Father of Mine

I haven't written a blog post in quite sometime. It's not for lack of wanting either... I wanted to write. And, even more than that, my dad wanted me to write. He continually asks me if I've lost my faith and that's why I don't write anymore (he's joking, of course). It was so strange though... I had plenty of ideas, I even had entire posts written out in my journal. It just felt wrong though. On a few occasions I even logged on and stared at the screen, but something was off. I don't like to post just to say something, so I didn't. Hence, my absence. Now I've got it though, and it feels nothing but right. (And yes, it is 2:00am but don't worry, I'm off of work tomorrow.)

Have you ever had to do something that you just really didn't want to do? To act like you care about something you'd rather have nothing to do with? I'll be the first to tell you that I'm not very good at that type of thing. I am, however, pretty excellent at not doing things. I just cannot fathom doing something I don't like. But, for the sake of this post, try to wrap your head around it for a second. Imagine waking up, and going do a job that you just didn't enjoy. Now imagine doing it for a week. A month. A year. Tired of it yet? I would have quit 364 days ago.

23 years. For 23 years (this is an estimate, based on the age of my older brother), my dad (more commonly known as Butch) has been doing things he doesn't enjoy, day in and day out. Why? I can give you four reasons. Ellen, Travis, Aimee and Drew. A lot of people don't like to work. I'd easily put myself in that number. Not Butch. I think he's a worker. But the thing about Butch is he is not a member of his job's fan club. He does not like it. He does not enjoy it. He is not fulfilled by it. Yet, he does it. Every. Single. Day.

For as long as I can remember, Butch would get home from work and I'd say "how was work?" and the response has always been the same: "sucked." I used to think it's funny. I used to think it was a joke. Then I grew up: now I think that one word beautifully sums up every sacrifice my dad makes for our family.

Butch is a dreamer, you know. We all know he loves motorcycles and dirt bikes; his "toys" as it were. He's always talked about retiring and opening up a parts shop in the hills of Alabama. We all know he loves the Civil War. A lot. He wants to open an online bookstore, even. One summer Butch hired me to organize his filing system. In one folder I found a sheet from a yellow legal pad, written on in red ink: very Butch. It was a list of goals. Things like going to college again, taking history classes, maybe becoming a professor. Things Butch talks about to this day. The date on the paper, though? 1995.

1995.

My dad has been putting off his dreams for fifteen years in order to make the dreams of my mother, brothers and I come alive. Fifteen years! And the best part? He doesn't resent us for it. Not. One. Bit. That man is a lover. He is a hugger, and he is a lover. And if he loves anyone, it's his wife. And then it's his kids. Hang out with him for a day... you'll see.

So you know, here's how I see it. Butch is definitely human. He gets angry, he gets sunburned, and he gets beer in his belly. He sins. We all do. But, in my personal opinion, I could not choose any other man on the face of this planet who more accurately depicts God: the sacrifice, the unconditional love, the mercy. The more I think of it, the more obvious it is. Especially as I watch one of my best friends lose her father's presence in her life. And now I see why I couldn't write a blog for Butch... I had to write a blog about Butch.

A father's love. I'm drowning in it. God's love. Butch's love. It's all perfect.