About 362 days a year, I’m fine. But every now and then, I miss my Daddy. Deeply, fiercely. And – like tonight – it usually blindsides me. I was on Facebook tonight and saw a post from my brother-in-law that contained the words “George W. Truett Chair of Ministry”. My dad was named after the preacher George Truett. And, simply reading his name, I lost it.
I miss my Daddy. I want to hear him sing “Mona Lisa” in his beautiful and rich voice, watch LSU football with him, and ask his advice. And I wonder what he would say about my boys. He knew my stepchildren, and that is a tremendous blessing to me. But he never knew Daniel and Ethan. They never sat on his lap.
My sister, Karen, used to say he would have called Daniel “Danny Boy”, even though I would have insisted on Daniel. He would have been proud of Daniel – loved his independence, celebrated his elaborate thought processes. And Ethan’s smile would have captivated my father, the joyful man whose lap was irresistible to any child in a one-mile radius.
I miss my Daddy. And tonight, I just wish I could talk to him. I’d like to hear his wisdom. The kind that can only be gained by experience, by making mistakes, by living. If there’s one thing my father did well, it was simply living in the moment. At age 18, he was sent to World War II. And somehow he managed to find life there. Once or twice, we were able to finagle a story from the war out of the man who just didn’t talk about it. There are a few things I remember from those discussions (aka, interrogations), and I’m willing to share 3: 1. He was a boxer , though an opening act, and it was important during the war in Europe (google boxing during World War II), 2. Once his platoon (guess I’ve got that right) were in Germany and happened upon a house with a lovely wine cellar – they helped themselves, and 3. There was a moment when he was ordered to shoot down a German plane. It was so close to him that he could see the young pilot. His gun jammed, and he was always thankful for that.
I miss my Daddy. I had 31 years with him. Enough to learn the man he was. Enough to see what I could be. Enough to stand on a strong foundation built by the love of my father and mother.
But tonight Ethan asked me why my face was sad. I just miss my Daddy. And what we have is never enough, is it? It should be – since I had what many children of the world can never imagine – a loving home, a normal childhood. The thing is, in case you didn’t quite catch it, tonight I miss my Daddy.
Oh, the questions I would ask him, if he were sitting across from me in my living room, feet propped up on the recliner! I can almost hear his kind voice. I think he’d tell me to trust myself. I suspect he’d challenge me to live the life God gave me with integrity. And maybe, just maybe, he’d sing “Mona Lisa” for me one more time.