any mistake that several important days are converging along with the advent of a very important year in the history of the Church.

The Year for Priests began on Friday, June 19, which "happened" also to be the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Today, of course, is the Memorial of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, and tomorrow is the secular "feast"....Father's Day.

Fr. Cory Sticha has an incredible homily for this weekend's Mass readings, and one of the things that struck me the most was the reality of the Spiritual Fatherhood of Priests.

"This year, we have a second fatherhood which we are asked to remember. On Friday, the feast of the Sacred Heart, Pope Benedict proclaimed the Year for Priests, a year of prayer for priests and celebration of the ministerial priesthood. Like Fathers' Day for our earthly, physical fathers, we are called during this special year to remember those priests who have truly shown the spiritual fatherhood that is the nature of the priesthood.

While most priests are not fathers by birth, all priests are called to be spiritual fathers, who give the same self-giving love to the people they have been called to serve. The focus of any priest should not be on his needs and desires, but on what is best for the parishioners that he's called to both serve and lead. Sometimes that service and leadership might lead to making decisions that aren't popular, but priests are still called to make those decisions on behalf of the parishioners.

Priests are also called to teach and preach the saving love of God and show the example of loving God and loving our neighbors. We're called to join in celebrating joyful occasions, and to be a source of comfort in times of sorrow. In short, we are called to be fathers. It's not a coincidence that the spiritual fatherhood and the earthly fatherhood have similar job descriptions. Both draw from the example of God our Father in Heaven."

I have to admit, Father's Day is always a bit difficult for me, and it kind of stops me in my tracks to realize that next year, my birthday will be ON Father's Day.

I've written before about how I was a "Daddy's Girl", which is pretty common for little girls. By the time he died, I'd long grown out of that phase, but of course that closeness, even when wounded, remains. We all NEED our Fathers; they're so important in our formation on so many levels, for they reveal to us, in a sense, the face of God, the love of God, and the protection of God.

Sometime in the last year, my Mom told me that she believes I was conceived on (or near) my Dad's birthday and her projected due date was close enough to Father's Day that they hoped for it. As it was, apparently I missed it by a day or so.

Just the same, every year my birthday and Father's Day was always close enough so that it was a special time for Dad and I, and we often celebrated our days together. If anything, that joint celebration probably strengthened our bond, and Dad was always so proud to have those special dates so close together.

But sometimes life gets in the way, and bonds are broken, although maybe not completely shattered or destroyed.

Even though I hadn't seen my Dad for nearly four years when he passed away, my grief hit me hard, and it comes back again around my birthday/Father's Day. It's easier when it's a few days apart, but this year it's the same weekend. Next year...the same day.

My heart caught in my throat when I looked ahead, realizing this. Realizing that finally, the dates converge.

I haven't had a Father since 1995.

A few years ago I wrote a blog post about the recognition of the spiritual fatherhood of priests, although it's one I took down. It was somewhat shocking then, to read Fr. Sticha's words that seem to follow the same lines of thought I'd had at that time.

I remember going to the chapel in my annual grief, lamenting that I didn't have a father, missing my Dad. And I remember pondering the priests in my life and their spritual fatherhood and how, after I'd become a member of a parish, the priests there became...Fathers. I wouldn't be where I am now without them.

No, it's NOT the same as having my Dad. I can't just call up the parish priest and complain to him about this that and the the other thing, ask him to fix my car, change out my ceiling fan for one that works, etc. etc.

What they do is so much more important than such menial tasks. Priests show us the face of Christ, they bring to us His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. They feed us with a Divine food far greater than any mere earthly meal, and through them, the Mercy of Jesus Christ is revealed to us and absolves us of our sins. On the more temporal level, those I know have helped me get into grad school, have helped me get my current job, and are assisting me in my discernment of a religious Vocation. (Actually, several Fathers are helping me, in different ways, on this particular front!)

After all...what good Father doesn't want to see his daughter married well?

So even as I face this annual bout of grief for my Dad, I know that I am not so fatherless, for there are a HOST of Priests who have been and will continue to be Fathers to me, and to all of us.

Tomorrow, as we pray for our earthly Fathers, living and dead, let us also remember to pray for Priests, for it is their spiritual Fatherhood that ensures we will never be orphans.

*

Go read Fr. Sticha's entire homily!

*

LIVE! In CINCINATTI....it's MONDAY NIGHIT!

No, not tomorrow, but in a week, October 27th!

Although I've been compared to Gov. Palin, I don't look anything like her and won't be moose hunting in Ohio. Nor will I be stumping for votes. Nor have I ever been Miss Alaska or Miss Minnesota....hmm....the more I think about it, the less I seem like her!

So let's move on!

Rather, I'll be sitting next to (or at least in the general vicinity of) the local Priest Celebrity in Cincinnati, Fr. Kyle Schnippel, who is calling the first Called By Name Blognic!

The good Father gives the details on his blog:

Next weekend, some friends will be in town, and heading back out on Tuesday, October 28. Hence, Monday evening, October 27th is open for the first Called by Name Blognic!

Details:

8:30 to 10:00 PM, location: Hoffbrauhaus Newport, across from Newport on the Levee. We'll be in the side dining room instead of the main beer hall. Come one and all!

