I got married in my home church in Wisconsin on a day in January when the sky was blue and biting. The lake was frozen solid and dotted with shanties the sturgeon fishermen had hauled out and stocked with beer as soon as the ice was thick enough to hold a pickup truck.
I stood at the back of the church in a dress that could have been warmer with my brothers on either side. They were both as tall as my dad, or taller, and looked so much like him, it made my grandmother catch her breath because when she saw them, she could almost swear she was looking into the face of the son she lost so many years before.
It should have been my dad on my arm that day.
But it wasn’t.
I had my brothers instead, and it was fitting and right because we had been down so many other roads together. I wanted them there beside me the way I wanted them beside me when my father slipped into eternity without saying goodbye. We stood together when we looked into his coffin and we stood together then, stepping awkwardly down a too-narrow aisle in time to the music. On that bitter cold day in January, they gave me away in place of my dad to a man my father would never meet.
It was hard not to feel the loss. There’s something about a bride walking down an aisle without her daddy that makes people blink fast and swallow hard.
My dad with my older brother and me on just another ordinary day.
Dads should be there on days like that, on the red-letter days when the calendar screams of life-changing events like high school graduations and college commencements and birthdays and marriages and babies and the news of twins growing inside.
My dad missed every single one of those.
And I miss him on those days.
But I also miss him on the brown-paper bag days, the ordinary days filled with a million insignificant events like scraped knees and bedtimes and cold cereal mornings.
Dads should be there on days like that.
Because life is short. I learned that fast and young when a snowy winter road took my dad before I even had a chance to say good-bye. I watched him go, that morning, you know? I watched him go and I didn’t say good-bye because I thought he’d be back.
I missed him hard, at first, like some piece of me had been cut out and replaced with cold air that kind of numbed but mostly burned. I missed him every day and in so many different ways, I didn’t think I’d ever stop grieving because I kept finding new ways to do it.
Many years later, when I looked back on a grief-journey that spans more years than my father ever lived, I realized I have learned something along the way. It is something so important, I wish I could grab you around the shoulders, dads, and make you hear it.
Someday, you’re going to slip right out of your body and your kid is going to be left grappling with the loss. It’s kind of strange how one soul can be free and another weighed down by the same event. You will be gone, and they will be here, remembering.
Do you know what they’re going to miss the most?
I do.
I want to tell it to you because it’s important, and I’m a kid who lost a dad so you need to hear it because one day it might be your kid who’s learned it, and by then it will be too late.
More than anything, they’re going to miss the ordinary days.
They’re going to miss those brown-paper bag days, the days that drone on and on and you kind wish you could fast forward because they’re all so much the same. They’re going to miss the days you thought didn’t matter.
Turns out, those are the days that matter the most.
You know those soccer tournaments you manage to make it to? Those are important. So are the graduations and the weddings and everything in between.
But they are not the most important thing.
What is most important is all the countless minutes filled with nothing much but you and them and the span of time between waking and sleeping when you say and do the mundane things that make them feel loved and important and a part of you.
Anybody can show up at a wedding.
But your daughter is going to remember how you talked to her at breakfast.
Anybody can cheer at a playoff game.
But your son is going to remember what you did when you came home from work.
Anybody can drive the family to church on Sunday.
But your kid is going to remember what you said when he messed up, whether or not you showed up, and if you lived up to all you said you believed.
Your daughter will think of you on Christmas, it’s true, but she will miss you most on some Monday morning when the sky is perfect for flying and the smell of an engine makes her think of all the hours she spent in the hangar, watching you work. She will think of you when a wood stove crackles and someone makes popcorn late at night. It will be stale jelly beans and Risk games and badly-sung hymns and mustached smiles and grey-blue eyes that search out the hurt and motorcycle roars and coffee first thing in the morning that will make her wish she could bring you back, just for a second.
It’s easy to think it’s enough to be there for the big stuff. But I’m here to tell, dads, it’s not the big stuff she’ll remember, and it’s not the big stuff she’ll miss.
It’s the ordinary stuff, the stuff you never thought twice about because it was just life.
Hear me, dads–that’s the part of your life that is everything to her.
I know.
I think of it today because it’s Father’s Day, one of those red-letter days when dads get new ties and handmade paperweights and everyone is together because they’re supposed to be, and it’s good.
But tomorrow is Monday. There’s Wheat Chex for breakfast and groggy kids to get up and a long day before you come home again. It’s tempting to slide a bit because there’s a good show on TV and you’re tired and after all, you just made a memory on Sunday, if you believe holidays make the best memories.
I’m telling you, they don’t.
Give your kids Monday. Give them Tuesday too. Give them all the ordinary minutes you can, dads. Because one day, you’ll be gone, and those are exactly the minutes they’ll miss the most.
They will miss your ordinary.
Give it to them.
My dad enjoying an ordinary day with my younger brother
Came across this post and my jaw almost dropped at the similarities! I’m 33 and homeschooling my kids and have a set of twins to boot! I had a fantastic, present, intentional Jesus loving dad. My dad died at 40 from a very short bout with cancer. I was the oldest of my siblings at 17. He was a pilot too. I miss flying. A lot. Nothing like popping in the plane on a whim and taking a ride, just me and my dad! It was a part of my childhood but it was also a part of my dad. I’ve grieved the loss of flying too. His brothers walked me down the isle on my wedding day. I have loved the big life events that I have experienced but the touch of grief is there still, even all these years later. The greatest thing is experiencing the comfort of Jesus, I think knowing Him in my grief is one of things that has anchored me to Him forever.
