Category: Fatherhood

Posted on

Why Dad’s Last Project

After my Dad died in 2015, I became the administrator of my parents’ estate. Estate is a rather grandiose term for what they had, which was primarily a house and a small amount in a mutual fund. Mom passed away in 2011 and it was now time to liquidate their few assets and sell my childhood home. 

Dad did a lot after Mom died to get his finances in order. When any of my siblings would call or come home (they all live out of state), he would ask if there was something they had their heart on. He wanted to be the one to make decisions so I wouldn’t be caught in the middle later. Overall and compared to other friends or family, the liquidation process went smoothly. 

When people ask me what Dad did that made everything so easy for me. I told them the practical side – he consolidated assets and accounts, he made decisions about what to keep, toss or donate after Mom died, he had me and my brother on all accounts so we could easily access them after he passed away, and most importantly, he spoke to each of my siblings telling them if they didn’t want it, I was being given instructions to sell it, donate it or trash it. Not only did Dad tell me what to sell, he told me how. He said to have an auction and told me to ask my uncle for a reference. That was Dad. He thought through the details, possibilities and alternatives.

About Dad and Mom

My Dad grew up on a farm, served in the Air Force for four years and came back to Minnesota to get married. He worked in a factory for 30+ years before “retiring” and becoming a school bus driver until his early seventies. 

Dad was also a handy guy. He not only taught me how to use a hammer and nails, but showed me how to use power tools and make small home repairs. He enjoyed woodworking creating benches, chairs, cabinets, wishing wells, and so much more. Dad always had a project going. Whether it was something he would sell to friends like bird houses or something for around the house like Adirondack chairs or a spice cabinet, Dad was always creating. 

Mom was the daughter of a blacksmith. She had an associate degree in accounting and worked part-time as an office manager for a small printing company when I was growing up. She took a full-time position in retail after I started kindergarten. Although Mom used to sew many of our clothes, I think in her heart, she really liked working outside the home. She worked in the catalog department for a major department store and then moved into shipping and receiving for 25+ years before “retiring” and then working at the same school bus company as Dad where she served as an aide for bus drivers. She was never an aide on a bus Dad drove. “That is too much togetherness,” she once said. 

My parents were high school sweethearts from a small school in southern Minnesota. Their graduating class was around 50 people. Neither of my parents had fancy degrees or titles or offices with doors in large corporate towers or any of the other things commonly associated with success. Yet, when I reflect back I can easily see the beautiful and simple way in which my parents shaped their lives. 

They were quick to help others and serve in the community where they lived for 50+ years. They raised four children on “blue collar” salaries, and all of us have managed to come out fairly well-adjusted adults (not without our own battle scars of course). Three went to college and have bachelor’s and master’s degrees. One followed in Dad’s footsteps and served in the US Air Force. All of us serve in our communities, continuing that legacy from our parents. 

I am the youngest of the four. There are five years between my next siblings and me. By the time I was thirteen, it was just Dad, Mom and me. In many ways I felt like an only child. There were people who actually thought Dad and Mom had only one child since I was the only one who remained living in our home state. 

I was Daddy’s little girl through and through. I remember going to his workshop and talking to him for what seemed like hours after dinner and before bed. I confided in him my school dilemmas and boy troubles. He showed me his latest project and sometimes let me help. More often, he would just listen while I rambled. It was Dad who took me to my first movie in the theater, brought me in to get my ears pierced and showed me how to drive a manual transmission. I liked being in the yard helping Dad weed our garden or pick up sticks before he mowed the lawn. Time with my Dad was precious then and right up until he passed away. 

My Dad and Mom lived their life as an example to me, the values they instilled and how it all plays out for me today. They didn’t read or follow the advice of any authorities on parenting. They just took the small town values of a farmer’s son and a blacksmith’s daughter to how they raised us, raised me. 

Our story is far from perfect. There were deeply difficult times and several amazing memories. All the good, bad, ugly and beautiful one would expect from a family. Yet, through all of it there was practical advice, lessons learned, a commitment to serve and most of all a deep faith to ground us. 

