Dear Dad,
On this Father's Day, I look back on our life together and I want to share a thought or two with you.
I remember how many times you spoke of your own cowardice. When there was news of war and violence, we when saw television shows that showed hostage situations, you said that you'd be worthless in those settings. When asked about the discomfort of public speaking, you replied that it never gets easier (ironic for a preacher). At the time, my little-boy intuition told me that you were just "saying that" so that fate would avoid putting you in those situations. You were so big and strong that you could stand up to anything and anybody, is what I really believed with all my heart.
I remember how you always spoke about yourself with great humility in other ways, too. You frequently expressed great regret for all the mistakes you'd made in your life. Of course, in my youth I assumed that you were exercising false humility. To my young understanding, you had never made a mistake. The fact that you won EVERY SINGLE argument that we ever had when I was a teenager and was striving for some sort of autonomy did not change my understanding.
You also often spoke of your own limited abilities. You would say, "glad to help as long as I am able," as if there would ever be a time when you would be unable to do anything that really had to be done. You were the most capable man and father, ever, I was certain.
As I got older and especially when I became a father, I began to understand that your self-proclaimed cowardice, mistakes, and limitations were quite real. I came to understand that you pushed through your uncomfortable feelings in order to accomplish what you could, however imperfectly, for those who were depending on you. I knew this about you because I became painfully aware of my own cowardice, mistakes, and limitations.
In spite of your self-deprecating words, your countenance instilled me with confidence in you as my Father. You had a rock-steady devotion to goodness for its own sake, a large capacity to concentrate, a sharp wit, a keen sensitivity to the feelings of others, and an annoying capacity to speak with great authority (even about subjects about which you know very little). Unfortunately, I inherited that tendency to offer unsolicited and unwanted preaching. And like you, I muddle/struggle my way through life with great effort, false courage, blind luck, and unacknowledged assistance from invisible sources.
Now that you are gone and I am old enough to have children that have children of their own, I want to remember you by saying thank you for all that you have given me. Because you were my father I know that real bravery is to ask for and to give respect, and that kindness is the true measure of a man's courage. I know that not only are mistakes allowed, but that they are necessary in life to learn and to grow. I know that often times, effort is more important than results. Because you were my dad I know that nothing is more important than family.
Happy Father's day, Dad. Save me a seat at the cribbage table -- we'll have a lot to talk about.
Paul Frahm 1932 - 2011
On this Father's Day, I look back on our life together and I want to share a thought or two with you.
I remember how many times you spoke of your own cowardice. When there was news of war and violence, we when saw television shows that showed hostage situations, you said that you'd be worthless in those settings. When asked about the discomfort of public speaking, you replied that it never gets easier (ironic for a preacher). At the time, my little-boy intuition told me that you were just "saying that" so that fate would avoid putting you in those situations. You were so big and strong that you could stand up to anything and anybody, is what I really believed with all my heart.
I remember how you always spoke about yourself with great humility in other ways, too. You frequently expressed great regret for all the mistakes you'd made in your life. Of course, in my youth I assumed that you were exercising false humility. To my young understanding, you had never made a mistake. The fact that you won EVERY SINGLE argument that we ever had when I was a teenager and was striving for some sort of autonomy did not change my understanding.
You also often spoke of your own limited abilities. You would say, "glad to help as long as I am able," as if there would ever be a time when you would be unable to do anything that really had to be done. You were the most capable man and father, ever, I was certain.
As I got older and especially when I became a father, I began to understand that your self-proclaimed cowardice, mistakes, and limitations were quite real. I came to understand that you pushed through your uncomfortable feelings in order to accomplish what you could, however imperfectly, for those who were depending on you. I knew this about you because I became painfully aware of my own cowardice, mistakes, and limitations.
In spite of your self-deprecating words, your countenance instilled me with confidence in you as my Father. You had a rock-steady devotion to goodness for its own sake, a large capacity to concentrate, a sharp wit, a keen sensitivity to the feelings of others, and an annoying capacity to speak with great authority (even about subjects about which you know very little). Unfortunately, I inherited that tendency to offer unsolicited and unwanted preaching. And like you, I muddle/struggle my way through life with great effort, false courage, blind luck, and unacknowledged assistance from invisible sources.
Now that you are gone and I am old enough to have children that have children of their own, I want to remember you by saying thank you for all that you have given me. Because you were my father I know that real bravery is to ask for and to give respect, and that kindness is the true measure of a man's courage. I know that not only are mistakes allowed, but that they are necessary in life to learn and to grow. I know that often times, effort is more important than results. Because you were my dad I know that nothing is more important than family.
Happy Father's day, Dad. Save me a seat at the cribbage table -- we'll have a lot to talk about.
Paul Frahm 1932 - 2011
