Dear Dad

By David Yancey

“You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” I remember rocking out to a song by Cinderella that used those words in its title. I also remember you telling me that Joni Mitchell sang a song with much the same meaning. Now the words have an entirely new meaning or maybe the same meaning… just a bit more personal. Because now you’re gone and I’m not sure I realized how much it would hurt now that you are. I’m not sure I knew what I had, until I didn’t have you here anymore.

Looking back now, I realize that many of our conversations revolved around what I had accomplished in life. At the time, I thought I was sharing my successes with you. Now I wonder if I was—really—just trying to impress you. Many of our conversations were about my views instead of a discussion where I learned more about you.

There are so many things that I wish I would have said, so many times I wish I had taken the time to sit down and really talk with you. There were questions I wanted to ask, questions I carried for years, but I was always afraid that asking them would hurt you.

So, I never did.

I grew up thinking that I was never good enough. I wasn’t good enough for school. Not a good enough student, employee, friend…son. That bled into my adult life as well. I wasn’t a good enough husband, partner, or dad. I remember you and mom writing me a letter telling me how proud you were of me, and I cherished it—but I didn’t understand it. You told me around the dinner table when I would visit, or on phone calls. When I did call, that is.

I went through a big part of my life thinking I had to become something more, when all along, you were proud of me, just because.

I would have asked you why you always read the newspaper or watched the game, while mom spent her energy in the kitchen cooking dinner or doing the dishes. I even set the rule in my own household that if the kids’ mom was busy cleaning, then they were up helping. I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that your reason wasn’t because it was the “woman’s job” but rather because it was what mom wanted.

Why didn’t you teach me about finances? You were so good at them, how you set everything up, never spent more than you could afford. And yet, I have had to come to you so many times through the years for help. It wasn’t until years later when I finally stopped to see that all along it wasn’t you not teaching me, it was me not listening to you.

I have a confession to make. Dad, I spent so much of my life confused, hurt, believing that you were a dad that never taught me what I needed to know. I’ve always known you were a good dad. But also, for years I thought you were only a dad that taught me how to play basketball, throw and catch a baseball. I only believed you were there to teach me how to fish, pitch a tent, or drive and change the oil in my car.

I never thought you taught me what it meant to be a man.

As I got older, I slowly began to realize that you did teach me all along. Not with words, but by the example of who you were. I just needed to start listening to you with more than my ears. To see the lessons, you had been teaching me my entire life.

You did teach me what it meant to be a man, to care for and protect my household. But why didn’t you teach me how to find a woman, a partner, a wife? You never taught me what to look for in a woman, only how to be when she was here.

I didn’t listen; I don’t believe I understood what you were teaching me then.

Yes, I knew what it meant to be a gentleman—opening her door, walking on the side of the road closest to traffic. But I’m not so sure I protected my household, beyond simply providing. I’m not sure I led my household in the ways they needed me to lead. I know I wasn’t the husband I needed to be, nor the dad my kids deserved.

You were Dad. I’m not sure I fully understood what that meant until much later.

But you were.

So here we are Dad, or rather here I am. I came into this thinking that I was going to just air it all out.

Let you have it so to speak.

What ended up happening is that all the questions I wanted to ask you, questions of “why you didn’t” only I realize that you did all along.

So, my confession—part 2.

I am the man I am today because of the man you were yesterday. It took me a while to get there, but I am here because of you.

You taught me to be the leader.

You taught me to be a man of integrity.

You taught me to speak my word and stand by my word.

You taught me to trust in God and to lean into Him.

You taught me Dad and because of that I am who I am.

So, thank you for being you, a man full of love and one who stands by his word. A man who loved his wife, mom, more than any other could ever imagine. A man who lost those he never should have yet still grew in his life. A man who loved his kids and taught them lessons of life and how to have fun. A man who loved.

Thank you Dad.

I love you.