Although Dad always had some project he was doing, in the end, I think Dad intended his last project to be me. 

Posted on

Five Years & Father’s Day

Today is Father’s Day and June marks five years since my Dad died. I’m not sure how I am “suppose” to feel about that. I often see people on social media post their grief or “miss you every day,” with some happy picture. But I can’t say I miss Dad every day, because I don’t. What I am, the feeling in the deepest part of my heart, is grateful. Grateful that God chose my Dad to be my Daddie.

There is a societal expectation (or so it seems) that one should be in a mourning on particular days or milestones, such as noting five years since a death. I did note the day. How could I forget that day? Or the days preceding his death? I don’t, and am I sure others don’t either. But to be in despair, to cry or feel the need to formally or symbolically publicly show those feelings isn’t what I want to do, rather feel I have to – as if I am reinforcing the belief my siblings vocalized or portrayed, that I am a bad daughter. So I posted the token picture on Facebook, but in my heart there wasn’t the need.

I learned a lot from my Dad. He have a gift of hospitality and welcome, which he shared generously. He was strong and gifted as a carpenter and handyman, not unlike Joseph, Mary’s husband and Jesus’s earthly father. He was kind, but could be scary with his deep bass voice when he yelled. He was my Dad, and like all of daddy’s little girls, I was proud of him.

On those days of note, the anniversary of his death, Father’s Day and just around the corner his birthday, I remember and my heart overflows. My heart overflows with joy, with gratitude and with love. For I was loved, very deeply and unconditionally.

Posted on

The Other Sacrifices Made

When I was a child, it was my responsibility to set up the nativity scene at Christmas. One of the figures in our set is the donkey. My dad often said to me, make sure he is near the hay. He’s earned his food.

As an adult I reflected on that wisdom from my Dad. The donkey carried a nine-month pregnant woman across the country in the heat, with limited water and likely little food. He had earned his keep. This led me to think about those other characters, others who helped but really weren’t acknowledge, and in some cases even mentioned in the gospels stories.

Today is Good Friday 2020. We are still in quarantine due to COVID-19, but I’ve been listening to the scriptures and reflecting on that moment when the crowd cries out and ask that Barabbas is freed, opening the path for the crucifixion of Christ. Tradition and scripture tell us Barabbas was a notorious prisoner, possibly part of the insurrection against Roman rule. And in the gospels of Mark and Luke, we are told he committed murder.

Knowing that Barabbas committed murder gave me pause, and I thought about the family and friends of the people Barabbas killed. They aren’t mentioned; we don’t even know who Barabbas murdered. But those people, those unmentioned in scripture or history, had to feel something about Barabbas’s release.

Having just come out of the grief of the loss of a loved one, believed that in Barabbas’s arrest there was some justice being served. Now he was on the streets again. Were they worried he would come after other members of their family? Would they lose another love? Would they start the cycle of grief and tears again?

My heart hurts for those people whose sacrifices are silent. Their stories and place in the gospel story, their critical role in the fulfillment of the glorious story of Christ’s death and resurrection shouldn’t go unnoticed. And I hope that by writing this, they are not forgotten. Their role may have been minor, but their fear, anger and feelings of injustice with the release of Barabbas was likely very real.

We are told in the beatitudes that “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (MT 5:4). History may have not noticed those who suffered because of Barabbas’s deeds, but God won’t and hasn’t. And hopefully, neither will we.

Posted on

Roll Away the Stone

Today is what my choir friends and I call Roll Away the Stone Sunday, named after the song by Tom Conry. The gospel is John 11: 1-45 in which Jesus travels to Martha and Mary’s because Lazarus has died.

The first time we sang this song, we repeated the refrain many times. We were captured in the moment and it felt right, spirit led to sing those words over and over, “Roll away the stone and see the glory of God. Roll away the stone.” It was as if our voices were willing the stone to move. It wasn’t forceful, it was faith-full. As we repeated the refrain again and again, out of seemingly nowhere, we hear our soloist cry out, “Lazarus, come out!” It was one of those powerful moments when chills run down your back and the hairs on your arms stand up. Even as I write this, I remember the sensation of that moment.

