Real Dads Show Up

As my father would say, “there’s no sense saying one thing and meaning another,” visiting your father on Father’s Day at a cemetery puts things in perspective. 

That sounds horribly sad and tragic, and although that’s not how I intend it, the process does make you step back and think. As I stood there chatting with my Dad like somehow we were better connected at that location, I realized something. It probably wasn’t necessary for me to have stopped there at all. I think of him every day, in all sorts of locations and for all sorts of reasons. So why do I still feel, years after his death, compelled to stop at the cemetery on big, significant days? I realized it’s because I needed to “show up” for him like he always did for me. It’s like picking a chunk of time and dedicating it only to him. He really was the one that taught me why the act of just “showing up” is so important.

There’s no question that losing a parent or a significant other is a gamer changer. There is your life before and then your life after and it will always be divided by this big, sad event. Life can quickly become a series of “should haves” and “would haves,” unrequited promises and apologies never spoken. For some, it becomes a time to idolize the lost one, for others, it’s a time to “nurse, curse and rehearse” everything that went wrong. Memories become imprints in your brain that can’t be changed. Sadly, these memories won’t always be all rainbows and daisies. Sometimes they are hurtful and sad and disappointing.

To be clear, I know that my father was not perfect, in fact he was far from it. I do not remember him in some perfected version of himself. He was my imperfect father and I loved him for his issues as much as I loved him for his beautiful qualities. He had his demons to fight and often he had to fight them a little more visibly than we all would have liked. Many of us get to fight out demons in the quietness of our own thoughts and behind closed doors, hopefully avoiding hurting anyone. He wasn’t always so lucky. He was far from perfect but in some ways that made him easier to love. He was so genuinely honest about who he was, flaws and all, that loving him just came naturally to many.

After decades of being haunted by all sorts of past experiences, it would have been easier for him to hide away from the world and the people he loved rather than continuing to try, but he didn’t. He tried even when most people had given up. He supported me even when most people would have given up on me. What he said wasn’t always perfect, what he did wasn’t always perfect but he always, always “showed up.”

After his retirement, he drove people back and forth to the airport in Ottawa. I remember a colleague of mine telling me that my Dad had driven her back from the airport after some kind of tour the night before. She told me that he had walked all three ladies to the respective doors and carried all of their baggage, making sure they were safely inside before leaving. “Of course, he did” I thought. And then I realized, there is no “of course”. Not everyone would do that, not even every Dad would do that, but mine always “showed up” which meant being present and kind and thoughtful.

He filled me in on one drive from Ottawa when someone was grappling with their faith, sincerely struggling and asking my Dad for advice. As a lifetime Anglican, lapsed Church-goer but forever faithful-follower, my Dad offered what he could about God and the freedom of asking forgiveness. He said he was panicking a little bit but what else could he do? He had to work through all of this with this stranger he would likely never meet again... Didn’t he? Actually he didn’t have to at all. He could have done what most of us would have done in that situation which is deflect or change the subject. The thought never crossed his mind though because my Dad wasn’t wired that way, he only knew how to “show up.”

If you know me at all, then you’ll know that I had my Dad wrapped around my little finger. He really couldn’t help but say “yes” to me He really would do anything for me and I never doubted that he would try his best, whatever the situation. I remember him coming to my house to replace the washers in my kitchen faucet. In typical Glenn-style, he replaced one side, put everything back together again and left me the supplies to do the other side myself. As a Dad he understood three things perfectly: his lot in life was to help me with whatever I needed, he had to teach me to do these things on my own for when he was no longer physically able to “show up” and to keep me from ever feeling dependent or lost. As a result, even in death, he is still able to “show up.” (A fourth thing would be that he knew was that he had to supply every little item I might need in order to make it so easy for me to complete a task that I couldn't help but do it on my own… he knew me.) I changed the washers again three days ago. Once again he “showed up.”

He never would have put into words that the quality he most appreciated in people was the ability to “show up” but I really believe it was. A few years before he passed, he was very sick and in the ICU. He was miserable in there, bored out of his mind and scared. I would visit him every day and the only time he would become the animated story-teller I knew and loved was when he was talking about his new friend, a robin. I swear. I heard about how this bird would arrive on his window sill each morning at 6 am and would hang out for a while. One day he had a worm in his mouth, one day he got chased away by crows but came back later. He would admit that he looked forward to the visit from his feathered-friend every day. Why? Because he could count on the bird to always "show up."

This man wasn’t my beautiful father because he was perfect. He wasn’t my father because he always did the right thing or bought me a new car (though I suspect I could have negotiated it). He wasn’t the father I loved because he always made the right choices or because he always said the right things. He was my father because I could say every day, with absolute certainty that he loved me. I knew this not because he said the words or gave me hug (though he did those things) but because he always “showed up.”

It’s funny that it has taken me so long to figure out that we all just really want people to show up. We want to know that no matter what we say, or do, or what mistakes we make, that the people we love will still continue to be a part of our lives. Call it unconditional love or call it commitment, the best thing we can do for those we love is just to continue to "show up."

My father was a husband and dad first and foremost. Despite anything else going on in life, that was his truth. He chose it every day. As I now am surrounded by peers who are fathers in their own right, I realize the best thing they can do, is “show up.” My dad didn’t support me because he felt obligated, but because the idea of not supporting me never crossed his mind. Biology doesn’t make great fathers, commitment does. Being in the right place at the right time doesn’t make great fathers, showing up – phones off, distractions ignored – that’s what matters in the end.

I am a card-carrying crier. Pretty much every emotion I feel bubbles up and comes out my eyeballs (another quality I got from my Dad). As a result, it is not at all unusual for me to still shed a tear or two over my Dad. I used to feel badly about it, like somehow I wasn’t managing my grief appropriately or was stuck in the past. What I have come to realize, however, is that I still cry when I think about him because our connection was that great. He left that connection behind and when the day comes that I can’t hear his voice as easily and begin to forget what his hug feels like, I’ll still feel in my heart what I felt when he was still here. Each time I have a memory and feel something; shed a tear, laugh to myself, drum my fingers on the steering wheel… it’s because he’s still “showing up.”