Thinking of Dad, on the anniversary of his death

Dad died 26 years ago today. I don't always remember the date, but his memory is rarely far away.

Is funny how we measure ourselves. We check out our neighbors' homes, yards, cars, clothes. We try to fit in, mostly. There's a magnetic pull toward common values, a common language of sorts, so we listen to the same songs on the radio, cheer for the same teams, pledge allegiance to the same flag.

We want to live a shared story, where there's a place for each of us, and no one is alone.

On the other hand, we want to be noticed when we excel, when we stand out for achievements that stretch us. The captain of the team, the spotlight center stage, All-State band, the promotion, the scholarship, the award.

I find myself, fairly or not, measuring myself against my dad. When he died, he was only a year older than I'm about to be. When he was my age, he and Mom had two kids in college, one in high school, and one in elementary. He'd been a college chaplain, church choir director, college professor, and Dean of Faculty, and Vice President of a college. A year later he'd become President of one of our church's divinity schools.

I don't feel as old now as I thought he was then. But when I look at his pictures, he looks younger and younger. I'll outlive him in another year and a half. And in some odd way, even though the things I've done are different than his, and he's been gone more than half my life, I feel closer to him now than ever.

Instead of measuring myself against him, as if it's a competition, I'm measuring the space between us. And it's shrinking. I'm feeling more connected to the church he loved and served, more a part of something larger. I wonder if he felt these things as he got into his late 40s. Perhaps.

Dad, I miss you. But I'm glad I'm part of Jackson's life, and Katy's, and I'm glad to call myself your son.