Hmmm....did Fr. Schnippel just refer to me as a "friend"? I'm flattered! And can't wait to see who else will be there...

See you in a week!

God is your Father, Mary is your Mother

Today is my Dad's birthday.

He died in 1995, but if he were still alive, I'd be calling him today to see how he is. To tell him how I am. To talk about...things. If he lived close by, we'd take him out for dinner or something. And Dad would tell stories.


I think I get that ability from him.

Dad was a gentle soul, loved others unconditionally, likely from the suffering he experienced in his own life. It seemed his lot to always be reaching out to others in some way. He was always smiling, always joking, but I think that when it came to his true pain, he hid it from the world.


I'm just like him, in so many ways, and more and more I have come to see it.


I miss him a lot. The last time I saw him was at my high school graduation. At the time he was living in another state, with my grandmother, keeping her company as grandpa had died several years before. So it was that in Jr. High and High School I hadn't seen Dad a lot; we spoke on the phone, we saw him occasionally, on holidays. And as the years went on, this happened less and less. There is more to the story, but it's something I'm not ready to discuss, and may never do so on my blog.


His death was shocking only in that death is ALWAYS shocking in the void that it leaves, and the grief and sense of guilt that sometimes (maybe often) takes its place. We expected something, but when it happened...well...it still hurts.


Dad died of hepatic and renal failure, acute onset. His last words were the name of the hospital: St. Francis.


Dad was Lutheran, but I am comforted by the idea that his last words were the name of a beloved Saint, one who would have known and understood Dad's true poverty and may very well have been with him then as as he left this world later that day.


I've been praying for Dad all day, missing him, wondering how he is. I don't know what his beliefs were at that time; Lutheran in name, but Mom feared he was an atheist by then, although the evidence we found was that he believed in God and knew he was dying...and may well have been ready. In hope, I continue to pray for him.

Growing up was hard. My parents divorced when I was only eight, and shortly after that, Mom was diagnosed with Bipolar...after she had a psychotic episode. When we moved to Minnesota to be closer to her family, nothing was fixed although the family was helpful on many occasions. Dad moved up here a few years later, and again...nothing was fixed. They weren't married. Mom wasn't even coherent a lot of the time, and Dad...well, Dad was just absent from our lives except for weekends, and even then, he was absent.

A few years ago I was speaking with a priest about the difficulties I was having with my mother...as you might guess, our relationship hasn't been perfect. I wanted it to be, but it simply wasn't there. I still look at my friends and witness their FRIENDSHIPS with their mothers and wonder how that happened for them? I know the answer, theoretically. That evening, the priest said to me, "God is your Father, and Mary is your Mother."


I think he was actually at a loss as to how to respond to my predicament, but in those words, he gave me my answer, and I have grasped that phrase as I would a lifejacket if I were drowning.


Over time, I've greatly worked on my relationship with Mary, and indeed, things between my mother and I are so much better than they were, and improving constantly. In school, especially, I've come face to face with God in the Old Testament, and His constancy through the New Testament...and even God as my Father has become more understandable to me.


Our families reveal to us the face of God, and if our families are dysfunctional, we often form our knowledge of God on the basis of such corrupted experiences. So it was that, being told to direct my focus from what was so wrong, to what was absolute Truth personified was the perfect advice to begin to heal the rift that has covered so many years.

Jesus Grieved for Joseph


Today yet another piece fell into place, something I've never considered.


This evening I went to Mass, and while praying for my Dad, missing him, wondering about him, Jesus said to me, "I lost my earthly father, too."

If I'd been walking, that revelation would have stopped me in my tracks.

We often think about Jesus and His Mother...but we don't think of Joseph. We often speak of Jesus' grief when his dear friend Lazarus died, but because it isn't recorded in scripture, we don't consider his grief when St. Joseph passed away. We speak of a "Happy Death" in reference to St. Joseph, as he would have had Jesus and Mary at his side, but we don't consider how Our Savior, in His humanity, would have suffered such grief as His earthly protector and father paid the price of original sin in his death.

Jesus was raised by Joseph and Mary. He would have learned everything about being a man from his earthly father. He was a carpenter; just like Joseph, as Jesus took on his father's trade like every other boy did at that time.


Of COURSE Jesus grieved when Joseph died, more deeply than anyone has ever grieved for their parents. For Jesus had the full understanding of WHY he died, and loved Joseph with the perfect love not only of a son...but of the Father Himself.

I realized today that even as I will forever grieve the death of my father, Jesus is present with me there, and welcomes me, and all of us, into His own grief. We are united in this sense of loss that arises out of love. Where there is no love, there is no grief, and so even in what we consider to be "everyday" suffering, we are still participants in the love and suffering of Christ.

Indeed...there can be no love without suffering..and no suffering without love.


I miss my Dad because I loved him, and still do. No matter what happened in our lives, there was always love, and that's the only thing that matters.

*



Dad, I love you. Rest in Peace.

*

The Role of Fatherhood in Spiritual Formation

Maybe I shouldn't post this on Father's Day weekend, but I'm going to anyway.

My parents divorced when I was eight, and among their many differences was religion; Mom was Catholic, Dad was Lutheran. Dad's parents HATED that Mom was Catholic, and Dad was not in love with Mass, to say the least. But he agreed to raise us Catholic, and Mom, at least, was faithful to that promise. Thank God for that! Dad gave a pretense, but it was always obvious that his heart wasn't in it.