Thanks for the post!(I also spent a wee bit of time in the Philippines in the mid 90’s)
Amen to that, Charis! It is nice to meet a kindred spirit.
What a beautiful beautiful post.
Hi Kristen,
I read this post on Kirk Cameron’s blog and it was a beautiful, challenging message. Not only to dads but to all other people as well! With your permission may I post it to my blog?
perennial-notesfortheseasonsoflife.blogspot.com
God bless,
~Heather
Oh Heather, I am so sorry for not responding to your comment. I am playing comment-catch-up after moving across the country. Thank you so much for asking permission. You may always share posts as long as you site my name and link back to my blog! Thank you!
From what I can see, you have his eyes. What a perfect post for Father’s Day. Bless you.
Yes, I do!
I haven’t lost my father it my mom is no longer with us. A pain that still runs deep everyday. But I’ve come to terms with it, and understand the pain of a parent who left us too soon.
Hugs to you!
I’m sorry for your loss. I’m thankful for the experience of loss, though, strange as it seems. It has given me a perspective not everyone has. I’m sure you feel the same way. Even though I would love to have had more time with my dad, it has grown me up in ways nothing else could.
I lost my dad 13 years ago. I mark the years by the birth of my first grand daughter. No matter how old you are when it happens, the ordinary days are missed. The smile washing up one side of his face and across his eyes; his hand raking through is wavy hair, his sense of mischief, his pride in his family. Father’s Day, I hardly remember, my Dad, I keep with me always.
Oh Adela, that is beautiful. That last line–where was that when I was writing this post? Perfect.
I loved this piece. I really did. I appreciate your candor and honesty. I “lost” my daddy last year…a year ago this past Friday, June 14. My father was suffering from the effects of dementia and old age. He lived almost 89 years. What a wonderful life of love, marriage, fatherhood to six kids, ministry as a pastor for over 60 years, grandchildren, military service during WWII and, near the end, as chaplain for the NYS Veterans’ Home, where he would one day be a resident. I, a mooshy person inside, did not even cry reading this. That surprised me. I cry very little from missing my father. I adore my father, and, I was a Daddy’s girl! I DID get to be there with him during the end times. I DID get to say goodbye, whispering in his ear the night before he died. I DID keep my eyes open and take in everything I could during the visiting hours and the funeral, and graveside commital service. I did NOT want to miss a thing. I love the blessing I received by having the foreknowledge that his death was coming. We ALWAYS say goodbye before we leave one another and/or get off the phone, so I can say, with immense thanksgiving, that I did get to say goodbye and I love you to my father. I am even more thrilled, though, that I know I will see him again in Heaven one day. He is there, rejoicing around the throne of God, complete, perfect, whole, and in his right mind, loving on his Lord. I look forward to seeing him once again. Praise the Lord for that promise. Thank you, again, though, in the meantime, for speaking on behalf of countless others, like yourself, and me, too. It IS all about the little things.
So lovely. What a blessing to have so many years with him. And it is such a comfort knowing that this life is not the end. Death is conquered! Christ is victorious. Blessed be His name.
My father WAS there for me growing up…but you are right – I miss the ordinary.
Okay, I’m sitting here with tears streaming down my face! Loosing someone you love, when you didn’t even get to say good-bye has a lasting effect. A life long effect. The memories are precious, though. This is a REALLY important reminder to all of us. Thank-you, Kristie. I love you.
I love you too.
I haven’t lost my father, but I did lose my grandfather who lived with us, and I so agree. It is the ordinary that makes me miss him. The mornings when I stumbled into the kitchen and he was there with smiles and warmth and laughter and strong words of love.
It is definitely the ordinary moments that matter the most.
My father has been gone for 30 years now. Even though I knew it was coming.. I still felt unprepared. So many times I will see a sunrise, or a sunset and think of him. Or strawberry shortcake will take me back years to the time he would joke he needed the biggest one. Or music will touch my heart and connect me to him. Or even just going for a walk. It is the smallest things that I remember.. and cherish. Thanks for this post.. I loved it. 🙂
I lost my grandpa recently and those are some of the same things I miss about him. And I still can’t sing the last verse of Amazing Grace without crying because that was his favorite, and though he’s gone from me now, he’s only just beginning his life in eternity.
What a beautiful tribute to your dad! Gorgeous writing–truth spoken so eloquently! Thank you.
Thank you, Heather.
“I watched him go, that morning, you know? I watched him go and I didn’t say good-bye because I thought he’d be back.”
This heart-rending post, especially that line, brought tears to my eyes and a sad sigh to my lungs. Life is so fragile. I nearly lost someone very close to me last year and it really made me realize the uncertainty of life. Sometimes that scares me and I have to quell my feelings of anxiety. But most of the time, it serves as a reminder to focus on the here and now and to not let those moments of ordinary life slip away.
I have missed your writing; I hope everything is going smoothly with the preparations for moving.
Thank you so much, Grace. I have missed being here.
I’m sorry for your scare but thankful you did not have to say good-bye. Life is short. It’s hard to live and remember that, but it’s important to try to make the minutes count. Someday, they’ll be gone. I want a legacy that matters.