Dad

Four Generations - Thanksgiving 2016

It is said that young daughters believe that the authority of the whole world rests in their fathers. Growing up, this was doubly true for me.  My father, Jack Ryan to his friends, Jackie to his mother, and John G. to strangers, was a man that I saw live a life filled with authority.  He was a manager at work, a deacon at our church, and a strong member of our local community.

My mother, a type B, traditional, Catholic woman of Mexican descent enjoyed the safety and steadiness of my father’s structure.  She would later tell me that her father was the same--patriarchal and strong.  To me, my father's rules were old fashioned and rigid.  Dad was from a different world, I reasoned, a generation that was fading away as mine was taking shape.  Instead of trying to be the perfect daughter, I challenged every boundary that my parents lay down.  I was bold, sneaky, and filled with the classic deceptive attributes of a rebellious teenager.  When I was twenty-three, I realized I was wrong. 

Big time.

It is impossible to entertain any thought of my father without thinking of how he endured these young adult years.  He was strong, unwavering.  He never budged.  

At twenty-five I married Mario, my beautiful mercy straight from God.  I couldn’t believe he loved me—but he did.  As our kids grew, I saw him be a father in very similar ways.  This is what makes me smile now.  The attributes I absolutely challenged growing up are the ones I considered to be golden to our family.  These strengths made the men in my life lead their families in an upside-down world.

When Mario and I moved to Africa, we began a life of being full-time ministry.  During this time, my father was a great source of wisdom to us.  He charged us not to neglect our own spiritual lives for the sake of ministry—because he knew how easy it was to get lost in the work.  When it was time for us to come home, he made it clear that he thought it was a good decision.  His counsel over the years has been unequaled.

Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen), the author of Out of Africa, once said about the male species: “Man reaches the highest point of lovableness at 12 to 17 — to get it back, in a second flowering, at the age of 70 to 90.”  Today my father is 83—and I agree that he is in his second flowering of loveableness. 

Today my Dad is reflective, wise, and easy to talk to.  He beta-reads most of my writing, which I ask him to do because he is such an avid reader.  He is also unafraid to tell me when my work could be better.  Oh, the nerve!

Happy Birthday, Dad.  You cannot imagine how grateful I am for you.  You are one of the greatest heroes in our life –and I get to be your daughter.  I love you!

Dad surrounded by family

grateful

“Do you mind if I turn on sports?”  Mario has cooled the room down to 60 degrees and I’m wearing a jacket now.  My side of the bed (and my desk) is next to the cooler, which he has graciously shut off.  

We’ve just returned from a big bar-b-que party at Vince’s house (he smoked lots of meat and Rikki even made her potato salad – even though she’s so pregnant) to our hotel room, a simple suite that I am grateful for.

“No, I guess not,” I manage to sound frustrated.  Watching sports is not a pleasurable thing for me and unfortunately it shows. 

“I don’t have to watch it,” he offers.

“No, go ahead.  I’m not writing, so the noise won’t bother me.”

After a drive-by of twitter and facebook (my phone has no service so instagram has been a no-go), I can’t help but pull up word and spill.  Spill what’s inside of me on to the page.  Spill out the day and the desires and dreams inside.  It’s just a blog, I think.  Just a quick note about my day; a journal entry that others can view...  just a blog.

In this blog I will say that my first-born son is about to have his first child be born into this world.  Her name will be Scarlett Star.  We’ve just come from Boston to celebrate with my Dad – 80 years - and now I’m about to have a baby granddaughter.  I feel like I’m walking down a hallway between Mars and Jupiter and am able to touch both planets – able to see my life stretch out on both sides and smile.

I want to be truly vulnerable and say that there is no way in the world that I should have been given the gift of travelling with my parents to Boston and celebrate Dad’s eightieth birthday.  Because of my history with him, I am blessed that my father even talks to me.  Instead, God has given us so much grace that we had a vacation of love and beauty.  I came away feeling privileged.

On the other side of the hallway is my son Vince.  Because of my history with him, my son shouldn’t even want me around while Rikki is getting ready to give birth to their first child.  Instead, I am welcomed, like an honored guest and am given the gift of being here – being alive and wide awake for this beautiful time.  

Again, only by the grace of God.

I am here with my husband, the best guy I have ever met in my life.  He loves sports and our room is freezing cold because he likes it that way, but he is beautiful and tender and he adores me.  Why?  The grace of God.

God’s grace is elastic and beautiful.  It goes on and on after rejection and tragedy; pain and bitterness.  It goes on to hand us long-stemmed rose bouquets after terrible defeats – it brings us full circle in relationships because God is all about restoration.  I am flexible because of it; and others around me love me because of it.  It truly is the best gift I can ever receive.

For that, I am grateful.

51

I used to have a tradition of running a minute for each year I’ve been alive on my birthday.  The last time I did this was when I was 44.  I ran for 44 minutes without stopping, sucking wind the last four minutes and nearly dying.

It occurred to me the absurdity of my birthday tradition.  I can’t imagine myself at 80 years old running eighty minutes without stopping. 

Today I turn Fifty-one.  I’ve lived fifty-one years and it’s taken this long for me to appreciate a word that has defined my year: Gratitude.

It seems a simple word, really.  It’s something we’re all encouraged to have, especially around this time of year.  But it has a different definition than thankfulness, indebtedness or appreciation.  

Gratitude, by comparison, is accompanied by a feeling of awe.  It’s the glow of a person that has been given a clean slate, a second chance.  It lives in the heart of a person who’s just beaten cancer or survived a gruesome car accident.

It’s a word that comes with an attitude of grace and a change of life.

At the beginning of this year, I realized I was slowly killing myself.  It would have taken awhile, but my journey into the 50’s was a depreciating, exhausting duty dependent on  exterior forces to bring me peace.  Each person battles deep within themselves to find significance and value, and I was losing that battle.  I believed wrong things about myself and made a lot of excuses for the way I was.  In short, I was becoming bitter and it showed on the outside and came out of my mouth when I talked. 

No matter how together people look on the outside, they can be in pain.  Inside they are warring to find a balance and a place where they can receive peace and change that lasts.  This year, I surrendered, fell through the narrow passage of the funnel and landed on my back.  What poured down on me was grace.  

Blessings. 

I took a deep breath and began taking responsibility for my side of things.  My new way of life isn’t about eating or drinking, it’s mainly about how I’m processing things.  My new life and my new way of processing both joy and pain are so foreign to me that I have to keep practicing.   

So at fifty-one, I am being born all over again.  At the same time, I am dying.  

Today Mario took a picture of me getting ready for a run.  I am ready to go, my dogs nearby me.  I was tempted to photo-shop out all of the wrinkles and bulges, but I didn't.  

Instead, I looked closely at it and I was grateful.  The woman in the picture is precious and she’s full of flaws.  She’ll try her best to do a bunch of things that are in the end, too hard for her.  Instead of medicating her pain, she’ll feel it.

I love her and she finally knows I do.  

Happy Birthday to me. 

Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  Romans 8:37-39 (NKJV)