The date of my father’s doesn’t really sneak up on me. In fact, in the years since his death, I think that I am more aware of the date than I was when he was still alive, not that I wasn’t always fairly well aware of it. Dad’s birthday is exactly one calendar month after mine, so it’s always been pretty easy for me to recall. It’s also the day on which I was baptized 45 years ago now, so it’s not a date that slips past me very easily.
I think about my father every day. That’s not an overstatement. Some memory of Dad is with me daily.
Just last week I thought of him after the Denver Broncos lost knowing he would have called to tease me about it saying some variation of “those bums are no good,” when our kitchen faucet broke he would have been the first call I made to ask advice, as I come into my office each morning before I get to work one of the first things I see is his picture is on the wall in my office above my desk, when I am talking to my kids and my voice echoes back at me it’s his voice I hear, when I think about what has made me me, I cannot help but be thankful for my dad.
Do I think about him more on his birthday? Sure I do and it’s on his birthday that I am really struck by how relatively young he was when we lost him.
But it’s the daily thinking about him that reminds me that he’s really not lost to me. He’s always on my mind.