Father's Day

It is sometimes difficult to know how to approach Father’s Day.  Do I approach it from the perspective of a father, or do I approach it from the perspective of a son?

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.