He's 70.

(Yes, apparently my two thought this was a “goofy face” picture. Goofy is the only face they have.)

|He’s Papa|

We walked in the door and within 30 seconds the two of them were far-off in some mutually imagined world.

Dutch grabbed the telescope and instantly the front room became a pirate ship. Dad was immediately in character–whether Billy Bones or Captain Flint or Long John Silver I’m not sure, they’re all the same to me–and Dutch was Jim Hawkins.

Then this morning he was outside with the kids, hunting for wild animals of some sort, exploring the property, inspecting mole-holes.

As I type these words he’s reading Treasure Island (all 121 pages!) aloud.

Yesterday he led a treasure hunt for all four kids–Seifers and Pattersons–complete with treasure map labeled “very old”, with x’s and trails and dollar-store puzzles hidden for each child.

Earlier this week he was Tinker Bell. With amazing adaptability he transforms from scruffy swashbuckler to pixie-dusting fairy. This game is new to him so he follows Dutch and Heidi around, learning the ropes of Neverland play.

Last week he was Chewbacca. Then Darth Vader.

Next week it will be back to Lightening McQueen. Dad will do his best Mater impression, talkin’ Hillbilly-like, then switchin’ to Doc or Sarge on cue.

He builds the Lego spaceships, towers reaching to heaven. He reads the same book over and over. He goes outside, even when it’s cold, to draw chalk treasure maps on the driveway or build some wooden masterpiece in the shop. Dutch will race in, later, nose red and fingers freezing, carrying whatever they’ve constructed, beaming.

When it’s a question of Will you do such-and-such with me? His answer is always,

Yes!

—

|He’s Husband|

He shows us all What Love Looks Like:

{From last Spring} When I woke this morning at 6am, he was already gone.  My dad, that is.  I don’t know what time he left to get back to the hospital with mom.  The night before last he slept here until 12:30am and then was back by her side by 1am to be sure she was alright.  There’s no extra bed in her hospital room, so he just sits in a chair by her side. He helps her go to the bathroom. Cleans her up, gets her water, makes her laugh.  He challenges her to do one more leg lift, insists she do 10 “windshield wiper” exercises and then produces–to her great delight–a dark milky way candy bar from his jacket pocket.  Her reward.

The truth is that he is her reward.

My dad is the greatest earthly gift my mom could ever imagine. This year my he will turn 69 years old. He and mom have been married for 40 of those.  He is the hardest working man I have ever met.  When he was 15 he wanted his own bedroom so he built one on to his parents’ small house–by himself.  Bought the materials and built the whole darn thing all by himself.  That tells you a little bit about my dad.  He once wanted to repaint his car so he converted an old shop-vac into a paint sprayer and did it himself. He played college football at Linfield.  He served in the Vietnam War. He was Athletic Director and coach for more years than I can count. He built all three of our homes with his own hands … after getting home from work.

But now is the real work.

The toughest coaching job he’s ever had.

The greatest battle he’s ever fought.

Mom’s battle is his battle because they are one.  My mom has Parkinson’s, as many of you know, and just recently had her second hip replaced.  She’s having some trouble recovering, so she’s still in the hospital doing rehab.  Because it took so long to get into surgery, she spent the last 3 months unable to walk at all.  Dad, the man used to having dinner served to him for the last 40 years, jumped in with both feet–the only way he knows how too–and learned how to do it all himself.

He cooks. He cleans.  He grocery-shops. He gets up multiple times at night to take her to the bathroom. He dresses her, cleans her, and kisses her while he’s at it.  He scrubs floors, does dishes, pays bills.  He loads her in and out of the car, driving to doctor appointments.  And now he sits by her hospital bed, quietly coaching: lets do 10 leg lifts, 5 more windshield wipers, no don’t go to sleep Karen, keep at it, we’ve got to get you home. He’s spent his life with a clipboard in hand and whistle in his mouth, shouting plays and running drills and pushing athletes. Now he sits holding her hand, no whistle, no shouting, but still the most amazing coach I’ve ever known.  Ten more, Karen. You can do it, babe.

