Telephone Calls and Emails

Every year we celebrate Father's Day and take time out from our busy lives to honor the men who helped mold us into the people we are today. We go to church and hear talks about how wonderful Dad's are. If you attend a congregation that has children, sometimes the children get up and sing,

 "I'm so glad when Daddy comes home, glad as I can be. Clap my hands and shout for joy, then climb up on his knee. Put my arms around his neck. Hug him tight like this. Pat his cheek and give him, what? A great big kiss." (Primary Children's Songbook, 210.)

For me, this is a bittersweet day. I love my Dad a lot and today is the 4th Father's Day he has not been reachable by telephone. When he died in 2006, he had been ill for such a long time that it didn't really occur to me that I would miss him as much as I do today. I was so relieved to see that the suffering and pain he had endured for so long was at an end, that his death felt more like a blessing. But, as time has gone by, I miss being able to pick up the phone, dial my parent's phone number, and hear his voice, telling me how much he loves me and how proud he is of the choices I have made in my life.

He and I enjoyed talking to each other about the things that interested us. I remember getting a phone call one day when I was a Sophomore in college. Dad had just watched "The History of Plumbing" on The History Channel and wanted me to watch it when it aired where I was living. Amazingly, I had just watched it as well. We had a lengthy discussion on the development of indoor plumbing and the various forms the toilet had taken. We were both amazed by the design significance of the S-trap and had no idea that such a simple thing could revolutionize modern water closets.

Another time, I was the one who picked up the phone and called him. My heart had been broken and I needed to talk to someone who loved me no matter what. I needed to be reminded that I was lovable and someday, some wonderful man would want me in his life forever. He listened while I cried for two hours on the phone and cried with me because he understood how much I was hurting. He also made me laugh when he offered to have 2 of my brothers drive 2,000 miles to beat the poor guy up for hurting me. I magnanimously declined his offer.

When I was 19, I announced to my parents that I would be majoring in Art History and Curatorial Studies with a possible double major in Socio-Cultural Anthropology. Daddy was not happy. He and I didn't talk for a few months. He was convinced that I would starve or end up in an artsy-fartsy crowd, living a life that would have little purpose. His attitude changed when I explained to him what I wanted to do--and showed him the average entry-level salary for someone going into museum work. He was really supportive after he read my first research paper. From then on, Dad read everything I wrote and then asked questions about my research. He was my biggest fan and toughest critic.

Emails became our primary form of communication because I didn't have the money to make long-distance phone calls whenever I wanted. I would send him my research papers and he would respond with his notes, questions, or edits. He would write to me about things going on at home and ask questions about my friends and church service. If I heard something interesting in a church meeting or class, I would write to him and tell him what had been said with my thoughts on the subject. The few emails I kept are some of my most cherished possessions.

I moved back home 3 months before he died. We knew that he would not be around much longer and Mom really needed help. He wasn't able to sleep at night because of pain and, due to the nature of his condition, he couldn't take anything that would actually relieve his symptoms enough to sleep. There were many nights that Mom would wake me up in the middle of the night. I would go into my parent's room and sit on the bed behind Dad. He didn't want to talk and had difficulty concentrating, so I would rub his back and sing church hymns until I felt him relax. Those were tender moments when I was taught about compassion and how serving others draws us closer to our Father in Heaven.

It's interesting that when I picture Dad, I don't see him how he was in the years leading up to his death. I see him as the man who taught me how to catch a baseball and mow the lawn. I hear him say, "Return and Report" after giving me a chore or an assignment. I picture him, kneeling, in the middle of the night in our living room, talking with our Father in Heaven. I hear him say, "I love you" and feel his hand rubbing my head while we sat on the couch watching TV together as a family. I hear him singing, "Lazy bones, lazy bones. How d'ya expect to get your days work done, lyin' in the bed all day?" when I am so exhausted that I don't want to get out of bed in the morning.

I miss him every day and wish that I could call him and talk to him about my life.

One day I hope I meet someone who likes me enough that he wants to be with me forever. Then we can have the privilege of raising children together. Father's Day will be sweeter for me because I will get to see this man teach my children how to catch a baseball, sink a basket or mow the lawn. He will help me teach them how to pray, to work and to play. While I miss my Dad, I am optimistic that one day I will have the privilege to answer the telephone and hear one of my children say, "Hello, Mom. Is Dad home? I want to talk to him."