And yes, children see this. Children are young and innocent; they're not stupid.

We moved to Minnesota, and a couple years later, Dad followed. And so it was that we didn't attend Mass on weekends we had with Dad, although he lied and he encouraged us to lie about going. We didn't care that it was one of the custodial obligations of our being able to go with him on his weekends, which is why he was so insistent on not telling Mom that we weren't going to church.

As I got older, though, this became more and more of a problem for me. My brother never really cared, but I did. And I didn't know how to deal with it. I KNEW we needed to go to Mass, even though I didn't understand why. And I did love God..I did! But I was embarassed at my budding devotion, and put off by my Dad's ridicule of Mom for her devotion and insistence on our attendance every Sunday. I didn't want my Dad's ridicule.

Even though I was growing up and apart from my Dad, I always had a bit of that "Daddy's Girl" in me and so the idea that Dad might laugh at me because I agreed with Mom was absolutely heartbreaking. And so I remained silent.

Dad moved to Minneapolis, and Mom must have been aware at some point (likely because she was wise) that Dad was not taking us to Mass. So a few times we went to the Basilica in Minneapolis. It was a beautiful church, as you'd imagine, but Dad wasn't very particular about when we arrived. We'd enter through a side door or something, find the nearest pew, and be seated. About fifteen minutes later, we'd leave. I think that once we got there in time for Communion.

I felt horrible about being late, I wanted to be there for the whole thing, I hated how people stared at us especially after this happened a few weeks in a row, and I wanted to remain at Mass for the entire time. But I had no control, Dad and my brother were clearly on the same page, Dad was making fun of Mom and saying that "she'd never know" and that we really didn't need to go anyway if it weren't for a court order. And he didn't care about the court order. Again, I was sworn to silence.

It's a silence I've never broken, until now. And now it doesn't really matter...or does it? You decide.

Over time maybe I became a bit numb to all of this, and God drew me to Himself in a different way; through music. I believe that at the time we popped in and out of the Basilica, I was involved in my own parish, and was often at Mass once on Saturday and twice on Sunday, either as a musician or a cantor or in the choir. I didn't really understand what was going on at Mass, but I sensed deeply that it was important. And I WANTED to be there. It was my whole life. I do believe it was the ONLY place where I felt any peace at all in my chaotic life. Maybe it was that peace that drew me, but I felt safe there, and really, I WAS safe there.

But I couldn't have articulated that nor could I have explained it to anyone at the time.

It was as I got older that I stopped going to visit my Dad on weekends. There were many reasons, and in looking back, Mass attendance was one of them. I knew where I needed to be, and unfortunately, it was not with my earthly father. Unfortunately for him, and somewhat for me, but truly, in knowing what was happening in those years, I know without a doubt that I did choose the better part; to sing at the feet of Jesus. And He did call me to do so.

This morning I was musing about all of this and considered our trips with Dad to Michigan to visit his parents. I don't think we ever ONCE attended a Catholic church there. We were taken to the Lutheran church, and Dad's opinion was that we could do so as it was his church, he was taking us to church, and it was pretty much the same, anyway.

But I KNEW it wasn't the same, although I couldn't say why. I knew what was happening was wrong. I knew I was being deprived of something, and I sensed that loss very deeply. And still, I had no control. I do think that once I tried to argue to go to the Catholic church, and maybe even my brother had a twinge of conscience in that regard, but Dad was stubborn and we went into the red-carpeted How-Great-Thou-Art singing Lutheran church. And it wasn't the same. At all. Something HUGE was missing...or should I say...someONE?

What's Happening Now? Do Dads Matter?

Sometimes I try to take a step back and I wonder why my brother's and my paths were always so different. I can see some of the reasons on the surface, but there's so much more to us all than what is so readily apparent.

My brother is not practicing his faith...I don't think he has any faith at all. And knowing what I know now, I have to wonder if his Confirmation was valid, as I don't think he was willingly Confirmed. I think Mom forced him. He used to argue up a STORM about Confirmation, and Mom argued back louder and longer.

I'd go to my room and slam the door, trying to get away. He was older than I by two years, and I didn't understand why he didn't want to be Confirmed, but it didn't seem right that Mom was forcing him. Sometimes after those arguments I'd talk to him and ask him why. He didn't know. He just didn't want to be Confirmed. He didn't see the point. He didn't know what he wanted. And I think that some of this was his passive rebellion; if Mom wanted it, he didn't. He was just as torn between our parents as I was, although somewhat differently.

Now I see that he was adopting Dad's lackluster attitude; in spirituality he was like Dad. I was more like Mom, although even I rebelled against her intense devotion and wanted to be NOTHING like her in any way. This made my own faith that much more difficult for I had no one to emulate.

And my brother...neither did he, because I don't necessarily think he really agreed with Dad, either. And Dad himself was so lost in so many ways.

To this day, I'm the religious one in the family. My brother is the apathetic one, and attends Mass only with Mom or if he's at my house on a Sunday. He no longer complains, and maybe he's coming around. But who's to say? Only God.