He loves her.

While there, a young nurse timidly peaks her head in their hospital room.

“Could I ask you a question?” She looks at dad.  ”You’ve been married for 40 years.  I just got married last year and I want to hear from you, because you obviously know. How do you do it?”

Dad smiled and looked at her. “Pray together every day.” He left it at that.  I dare say the rest of the sermon was preached through his 24/7 selfless care of his bride.  His life preaches whether he knows it or not.

Yesterday he asked me to stop on my way to the hospital and get her some new clothes to wear while she’s there.  I prayed my way through Target and found the perfect thing, in her favorite color.  Today on the phone dad said, “She’s wearing her new outfit and she looks hot!”

That’s love.

Not just to serve, but to lift up. Not just to coach, but to inspire courage. Not just to sleep at her side but to assure her that she’s beautiful in the midst of a most unbecoming circumstance.

This world offers us very few glimpses of true love.

But this is one.

The 4-West wing of SW Medical Center has seen a little glimpse of Jesus this past week.

So have I.

—

|He’s Dad|

I remember…

• Dancing around the May Pole. I barefoot in that long turquoise dress. You in polo shirt and PE shoes. I proud. You prouder.
• Working on my free-throws. How many times did you say,”Keep your elbow in!”  A thousand. My elbow still creeps out, Dad.
• Going to that minor league baseball game. I telling you about a guy I liked. Scared to death, I told you. “His name is Jeff Patterson…”
• You scaring many boys to death. Thank you.
• Being tiny, sitting on your lap, fingering your earlobe. I loved the feel: Soft and rough at the same time. Just like you.
• “Daddy, can I marry you when I grow up?”
• You always tearing up when you pray.
• Boat rides.
• You silly. Always silly. Riding bikes at the beach and coming around the corner to find you on your back, riding your bike upside down.
• Waving goodbye every morning out those big front room windows, waiting excitedly for that one spot when we could see you down the road. How you always knew to hold your arm out the window and wave. Knowing we were back there, waiting and waving.
• Hearing the sound of the garage door open. “Daddys’ home!”
• You getting pulled over for speeding and listening to you lecture the police offer that he should quit wasting his time giving measy 5-mile-over speeding tickets when real creeps were out in the world.  No one ever said you didn’t speak your mind.
• How you built those wooden lap-tables for us so we could have all our books and colors and papers with us on those long road trips to your basketball games.
• Watching you ref. Being about to burst with pride that I got in free to all the games because you were my dad. I thought you were a celebrity. Now I know you are.
• How you taught me to ride my bike that one Christmas, freezing cold, driveway a sheet of ice. How many miles did you run holding onto the back of the seat?
• Jeep rides up in the snow.
• The gym you built in our backyard. A gym! I still sometimes shake my head at that. Who gets to have a gym in their backyard?!
• That moment–was I nine-years-old?– after we moved from our Deardorff drive house, when just you and I went back for one last look, make sure we hadn’t forgot anything. How we stood in that entry-way.  I had started to cry and tried to hide it, then looked and you were too.  You looked at me and I could read your mind, you’d carried me home from the hospital to that house.
• Building that house on Wright Rd, how we hadn’t drilled the well yet so we had to ride our bikes to the neighbors’ house and bring home buckets of water. Showering in the locker room at school late at night. I just remember all that being SO fun, which has everything to do with you…
• All those summers in high school building decks together. All those complaints about the 3-minute lunch breaks we were allowed and the $5/hour wages I received.  You worked me hard and now I’m so very glad.

|He’s 70|

And now, you’re 70. Seventy never looked so good. God has been gracious and you have worked your tail off extending that grace to mom, us, everyone you meet. A whole hoard of folks are coming tonight to your birthday party, not because we told them, just because word spreads like wildfire when it comes to honoring a man who’s loved by all.

And you are: Loved by all. 

But the only voice I have is my own. Sure, you’re loved by all, but you’re also loved by me.

Your only daughter adores you.

Happy birthday.