Father's Day Reflections

Father's Day is winding down, and I find myself reminiscing about my relationship with my dad and the family I grew up in. Funny how time changes your perspective. Some of the memories that seemed ordinary at the time have become the ones I treasure most. As I've reflected over the last few days, I've found myself thinking about my dad, not just the big moments, but the little ones too.

I kind of feel like my dad was an extroverted introvert. In crowds and among friends and family, he was the comedian, the prankster, the loud and outrageous person who never met a stranger. But at home, we didn't have deep conversations about life. Our relationship was not the kind where we sat around discussing our feelings.

You rarely saw my dad without a camera around his neck and extra equipment in the car. Photography was his passion. He photographed weddings, graduations, Little League games, and countless community events. His work appeared in publications, museums, and even on Sugar Cane Festival posters. But to me, it was just something he always did.

I think I was in second grade when I received my first camera. It wasn't anything fancy, but I was thrilled. On Saturday mornings, I would get up early and follow him around taking pictures. While he carefully framed shots and adjusted settings, I pointed my little camera at whatever caught my attention. At the time, I thought I was learning photography. Looking back, I realize I was learning how to spend time with my dad.

Photography wasn't the only thing we shared.

My dad spent years involved in Little League while I played softball. If he wasn't helping organize something, he was coaching, taking pictures, working concessions, or finding another way to help. Some of my favorite memories happened long before the games ever started. We spent countless hours in the backyard practicing. I would pitch while he caught ball after ball. At the time, I thought we were working on softball skills. Now I realize we were building something much more important. We were spending quality time together. I have always been told that L-O-V-E is spelt T-I-M-E and as I get older I know this to be true. There may or may not been some aggressive coaching but that is another story entirely.

In high school I was busy with friends and working and like most teenagers I did not spend a lot of time with my parents. But, my dad did try to share the athletic hobbies that he enjoyed with me. Running was one of his passions, and somewhere along the way, he encouraged me to join the cross-country team.

I wasn't the fastest runner, but I stuck with it because it gave us something in common. Looking back, I realize many of the things I chose to do were simply opportunities to spend time with him.

The greatest surprise came when I joined the Air Force.

The only other time I had seen my dad cry was at his father's funeral. Yet there he stood, trying to hold back tears as I prepared to fly out for basic training in San Antonio.

Then he did something I never expected.

Every single day during basic training, my dad wrote me a letter.

Every day.

Those letters became the highlight of my week. They weren't filled with profound life lessons or dramatic speeches. Most were simple updates about home, words of encouragement, and reminders that he loved me and was proud of me. Sometimes several would arrive on the same day because of mail delays, often repeating the same thoughts. Yet every one of them meant the world to me. In a place where everything felt unfamiliar and overwhelming, those letters became an anchor.

Growing up, my mom was the parent I talked to about everything. She knew my dreams, my fears, my heartbreaks, and my victories. I honestly expected her to be the one writing every day. Instead, it was my dad, the quieter parent emotionally, who showed up in my mailbox day after day. 

I still have those letters.

Years later, I understand they may be one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me. They showed me that while my dad may not have always expressed his feelings openly, he loved deeply. And when it mattered most, he found a way to say exactly what I needed to hear.

After my mom passed away, my dad and I grew even closer. Life brought loss, change, and challenges neither of us expected, but through it all he remained a steady presence in my life.

As I sit here writing this, I realize that my dad and I connected all along.

We just didn't do it the way I connected with my mom.

My mom and I connected through words.

My dad and I connected through doing.

Through Saturday mornings taking pictures.

Through softball practice in the backyard.

Through long runs and encouragement.

Through letters written one day at a time when I was far from home.

Through acts of love that often went unnoticed until years later.

The older I get, the more I understand that fathers and daughters don't always speak the same language. Sometimes love sounds like advice. Sometimes it looks like showing up. Sometimes it's a hand on your back when you're crying, even when you're old enough to have children of your own.

This Father's Day, I find myself grateful for the father who loved me through both my best choices and my do-overs. He always made sure I knew I was loved and that he would be there for me no matter what.

And perhaps that's the lesson I've learned most. Love doesn't always have to be spoken to be felt. Sometimes it is found in a photograph, a shared hobby, a handwritten letter, or a shoulder to cry on decades later.

... And today, whether it's your father, stepfather, grandfather, father-in-law, husband, brother, friend, neighbor, or any man who has stepped into the role of guiding, protecting, encouraging, and loving others, take a moment to let him know he matters.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads and father figures who show up in big ways and small ones. The impact you make lasts far longer than you may ever know.