A Father's Betrayal

I still remember, every Christmas when I'd be playing something special on my flute for the Christmas program just before the Christmas Eve Vigil Mass, I'd hope and pray that Dad would come. But he never did. And he didn't come at Easter. I always hoped that at least on holidays he'd be willing to drive an hour to be with his family. And he was never there.

In his absence, Dad didn't just send a message to me, but he sent it to my brother as well...loud and clear. And for each of us, the message was different, but just as clear.

I KNOW that my brother's lack of faith stems DIRECTLY from Dad's "intervention" and direct actions to prevent us from receiving the sacraments. His derision towards Mom and towards our beliefs had a profound effect on my brother for sons learn from their fathers. And daughters are crushed by such deep betrayals.

I've never spoken of this until now, maybe because I buried the idea and the pain of remaining quiet out of obedience and fear of ridicule.

Dad never knew how these things affected me, and I don't know what his reaction would have been if he did. So I won't delve into that for he can no longer defend himself or his actions.

I do believe that Dad believed in God and that he had a certain faith. But he wasn't interested in our spiritual formation, just as many Dads today aren't interested in their children's spiritual formation.

Fathers are key in children learning about how to relate to God, who is our Father. Fathers are NECESSARY in teaching their children respect for their mothers, respect for authority, and respect for God.

It's not surprising to me that my brother has no faith; is it surprising to YOU?
*

Dads, take note; it doesn't matter if you are divorced from your wife and have custody of your children. If you agreed to raise them in a certain faith, you are obligated to that promise. Even if you don't respect the covenant of your marriage, then at least respect the souls of the children you brought into the world and please do your best to see them on the pathway to Heaven. Because ultimately you will be standing before God answering to HIM, not your ex-wife, without whom those children would not exist.

Fathers matter. Everything a father DOES matters! And even what seems like a small lie can disrupt a soul for life and send it spinning off into a darkness it was never meant to experience.
*

Fathers, if you love your children, practice your faith, set the example, and teach them that it takes a REAL MAN to lead others to God. Be that man.

Training Wheels

I mentioned in yesterday's Meme that I miss my Dad, and I do. Thankfully, I have many happy memories of him from childhood, before our family exploded into smithereens. I've mentioned that I was a "Daddy's girl", so as we approach June, I often think of him, of the fact I was nearly born on Father's day (Dad was SO hoping for that gift that year!), and of course, of our happy memories. Even the "disasters" of love gone awry are sweet, sweet memories that pack a punch even today.

My Dad was an unflagging optimist who stubbornly held onto ideas even when they were proven to be wrong...because they had to work! They just had to! And so he would try the same things again and again, making minor adjustments, sure that eventually the "formula" would be right and there would be success.

Unfortunately, sometimes his ideas, with love as the foundation, intruded into reality in ways he did not intend.

As a "Daddy's Girl", I always wanted to be around him and I trusted him implicitly; in my eyes, he could do no wrong. And so, when it came time for me to learn how to ride a bike, Dad was right there for me. I had been riding with training wheels, but Dad felt maybe it was time to give me my own wings. He knew I was afraid of falling, so I wouldn't let him take the training wheels off. Dad understood, so he studied the problem and came up with a solution.

He would leave the training wheels on...but he'd raise them a little bit. That way, as I rode, if I started to lose my balance, the bike would tip down on the wheel, which would be enough to stop it from tipping, and I'd be able to work to right it again. I agreed this idea was logical. Many things operate on such a principal...it was a "safety catch" of sorts. So I let him move the wheels.

Trusting Daddy, I got up on my bike, and started to pedal. And then I lost my balance...and spilled hard onto the pavement. I got up crying, and Dad dried my tears, assured me I was fine, and said he thought he knew what the problem was. He adjusted the wheels again, thinking that he'd put the training wheels up too high...if he lowered them, the idea would still work.

OK.

So off I went again...and crashed! And again, I was crying, and I didn't want to fall again so I told Dad his idea didn't work and I wanted the training wheels back like they were. Dad was very very sorry, but he asked for another chance, because he KNEW this idea would work! So, still trusting Daddy, trusting that all would be well, and his promises that I wouldn't crash, I let him adjust the training wheels again.

You see where I'm going with this, don't you? Yup. I crashed again. It was just like Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football. Over and over again. And that time, I was done crashing. I couldn't handle this any more, and I was really really crying. And this time when I got up I ran inside to get Mom. Because it really DID hurt when I hit the gravel and pavement, and I really was all scraped up, and although I knew Daddy really did think his idea would work, my bruises proved him wrong.

I still remember my dad's stricken expression as I ran away from him, refusing to be comforted, going to Mom, and my Dad turning again to his work, trying hard to help me learn how to ride a bike through proper mechanics.

Mom and my older brother (by 2 years) talked him into putting the training wheels as they were. And finally they all coaxed me out to get me to ride again, and Dad proved to me that the wheels were just as they had been, and he was really really sorry that I'd fallen before. And I accepted his apology and gingerly got on the bike...and rode off into the sunset.

Or at least down to the end of the street and back. A few weeks later, one of my brother's friends observed, "She's just dragging those wheels...she's riding all by herself." But I didn't believe him, as usually, they were always teasing me. I didn't want to crash. It took them a few days but finally I was convinced of their sincerity and allowed my brother's friend to take the wheels off.

