From the time we are old enough to know what’s going on, we
most certainly approach Mother’s Day and Father’s Day from the perspective of a
child. After all, we’re not yet parents, and our entire being revolves around
our relationships with our parents.
This changes once we have children of our own. Then we become the focus of the day, so much
so that our parents are the ones giving us the gifts. No child can really give
a gift on those first few Father’s Days, unless you count soiled diapers and
regurgitated baby formula. But that’s okay. Even these gifts are much
appreciated and go with the wonderful new territory of parenthood.
As our parents age it seems we once again think of ourselves
a little less as parents and come back to the role of the child. At least I
realized this week that this seems to be true for me.
This realization came when I brought my dad down to my house
Friday afternoon so that he could watch me plant a “garden.” I use the term
garden loosely. I had randomly during
2-3 shopping trips picked up a couple of tomato plants and several pepper
plants. These had been sitting around in their pots and needed to be planted
lest they die. As bad as this practice has been, I hadn’t even made it this far
during the last eight or nine years. So
I asked my dad if he wanted to come down and help me plant my tomatoes and
peppers, to which he semi-enthusiastically replied “yes.” And so my garden was
born.
My father recently gave up his apartment at the Foxwood
Springs retirement center and for now, is residing in the skilled nursing
center in the same complex. This was a
difficult step for a man who had been a very independent and healthy individual
for most of his almost 95 years.
For as long as I can remember, until this year, my father
had planted some sort of a garden. During my youth his plantings were sometimes
monumental agricultural efforts, especially given the suburban context in which
we lived. He would plant tomatoes (state fair quality), peppers, onions,
lettuce, radishes, cucumbers, and even strawberries. Some years he’d plant
okra. I never really understood why.
If I pause for a while, I can still see him out with his hoe
weeding his garden. He would come home from work, and change into some bright
red shorts while leaving on his undershirt (now we’d call it a “wifebeater”).
He’d slip on a sort of hybrid loafer/tennis shoes which were always accented by
his trademark knee-high dress stockings. He only had one style of socks—both
equally placed into service for gardening or as his Sunday best. I never
understood why he wouldn’t wear white, knee-high tube socks. My kids shake
their heads at me today for what I’m sure are much more grievous fashion faux
pas.
Few things characterized my father as did his garden. It was one of the few
constants in his life, and even as his living conditions became less
independent he still managed to set out at least a pair of tomato plants each
year. So it was sad for me to see him without a garden this year, and I invited
him down so that we could both give each other a bit of a gift.
I checked him out of Foxwood Springs and we traveled the
thirty or so minutes to my house. The trip had its challenges, but I eventually
managed to situate him in his wheelchair near where he had recommended I plant
the garden. His desired location was not necessarily mine, but on this day,
this was his property to do with whatever he wished.
He talked to me about the necessity of pairing the plants of
cross-pollination purposes. He discussed with me the proper separation between
the tomatoes and peppers. He kept
telling me to plant a pepper in a
particular corner of the plot. I really did not want to plant one there, but I
finally relented, reminding myself that this was his day and that he was
blessing me by allowing me to sit as his feet.
I was struck by the reality of how sometimes a father’s
instructions are met with, at best, indifference, and at worst, disgust. I
thought about how many times I had been uninterested in the things that he was
interested in, and regretted that I did not take more time to learn from him
while I was young.
The shocking realization for me Friday is that not only did
I not bristle at my father’s subtle and sweet commands to “do this,” or “don’t do that,” I actually
craved them. It seems as the time draws near where he will no longer be able to
offer advice or instruction, I long for the thousand opportunities, squandered
so many years ago, to learn from him.
After our afternoon of gardening I drove my father back to
Foxwood Springs where he wheeled himself into the dining room for supper. I bid
him farewell, and I drove back home to clean up the mess I had made that
afternoon as he looked on.
It was disjointed afternoon in many ways, and one that
produced a good bit of regret. But it was also a blessing, a realization that
it was not too late to learn from my father.
One of the greatest gifts from our Heavenly Father is that
of our earthly fathers. He gives a picture, although veiled, dim, and
incomplete, of Himself. He shows us a shadow of His incomprehensible love and grace
through giving us our earthly fathers.
And, perhaps best of all, He promises that what earthly
fathers and sons could not do perfectly, He does perfectly as He redeems us and
refines us, putting to death every regret, every wasted moment, and every
squandered opportunity here on earth.
May the regret and waste and squander of this life dim as we
behold Him face-to-face.
