A Father's Day Post

There are a lot of things I haven't blogged about lately, but I still don't feel ready to write about them. So. Instead you get to read about my dad.

When I was young, my dad would often call me to his study and trace my hand on a page in his journal. Then he would trace his hand on top of mine, and he would write my name and age inside the traces. I'll never forget that feeling––of the pen going smoothly around my little fingers. And I would watch in awe as he traced his own hand, marveling at the difference in size. His fingers were long and strong, while mine barely took up space.

I always liked my dad's hands. I liked watching him write, too, because besides my mom and grandparents, I couldn't think of anyone else who regularly wrote in cursive. His handwriting also has an interesting slant to it, as though it belies a Midwestern accent––one from Chicago or Detroit. But he is from Idaho, and maybe that's why his handwriting slants. Maybe the slant comes from the shape of the mountains he looked at and loved every day.

My dad recently told me that mountains remind him of home. It was strange to hear, since flat lands and pine trees remind me of home. But somewhere inside––when I see jagged and rocky mountains––I think of my dad, and it feels like he is nearby, saying, "Appreciate those mountains! Even if you don't love life right now, look up! Appreciate this world!"


What a good dad he was and is, though he doesn't know it. I guess that's the way with parents; they never realize how much they mean to their children, even if all they did was give them life. I'm thankful that mine did much more than that.


Love you, dad.