I was terrified, but desperately wanted to trust I really could do this. I really did want to ride my bike, all by myself! So I began to pedal...and didn't tip! So I pedaled a little more...still going! I got to the end of the block, turned around, and rode past the house, triumphant, joyful, and proud! And I only wished Dad had been there to see me. It seemed wrong that he wasn't the one to take off the wheels. He'd offered to do so...but I'd refused, because I didn't trust him any more.

It's one of those bittersweet memories, but one I think we all have at some point; that our parents aren't perfect. I laugh even at spilling into the street and my Dad's absolute insistence that this would work. Why? Because I'm just like him, in more ways than I care to admit.

Trust is a huge thing. It's a big deal. It's foundational. And when trust is lost, it messes up a lot of other things, too. That day I learned that I couldn't always trust my Dad, and I followed through with that distrust by allowing someone else to take over "his" job.

I don't think this particular situation applies, as there is a difference in types of trust and "betrayal", which I define as any decimation of trust, big or small. So it was a small betrayal that day, maybe even a necessary one, but larger ones came later on in our lives. Yet it is in us to want to trust, to need to trust, and to really retain that as a foundation of all our relationships.

And who is it most important to trust? Our parents. They stand in for God, so when things go wrong with a family, there's a domino effect that carries the harm far beyond the family itself.

I've often thought about this especially since I started realizing that God was asking me to make a committment to Him..or SOMEONE. I've often lamented that it's hard to let God love me, and even that I don't love Him enough. And I think, as it's all on my end, it's from the trust that was destroyed when I was so young. Not from the bike and the training wheels, but from the destruction of my family.

I used to argue that although I come from a divorced family, I'm totally normal and fine and blah blah blah. Lies. I still remember making my last argument...and in that argument I affirmed the point that indeed, I have been injured by my family's crisis. No, I'm not angry with my parents, and objectively, the divorce was a good thing on many levels. Mom did what she had to do, and her decision protected us from worse harm. But that doesn't mean that there weren't casualties.

All of us. We're all a bunch of walking wounded.

But God is faithful, and over time, He knows how to rebuild trust. And He is patient, because it takes time. He first reveals Himself to us, and then asks us to take a step. And He gives us success. And then He asks for something more and something more. He rebuilds us. He reveals a larger family, and when we're ready, he takes off the training wheels. And even if the wheels fail, He is always there to catch us. We may fall of our own accord and sprawl in the street, but God never causes injury...He binds it.

My Dad wasn't perfect, and no parents can meet that standard. They do their best. My memory of the training wheels actually makes me love my Dad more for his flaws..and for the lesson he unwittingly provided. If he was still walking the earth, I'd call him up today and remind him of that...and of the lessons I've learned since then.

I think that part of the injury of broken homes comes from such a huge betrayal of trust on so many levels that the "walking wounded" don't even know that they have to forgive. But if we look back on the little things and see the small imperfections, it's much easier to look at the bigger ones in a different light. And from that standpoint, forgiveness comes more easily.

I forgave my Dad a long time ago for the little things, and I think that, now, as an adult I can finally forgive him for the bigger ones. Dad was nothing if not human, and if it wasn't for both the good and the bad, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

I miss you, Dad. Rest in Peace.
Requiem aeternam dona ei,
Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.
Requiescat in pace. Amen.

Daddy

I will never forget being picked up by my Daddy and held aloft, or swung around in circles as we played "airplane!". We still have photos of my Dad lying prone on the floor in front of the TV, propped up by his elbows, where he landed when he tired of playing "horsie" with his little girl, me, astride his back. I remained as I was, just a toddler, my thumb in my mouth, "boo bankie" in hand, a red fez on my head (don't ask), just hangin' out with Daddy.

I was a Daddy's Girl. So many of us were.

At the time, we had a very large yard, and I still recall when Dad got a riding lawn mower, a red Toro, which, he explained, meant "Bull" in Spanish. From that point on, I wanted to learn Spanish. Dad liked that idea.

(Incidentally, I also liked to hold out a blanket in front of the lawn mower and pretend I was a bull fighter. Dad thought it was funny but wouldn't indulge me...Mom condemned the practice and made me put the doll blankets away.)

Mom wasn't thrilled, but she allowed Dad to give me a ride on the lawn mower and to keep Dad company as we trundled back and forth and back and forth and back and forth across the lawn, cutting the grass. Every so often I'd have to dismount from the machine so I could pick up some sticks or rocks, and Dad always told me where to walk and where not to, just in case the mower kicked anything out from underneath. I was very careful to do what he said.

I was proud to be "helping" Daddy.

He was from Michigan, so whenever we went up to visit Gramma and Grampa in the UP (Upper Peninsula), he took me fishing off the pier in Lake Michigan. We didn't always catch fish, but that's not what our time was about, anyway.

But our lives weren't idyllic; Mom and Dad used to fight. A lot. And I remember when suddenly their loud, angry tones trumped my fear of the monster in the closet. I remember hearing my confused and sleepy brother's voice entering the fray; I sat up in bed to listen, wondering how he had the courage to even try to say a word. I heard his little voice in comparison to their loud ones, I remember him asking them to be quieter because he couldn't sleep.

