“When is Dad’s birthday?”
I’m embarrassed that I just sent a text to my brother and three sisters asking that question.
His birthday always fell near Father’s Day. We combined the celebrations. So, the exact date never stuck with me.
We celebrated Mom’s birthday in February and Mother’s Day in May. He never complained that we did not do for him what we did for Mom.
Why? I wondered.
Thinking about that question helped me learn from my Father since he died.
I learned a lot from my father when he was alive, of course. I learned how to hit a nail with a hammer. I learned to drive a tractor. I learned to work hard.
All of those were important. But the things I have learned from him since he died may be more important.
How can we learn from people after they die? What can they teach us?
We learn about the art of living by reflecting on our parent’s lives.
You can look at your own image reflected in a mirror and ask, “who are you?”
You can also see your parents’ lives reflected in the mirror of your memory and ask, “Who are you?” If you do that, you will learn more about the art of living.
Looking at ourselves in a mirror, we may lean in to shave or apply makeup. We may stand back to see if we are dressed properly.
What I learned from my father from the way he handled his birthday and Father’s Day comes from leaning in to look at that one detail. When I step back I see it as part of a pattern. It was one example of a man who accepted life as it was. He accepted the responsibility of supporting five children. He accepted the long hours of running a dairy farm. He accepted the fact that a June 18th birthday means it always lands close to Father’s Day.
I learned that being religious can be more important than being “spiritual.”
My Dad was religious in all the ways that people now say they are not. He went to church. He read his Bible. He wore his suit and tie to church and made sure his shoes were shined. When I was a kid, he was not tolerant of people who did not do those things.
Some would say that’s not very “spiritual.”
But he was also religious in the way Rabbi Abraham Heschel used the word. He wrote:
“A man becomes religious when he stops asking, ‘What do I want from Life?’A man becomes religious when he starts asking, ‘What does Life want from me?'”
Seminary didn’t teach me about that kind of religion. My father taught me by milking the cows every day. I just never realized it until he had been dead for ten years.
I learned what to keep and what to throw away.
In some ways, our parents deal us the cards that we play in life’s poker game. The trick is to figure out which cards to keep and which to throw away.
I see now that my Dad taught me that I could throw some cards away.
My grandfather was a smart man and a good leader. He, too, was a dairy farmer. But, he took on leadership roles that meant days away from the farm. He did many good things for his larger community that my Dad was proud of. But my grandfather often left milking the cows to his wife and son.
My grandfather passed the leadership card to his son. Dad was active in his church. He served on the Town Board. But, one day the local Republican leaders walked back to where we were working in a field. They asked him to run for Supervisor. No one else would oppose him. The job was his if he wanted it.
He turned them down precisely because he did not want to be away from his family that much.
Years later, Jacquie said to me, “You are teaching your son to drive like your father taught you.”
“Ouch!”
I wish I were more like my father in some ways, but both Matt and I were happier when I decided to teach him to drive my way.
I only realize now that my Dad taught me to throw away some of the cards he dealt me.
We can learn some things only after someone has died.
Neighbors paid my Dad to build kitchen cabinets and weld their broken farm implements. When I was growing up, he spent his winters remodeling our old farmhouse. I watched and later helped him with carpentry and electrical wiring.
You would think I would have grown up with a lot of skills.
When I caught on quickly, my Dad was a great teacher My head was fast. He taught me how to use Ohm’s law long before I took Algebra.
But, my hands were slow. You won’t believe how long it took me to learn to hit a nail with a hammer. That tried his patience. My head and body had no connection.
He said, “You can remember anything you read in a book, but you can’t remember to turn a screw left to loosen it.”
As an adult, I felt anxious when faced with simple household repairs. I felt my father looking over my shoulder, exasperated by how long it was taking me.
But, after he died, I’ve been able to look at how things go together. I can figure out how to install a ceiling fan or repair a lawnmower. I am able to relax when I ask, “How would my Dad do this?”
We learn things that cannot be put into words.
I can’t tell you everything I learn when I reflect on his life.
I see him in my memory’s mirror . . .
. . . getting up before dawn and going to the barn when I know he has the flu.
. . . putting my young mother and two little kids on the back of a tractor and taking us for a ride through the woods just for fun.
. . . spending Saturday morning fixing the neighbors’ freezer so they don’t lose everything in it. A loss they can’t afford. Then waving off their offer to pay.
I am at a loss for words when I reflect on the most important things I have learned from my father since he died.
The most important things we learn from our parents cannot be put into words. Although the poet, Robert Hayden, may come close when he says his father taught him about “love’s austere and lonely offices.”
I learned to honor my father and my mother.
There are only two of the Ten Commandments that say “Thou shalt” rather than “Thou shalt not.”
One is “Keep the Sabbath.”
The other is “Honor your mother and your father.”
“To honor,” does not mean “admire.”
It means much the same as what I mean when I say, “I’ve learned a lot from my father since he died.”
By reflecting on our parent’s lives, we see the cards they dealt us through their genes and their examples. We learn which cards we want to keep, and which to throw away.
We also see the mystery of our own existence.
When I was young, I needed the kinds of things that they could teach me when they were still alive. How to walk and talk. How to use a knife and fork. How to get up in the morning and when to go to bed at night.
Now that I am old and they are gone, I am learning wonder.
I remember walking with my Dad from the barn to the house on a cold winter’s night. He pointed at the stars spangled across the dark sky. Millions of them. He talked about how the light we see started hundreds, thousands of years ago. I remember the wonder in his voice.
This memory and so many others teaches me reverence for the Mystery behind the existence of the universe, and my own life.
When we were first married, we had nothing. One day, my Mom took Jacquie and me to yard sale. Mom spied an end table blackened with old varnish and asked how much it was. The person said, “five dollars.”