My Father

We sat looking over our menus, searching for the most appealing entree to order for lunch.  I looked over at my father.  His once dark brown hair is now thinner and nearly white, and his soft brown eyes reflect the wisdom and integrity of his soul.  He does not look quite as big and strong as in younger years, but he is far from frail.  His smile is sweet and at times a little ornery.  He sometimes wears his hearing aid that mom strongly encouraged him to buy, all the time insisting that it doesn't make a difference.

My dad and mom married over 50 years ago and he loves her dearly.  Some evenings they sit at home in the office face-booking, playing games or checking emails.  Inevitably Dad will start playing his polka music, he especially delights in listening to "The John Deere Polka."

He is a spiritual man who loves The Lord.  He is kind and generous.  When I visit him and Mom, I never go home empty handed.  He says, "take this home and use it." Or, "I got these on sale, take them home and give some to your kids and grand kids."  Dad enjoys a good meal.  Travel has always been a part of his job, and he looks forward to dining at his favorite restaurants while on the road.  At home he often dabbles in the culinary arts.  We are all quite fond of his beer bread, chili, and muffins.  He is also talented in woodworking and gardening, and has blessed his family with gifts of vegetables, birdhouses, squirrel feeders, benches and chairs.

The father of five children, he was smart, sometimes strict, and a good provider.  We had a nice home, plenty to eat, toys and clothes, and all that we needed.  His children brought him joy, and at times, frustration and heartache.  He was always there for us.  He is still there for us.  He is my rock.

We ordered lunch, and as we dined together we talked and Dad told a joke or two.  I thought about his life.
His great grandparents had migrated to the United States from Czechoslovakia, and settled in a farming community near Deweese, Nebraska.  I knew that my dad was born to a single unwed mother in 1937, and that he never knew his father. Pretty scandalous stuff for that era.  My dad, Joe, lived with his mom and his grandparents in Hastings.  His mother's sister, Chris, better known as Gracie, lived and worked on the family farm with her husband who was also named Joe.

At the tender age of 8 he lost his mother.  She died of bone cancer.  His grandparents and his aunt and uncle all petitioned for custody of little Joe.  The case went to court and the judge asked the young boy who he wanted to live with.  What an enormous difficult decision for an eight year old child to make.  The determination was made, and he moved to the farm with Joe and Gracie.  Maybe that is when they started calling him Junior.

I had seen pictures of my dad as a young boy.  I remembered some photos with him dressed in little sailor suits.  Others portrayed images of a typical childhood, with toys, bikes and kittens.  Most of the photos were from birthdays.  Dad and his mom, or Dad and Gracie standing outside in front of a tree, holding a birthday cake.  No elaborate parties on the farm, I guess.
 
Gracie did not have any children of her own so I imagine my dad worked pretty hard as a kid.  Probably gathered eggs, gardened, dressed a few hens, slopped pigs, plowed fields and harvested crops.  Dad has worked hard his whole life, and even though he is semi retired now, he is always doing some kind of work.

I remember when I was a child my dad was "always" making us work.  We had to clean the garage, pull weeds in the yard, pick up the dog poos, and do "general clean ups."  Although I thought I had it tough as a kid, I am thankful that dad made us work.  My brother and sisters and I are all hard working individuals today.  Okay, I admit, I still hate pulling weeds and my garage is kind of a mess, but I'll get it done, soon. Love you Pops!

Feeling Froggy

Facing an uncertain situation is tough.  I kind of feel like "Frogger" trying desperately to get back to my lily pad where my world is comfortable and familiar.  How do I navigate through this?   Do I try to force a resolution?  Attempt to swiftly maneuver across the highway and hope to succeed without being trampled? Frantically dodge in and out of obstacles coming from every direction?   If I move slowly and with caution I might make a miscalculation and be smacked by an unforeseen speeding truck.
How will I cross this perilous river?  Will I be able to land on a floating log that will help carry me to safety, or will I jump into the mouth of a crocodile who will devour me?  Riding it out on the back of a turtle may seem to be advantageous, but what if he suddenly vanishes and leaves me sinking?  What if I safely reach the riverbank only to be bitten by a snake?  The simple truth of the matter is that I can attempt to influence others by gentle persuasion, but in the end all I can really do is control my actions and reactions.

Everything Is Beautiful (In It's Own Way)

What a world we live in, there is beauty all around us.  God is an exquisite creator.  Look at the delightful colors and patterns in all of nature.  The striking black and white stripes of a zebra, the gorgeous blue and green feathers of a peacock, the unique markings of a calico cat, or the magnificent towering giraffe. Consider also the delicate white snowflake, the brilliant turquoise waters of the Caribbean sea, the vibrant green forest, and the bright twinkling stars in the night sky.

There are also numerous things that might not be considered beautiful at first glance, but if you look closer you may see something interesting or wonderful.  Observe the enchantment of and old weathered farm house or barn, the charm of a rugged brick road, the awe inspiring intensity of a twisting tornado, or the fascination of an intricately spun spider's web.

Of course it is true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  A chef might find a big steaming pot of jambalaya to be beautiful.  A scientist marvels at the beauty of cells and bacteria viewed through a microscope.  There are folks who find tattoos to be beautiful, sometimes the more body inked the more beautiful.

Me?  I see beauty in all sorts of things.  For instance I love old beat up mismatched cars and trucks.  What you might refer to as a bucket of bolts, a clunker, a hoopty, an ol' jalopy, or a POS.  The finish lacks luster, rust is everywhere and maybe the hood, back fender and door are all different colors.  I am intrigued by the sort of whimsical charm and curiousness they possess.  What is their story?  What situations have they endured? What fate has carried them to this extent?  Maybe the appeal is that I can relate somehow.  Events and struggles in life may have dulled a bit of my shine and some of my skills have become a little rusty.  I do not have the body I would like to have, and through the miles I have lost some speed.  But I would like to think that I still have some appeal and value.  I'll keep rolling along with determination and reliance on the "Great Mechanic."

A Gentle Rain

As I sit in my office tonight I can hear the sound of the rain gently falling outside.  Looking out my window I see occasional flashes of lightning.  Flickers of light revealing the yard for just a second or two before the cloak of darkness returns.  Droplets of water sparkle as they splash and dance on the solar lights.  The house is quiet except for the sound of the rain, and the periodic snorts and shifting noises coming from my two napping dachshunds.  Tonight my soul is quiet as well.  No berating myself about failures or issues I have yet to overcome.  Faint whispers of worriment and uncertainty come now and then, but I manage to keep them at bay.  I do have some goals that I would like to accomplish this week, and I am contemplating starting a new craft project, but tonight I am just focusing on the rain.  Just focus on the rain...