I remember sudden silence, then a shouted demand for my brother to "GO BACK TO BED!"

Then I heard no more from him.

I don't know how long we lived like this, but I do remember the arguments usually ended with a slamming door, and it was always Dad who left and Mom who stayed.

I remember going to visit one of Dad's friends, a Shriner (Dad was a Shriner, too), and his friend was a clown. Really. My brother was disappointed but I was relieved when we arrived at his house and he was not wearing his costume. We hung out with the Shriner clown's children, who were a little older than us, and throughout the day we all realized what our Dads were doing; drinking a lot.

The kids we were visiting were visibly upset, and as the time for us to go home neared, they didn't think we should go, but they didn't know what to do. Their Mom was working, just as ours was that day. We didn't have anywhere to go; we didn't have anyone to call.

One of those children went to their Dad and quietly explained that they didn't think our Dad should drive; they got in trouble, for us.

As it was, we went home with Dad, and as he was so jovial, we soon forgot that he shouldn't be driving.

Dad ws driving funny, though, crossing the center line, going back and forth in his lane. We laughed, Dad laughed, and it was an all-around good time! And then we saw red lights in the rear window...a cop car! It was just like CHiPS!

The police officer asked Dad to get out of the car, and when he did, he asked us to get out and go sit in the squad car, in the front seat. He was very nice, and because my older brother chatted amiably with the officer, I followed him, too. He explained that they had to talk to Dad, and we had to wait, and then he would take us home.

My brother jumped into the squad car and was amazed by what he saw; we'd never been in a police car before. As soon as the officer who was driving us home got in, my brother was chattering away, asking questions, and the officer answered him and pointed out other very cool things. I just looked out the window, watching the red lights flashing around us and the shadows they caused.

I remembered my brother responding to the officer, "Oh, yeah, she talks," and he nudged me. I turned to regard the officer, who was looking at me at that point.

"Do you talk?" He asked.

I just regarded him silently, saying nothing. He waited patiently for me to respond, then continued chatting with my brother. He was very good with directions and showed him where we lived. Mom was waiting for us on the front lawn. She immediately ushered us into the house and would not tell us what was going on.

My brother was very excited about our ride in the squad car. I just wanted to know why Daddy didn't come home with us. Mom wouldn't say.

I learned years later, when I was old enough to understand, that Dad got a DUI that night, Mom refused to bail him out, and he spent the night in jail.

Ironically, years and years later, during college I volunteered as a Police Reserve officer, and one night on a ride along, I assisted in a DUI stop. It was my first one. We took the parent into custody, and removed the two children from from the back seat; a brother and a sister, about the same ages my brother and I had been at the time of Dad's DUI. I had to turn away and focus on the job I had to do. I knew I was looking into a reflection, one I'd hoped never to see.

I can't remember how old I was, but I remember one cold, rainy, dreary November day. Mom and Dad weren't getting along, and hadn't been for years. Mom grabbed something from Dad, went outside, slamming the door behind her. She didn't even have a coat on. I watched her slam a bottle against the maple tree in the front yard. She returned to the house, dripping, angry, yelling...and shortly after that, Dad left, with a suitcase in hand.

He never lived with us again. My parents were the first parents I knew who were divorced, and we had to define that word to our friends. None of them understood. Neither did we, really.

***

We moved to Minnesota after they foreclosed on the house, and for a couple years, I only occasionally got to see Dad. It was very hard. Then he moved to Minnesota, too, and we got to see him every other weekend or so. Dad always tried to plan something fun in order to make up for the time he otherwise didn't get to spend with us. But it all fell into a certain routine. Still, though, Dad was Dad, and I was still a Daddy's girl, even as I was growing up.

I had always loved horses, and this was one love Dad forever indulged, when he could. When I was 13, he paid for English Riding lessons for me. He could only afford every other week (actually, he couldn't, but he did it anyway), and this is a gift that benefits me to this very day. He was so excited for me, and always brought the camera. He loved to hear about the lessons, what I learned, and took a picture of me the day I learned to tack up a horse.

When I was 16, he indulged my fascination with horse racing, and we went to what was then called Canturbury Downs (now Canterbury Park). I had it down to a science, with my own list of leading sires, dams, jockeys, trainers, and owners. I picked the horses, Dad placed the bets. My brother was there, completely bored, but indulging me in this birthday gift.

Somewhere in all this, though, Dad's disease really took hold, and I couldn't deal with it anymore. So I found other things to do; the daddy I'd always known wasn't really there so I didn't see the point in going to visit him. All he was going to do was sit in his bathroom and drink while I watched movies or read in the sweltering apartment. I had better things to do.

Mom tried to get me to go up to Dad's more often, but I just didn't want to go; he wasn't the same person anymore, but I didn't know how to express what I felt. Mom, herself, was being overtaken by her bipolar, so it wasn't as though she was much of an authority figure for us, either.

The last time I saw my Dad was on the evening before and the day of my High School graduation. He had to head back to Michigan shortly after the ceremony. He was so proud! His little girl, graduating high school!

But I was so busy with my friends and all the guests, and trying to keep Mom intact that I barely had any time or the desire to really spend time with him. It was like we had, somewhere in there, become perfect strangers.

