Remembering Daddy

My brother Richard and I were talking about him only last night; today is our dad’s birthday. I’ve written about him a lot, both here and in my books. Only in the four mysteries, he wasn’t called by his name, Bob Day, rather, he showed up here and there as admirable traits in male characters, especially the heroes. Because, to me, that’s what he was: my hero. He was, and still is, the pattern by which I measure all other men. And I can’t resist mixing  a little of his honesty, strength, and trustworthiness into the character traits of fictional heroes.

It’s hard to write this morning because my mind is so full of the horrible happenings in our own country and around the world; the hideous death of the journalist, for no crime at all, just pure evil personified in his killers, the terrible persecution of Christians for no other reason than their belief in Christ, the civil unrest in America and agitators who preach mistrust, hatred, and stop their ears to the voice of reason, laws and ordinances passed that chip away at individual freedoms, a little here, a little there. And, I wonder what Dad would say about all of this. In the first place, he would probably feel as I do, bewildered and disbelieving but he would not equivocate with evil. Right is right and wrong is wrong. How can a person negotiate or bargain with things that are wrong?

I don’t remember Dad ever yelling at me or storming through the house. He spoke quietly but with conviction and we, his children, knew that he was right. We didn’t argue. He always carried through on what he said he would do. Not only to his family, but to all who knew him, his word and his handshake were as good as a written contract. I never heard him utter a curse word or tell a lie. And, lest you think he was formidable and unyielding, let me say that he enjoyed a laugh as much as anybody, loved to sing and dance an Irish jig, and his favorite pasttimes were playing checkers and horse shoes. When I was a child, I would climb up on his knees and listen to the ticking of his pocket watch. I don’t know why that was such a big thing to me; maybe it was because I felt completely safe and comfortable when I was near him.

Anyway, this morning, I remember Dad and all the things he stood for. I remember that goodness and right still exist in this world. It is comforting to know that there are people for whom honor and truth and strength of character still matter. I remember the words of St. Paul, “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” (Philippians 4:8) That might be what Dad would say, if he were here. It’s his birthday, but it seems to me that I am the one who received the gift, the things that he taught me.