When Hallmark Just Won't Cut It

Dipping into the archives, once again to link with emily at imperfect prose:

 

It was hard picking out a Father's Day card the year my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

There were the usual funny cards about dads who golf or fish too much or drink too much beer.  Some of the cards poked fun at the ridiculous clothes some dads wore.  And while my dad had a polyester giraffe shirt which lives on in both family legend and photographs, these cards didn't quite capture the sentiment I thought needed to be expressed.

So I wrote him a letter.  It read, in part:

When (the beloved Swede) and I were trying to adopt (our daughter) we had to each write an autobiography describing our families, our childhood memories, etc.  One of my clearest memories of you is an incident that took place when I was probably about (my eldest niece's) age.

You had a collection of old bottles down in that room in the basement beneath the kitchen.  I was certain that those bottles were priceless antiques--probably worth millions of dollars.

One day, I was down there bouncing a ball around, and I knocked over three of your bottles and broke them.  I was devastated.  I'm sure that I was afraid of getting caught, and for a moment, considered trying to clean up the glass and destroy the evidence.  But I also remember that my heart was broken because I thought I had ruined something that was precious and valuable to you.

You came downstairs before I'd had a chance to do anything.  Through my tears, I told you what an awful thing I'd done.  You simply put your arm around me and told me that everything was okay--that it was just a pile of broken glass.

I've thought a lot about why such a small incident has had such a big impact on me, and why it is so memorable.  As I think about my childhood, I think that it was truly a defining moment--a time when I realized that my daddy truly loved me, unconditionally.  I learned that you would love me whether I was good or bad, and that I was precious and valuable to you.

I also think that, in some deeper way, that incident taught me something about God's love for us, His children.  I think that you gave me a glimpse of what God is like--as a loving Father, standing with his arms open, wanting us only to be honest with Him about what we've done, offering to Him our broken hearts and, in the same way that you showed your love for me, He draws us close to Himself as His very own children.

I keep this letter in a file along with other notes, pictures, and clippings--fragments of my father's life.  He no longer has a brain tumor, having been healed utterly and completely of all sickness, sorrow, and death on December 11, 1992.  Now he lives with his heavenly Father, having been welcomed with open arms.

(Originally posted June 20, 2010)