I went off to college, Dad continued to write and send newspaper clippings and cartoons he thought interesting. Once he sent an article from his local newspaper; he and some friends regularly met to brag about their children, and as my brother and I were doing well and especally as I was seeking to become a police officer, he was enjoying a certain status among his peers. The article was about these fathers and their friendship, but each one of them, when asked about themselves, pointed to their progeny.

I never admitted it, but I was flattered, and I was so happy to have the approval of my father in my law enforcement endeavors, because other than my brother and a random cousin here and there, NO ONE was supportive of me. Only Dad.

Always Dad. With all his imperfections, he never gave up on his little girl.

I spent a semester in Mexico, and before I left I called Dad to give him my address and the dates I'd be gone. He repeated the address and the dates back to me.

I got back to the United States on December 3rd, 1994. We were on our semester break, so I went to work because I had to make money to pay for my next semester, what financial aid did not cover.

My brother went to see Dad, who had moved to Michigan upon the death of our Grandfather about 7 years prior. He gave us daily reports; Dad was not doing well, he was very sick, and in the last stages of his disease. He didn't eat much, but he sure did drink a lot of Vodka.

He had to come home himself to be ready to go back to school early in January. On the morning of January 3, my brother woke me up. Dad was in the hospital. He was unconscious. He'd come downstairs, repeating, "St. Francis! St. Francis!" and collapsed. They took him to the hospital, where he remained.

We knew this was it. I went to work, waiting all day for that call. I had no other choice. I couldn't sit at home, so I worked, waiting, prepared for the news.

I arrived home around midnight as usual as I worked the evening shift. Mom heard me come in and got up to give me the news. Dad was gone.

My brother had gone back to school, so I called him. I couldn't even speak, but that was fine; that was par for the course. I was always the one who couldn't speak, just like when we were kids.

Two days later we were en route to Michigan for Dad's funeral, and it was the most horrible moment of my life, walking up to his casket, seeing Dad for the first time in almost four years, and the last time in this life.

I don't know how I survived the wake and the funeral, but one thing stood out to me, one thing to make me so proud I will never forget it.

There was a flower display there, near the casket, signed in scrawling handwriting. "To Mr. K---", signed by a little girl. We had learned the story; Dad was a collector of stamps, coins, and movies. He was also very sentimental, always had been. My friends had always loved my Dad, because he had the ability to make anyone feel welcome in his presence. That was such a gift.

Shortly after he'd moved to Michigan, one of his neighbors, people we knew, people he'd grown up knowing, took in a young woman and her little girl. They had been abandoned by the little girl's father. Dad, true to form, did everything he could to assist them, and each Monday, he sent a little gift over to the little girl, something from one of his collections. He usually delivered the gift personally, and she came to know him as "Mr. K---". This was always the highlight of his week.

My brother had made the last delivery for Dad, to that little girl, and on the note he wrote to her, he'd signed his name, "Mr. K---".

When I saw those flowers, I remembered how much of a Daddy's Girl I had been, how much I missed those moments, and clearly, he missed them, too.

My Dad had a heart of gold, and even as he suffered in the end stages of alcoholism, his humanity never left him; those traits that define who he was remained intact, and he did his best to reach out and try to make the world a better place, wherever he could. There is a young woman out there who will likely never forget my Father, and to this day, I am so dang proud of him, and I so regret never knowing about this until I stood next to him in death.

My Dad wasn't perfect; our relationship somehow came to a strange "end" even before he passed away, but he never stopped being Dad, and he never stopped being who he was. He never stopped working to bring light to someone else, working to make them feel even a little less abandoned.

In so many ways, I'm just like my Dad; I inherited his sentimentality, his sense of adventure, which, as he also had spina biffeda, he was never able to pursue himself. I inherited his generally easy-going temperment and I only HOPE that one day, I'll also be able to take on his selfless ability to reach out to others, even amidst the most dire suffering.

I was nearly born on Father's day...I believe in 1974 (I'd have to look it up) it fell on the 19th, and I was born the day after. Dad so hoped for the gift of my birth to fall on Father's day, and sometimes we did have joint celebrations. It's no surprise that I have been so linked to my Daddy in so many ways.

Father's Day, now, is often painful for me because it's so easy to remember the hard stuff, and not the things that matter most. I look with longing at Father's Day cards, listen to people talk about how they are honoring their Father, and well they should. I miss my Dad. I wish I could call him up, take him out to dinner, get his advice, and once again, be "Daddy's Little Girl". Those days are gone, but those memories...ah...the memories...I pray I will never lose them.

I loved my Dad, and I still do. And in spite of the mess that really is my life, I hope, that, if my Dad was still alive, he'd be as proud of me now, even after all of life's beatings and all of my mistakes, as he expressed that he was in the news article he'd sent to me so long ago.

For all of you who have your parents, who have your fathers, don't take them for granted. I am happy for you all; realize how lucky you are, realize the brevity of life, and take the time to honor him as he deserves to be honored. Your father probably isn't perfect, and you perhaps have your differences. But realize you won't have him forever; these are blessed moments. Learn what you can, come to appreciate the person he is, and take what is good and LIVE IT.



I miss you, Dad. Rest in peace.


