Thanks, Dad It May Be Hard To Say, And You May Think He Knows, But Just Telling Him ‘I Love You’ Could Be Best Gift You Give Today

When I was 3 and petrified with fear at the rushing water in the raging creek, my dad threw a log across the broad chasm, scooped me up in his strong arms, set me atop his broad shoulders and ferried me across the torrent, shivering from fright.

I said nothing.

When I was 5 and screamed at the prowler looking in my window, he raced from his bed and chased the man down the street until he could see the man no more. I pitied the person, because if my dad ever caught him he had iron fists and would make that guy a spot on the sidewalk. My dad was the strongest, toughest man in the world.

I said nothing.

When I was 7 and cowered from the neighborhood bully, he told me to face him with determination and not let him get the best of me or I would shrink from bullies for the rest of my life. I faced him as my dad taught. I set my jaw in defiance and told him “You don’t scare me and I won’t take this anymore,” and slapped his books to the ground. He ran from me and I dutifully chased (grateful that he didn’t stop). As we passed the house with me in hot pursuit, my dad smiled at me. His face beamed with pride.

I said nothing.

When I was 12 he taught the beauty of the universe and the names of the stars, the rings of Saturn and the moons of Jupiter. Together we made a telescope to see these many wonders and I showed my telescope at the science fair with pride.

I said nothing.

When I was 18 and joined the Air Force, I looked out the train window the day I left and saw his leathery face streaked with tears and I knew he loved me more than anything.

But I said nothing.

When I was 25 I realized that the funny clothes I laughed at as a teenager, and made the butt of many stupid teenage jokes, were my old hand-me-downs that he wore to save money so that the rest of us could live a bit more comfortably.

I said nothing.

When I was 30 I watched him fight his losing battle with cancer. I watched him waste away to a mere shadow of what his mighty body had once been, and finally slip away into the deep, dark precipice of death, leaving me alone with the realization that throughout his life, and for all he had meant to me, I had said nothing.

When I was 40 I realized that he had taught me how to be a man, to sacrifice for the ones I love, to protect my boys and teach them to be self-reliant. He taught me to joy at the song of the meadowlark and the flash of yellow on the goldfinch wing, to marvel at the power of the mighty grizzly bear, and to savor the scent of sagebrush on the summer breeze.

I wanted to grab him and hug him and tell how proud I was to be his son, how much he meant to me and that I loved him more than anything, but he was gone.

I had let him go without saying anything.

His adult life was shaped by a youth that endured a bitter family tragedy, the arid Wyoming plains and the Great Depression. He was a man who was leather tough, extremely loyal, very loving, a man possessed of a legendary frugality but a man who could be generous to a fault. I wouldn’t have traded him for anybody. But I never told him.

We men are such a sorry lot. We have this macho thing that says we are sissy if we say the “L” word to the one who deserves it most. It’s OK if we say it to a woman to gain her favors, but when it counts the most we fail.

The Bible says that there is no greater love than the love of the son for his father. If that be so, there is no greater crime than to let that father slip from this life after all he has done and sacrificed.

And say nothing.

xxxx