Love,

Your little girl.
Siempre

Missing Pieces

How many of you remember what it was like to be a child? Do you remember how it felt to be praised by a parent for something? Do you remember what it was like for your Dad to take notice of something you did, and even better, when he BRAGGED about it to his buddies?

And do you remember how much it hurt if you ever overheard either one of your parents, but especially your Dad, say something negative about you?

My parents were only married until I was about eight, but I still remember some pretty special moments, and after that, everything from my Dad became even more precious because he didn't live with us anymore.

There is something in all of us that really needs a Dad. We need our Fathers. If we don't have them, then some piece of us goes missing and we spend our lives looking for it.

I can only look at this through the eyes of a daughter, but I know that sons are also desperately in need of their fathers, and they need strong, manly figures in order to round them out and turn them into the men they are destined to become. And when they don't have that, they also spend their lives searching for that missing piece.

Wheras I really didn't have much of a "Dad" when I was younger, those years as a "Daddy's Girl" really left an impression on me. I still remember his praise; I still remember Dad telling me I could do anything. While Mom did extra to keep me grounded, Dad did everything he could to endorse my dreams - no matter how outrageous. As far as he was concerned, if I wanted to build a catapult out of bubble gum, sticks, and rubber bands and eject myself to the moon so I could bring back a piece of blue cheese, he was all for it and would supply the materials.

He drove my Mom nuts.

I think my Dad was a romantic. I'm just like him. He was definitely the sentimental one, and I inherited that facet of his personality.

My Dad died during my Junior year of college, and that following summer I went to Law Enforcement Skills Training. My Mom couldn't understand me or why I was doing this; yet I knew that my Dad had been all for it. He had actually been highlighted in a local newspaper article, bragging about my brother and I. It was a human interest story about he and his group of cohorts who met at a local coffee shop where they would talk about their kids and their lives. Dad was all about us, what we were doing, where we were headed, and how proud he was of our dreams and willingness to pursue them. The fact that his daughter was pursuing a career in law enforcement was a huge point in the article and seemed to make him somewhat of a celebrity among his peers.

But when I graduated from Law Enforcement Skills training, Dad wasn't around anymore. He didn't get to see his little girl standing there in her brown polyester uniform, one of only 11 women in a class of 300, one of the shortest, one of the proudest.

When I graduated from college with my BA degree almost a year later, Dad wasn't there; the last time I'd seen him was at my high school graduation, four years prior.

A few months later, when I was sworn in as a Police Officer, Dad wasn't there. He would have been so proud! He'd always told me I could do anything I wanted to do, and I did it. Dad wouldn't have been surprised to witness my oath and he would have been the first to ask for a photo and to actually hold my badge. My Mom didn't understand at all. I was there because of my Dad; I was there because of Dad's encouragement and his belief in my abilities even while I was still in diapers.

But I'm thankful that I still had an uncle there, who drove Mom up to witness the occasion. It wasn't the same as having my Dad there, not nearly, but I am thankful that at least a male family member was there on that auspicious day as I gave my oath to God, my city, and my country, my oath to serve and protect. He wasn't Dad, but I do think that he was glad to be there just the same. He had several daughters, and I was maybe one by "adoption" and even "default" included somehow in the mix. What was one more daughter among many?

When I got into firefighting, my Mom didn't come up for the swearing-in ceremony. I didn't have any family there. I wish I could say my Dad would have been there, but even for that, I'm not sure he would have made it. He would have been very proud, of course, but I doubt he would have been there. My boyfriend, who was himself a firefighter and the one who had encouraged me and helped me train, did manage to make it, and that meant a lot, especially since no one else was there for me.

It was a doomed career anyway, which is fine, but still, the presence of my Dad would have made a difference in some small way that can't be quantified. It would have, in a sense, "legitimized" what I was doing.

We need our fathers. We need that male presence and that male guidance in our lives, no matter who we are, whether we are male or female. We need our mothers and we need our fathers; it is they who form us, and each has a special role in that.

There is nothing like the praise and support of a father; there is nothing like knowing that our Dads love us and are behind us in what we do. There is nothing like the blessing of a father.

Every so often, I think of my Dad, and the nostalgia stops me in my tracks. I wish I could call him up and share my adventures, not nearly so interesting now that I am an adult. I know that he would help me take myself less seriously, and he'd remind me of the time I calculated the speed of the Black Stallion and declared it impossible. He'd remind me of the time I walked into a glass door at a grocery store, and the "My Heinie" commercials we used to roar about on the radio. Dad was still around when I learned how to drive, and he taught me how to drive in the Cities. He was still around when I wanted to be a jockey, and cultivated my interest in horse racing, even paid for English riding lessons although he couldn't afford it.

For my 16th Birthday, we went to Canturbury Park, he let me pick the horses and he placed the bets. And we entered the "Filly for a Fan" contest, joking about actually winning. He was going to name the filly, "Julie's Dream", and we were going to win the Kentucky Derby...with me aboard. Roses for everyone!

Dad always told me I could do anything - and I believed him.

I just wish that I could hear my Dad tell me, even one more time, something more important, and I wish that, the last time I'd heard it, that I really understood. I wish I could hear my Dad tell me that he loves me and that he is proud of me.

Is there a single one of you out there who doesn't feel the same way?