We haven’t been able to recreate that specific moment, but we relive it every time we hear that scripture reading and sing this piece. “Roll away the stone and see the glory of God. Roll away the stone.”

As we are staying home to protect others and ourselves during this COVID-19 pandemic, I was reflecting on this song. “Roll away the stone.” It isn’t a huge leap to start to wonder, what stones has God rolled away in my life and allowed me to see the glory of God?

To cover them all – the stones, the pebbles or rocks – is a long winding road. Many have heard the stories, some are part of those tales. Needless to say (but I’ll say it anyway) there is not a stone in my life that God hasn’t removed, allowing me to not only see but to deeply experience God’s glory in miraculous as well as tiny, every day ways.

Each year, I pick a theme rather than make resolutions. I have been doing this long before it was cool and trendy. My theme for 2020 is Glorious Unfolding, from the song by Steven Curtis Chapman (yes, music is a theme in my life). The song speaks to allowing God to unfold wonders in my life, just to trust in the journey. It calls me to stop doing what I am well known for doing – planning and being freakishly efficient and organized. Lately, I have found myself drifting back into that pattern, especially amid the stay at home order. I make my lists, I cross off items and continue to feel that sense of accomplishment.

Yet, despite the fear and unknown of this virus, I feel called to slow down. And, that is a blessing. I’ve been moving very fast for about the last five years. But now that I have settled into my home office and adjusted to the temporary moment of physical distancing, I am called to be still, to take in and to see the Glory of God.

I will miss singing this powerful song this weekend with my friends, my spiritual family. Yet, not singing has forced me to pause, to relive in my heart a powerful moment and remember the stones God has rolled away – not just for me, but for those around me. Now I ask God to reveal to me what I have yet to learn as I take this time to pause. “Roll away the stone and see the glory of God. Roll away the stone.”

Posted on

Be a Trash Collector

My Dad never had a college diploma, a corner office with a door. Nor did he ever have a fancy title. But I learned a lot from him about leadership by listening to him speak about how he was managed.

“The garbage man means more to me than some CEO.” I understand that. CEOs come and go, but if the trash at the curb isn’t picked up on week, it attracts all sorts of vermin – mice, rats, flies, raccoons. The list goes on.

I once read that communications with employees should be results-driven, strategically focused and speak to the measurable results. It is about telling your team what they need to know to do their jobs and work with customers effectively. Do you know what I say to that? Bullshit. 

Throughout my career, I’ve had the opportunity of working with executives while I held various titles. I started as an executive assistant, served as the head for corporate communications and worked with executives who were the president or general managers of a business. In each position, I’ve counselled and worked with executives on their internal communications, never more closely than I was an executive assistant. And, let’s face, executive assistants are the real advisers to any executive. They not only have access to the executive, they have his/her unwavering trust. They have to. Few things can be kept from the executive assistant in order for him/her to the job effectively.

I can say that after working with executives for over 20 years, their communications should never be about business results, but should be about about the people. But, when they stand in front of the group, they tell business results, talk about strategy, and key initiatives. They may provide some recognition, it is usually about a big win.  

I’ve worked close enough with these executives that in their minds they know the true differentiation for the business is their people. Yet, they have a tough time releasing that potential. They feel it is more important to tell the “State of the Union” then to inspire the team by painting a vision and building a culture which will sustain the success. Often, it can come across as cold, unauthentic and downright inhuman – another talking head.

I call the type of leadership that inspires and calls out the best in people Blue Collar Leadership TM. Blue Collar Leadership is getting out of the corner office and onto the production floor or walking through the maze of cubicles. Dad liked it when his boss knew how to do his job, or enough to at least give him some credibility when speaking to the team. Those leaders speak plainly and honestly. They were transparent about reality. They don’t call problems “opportunities” – they call a spade a spade, honoring the intelligence and street smarts of the people.

These types of executives build genuine connections and care for the people who get shit done every day. They recognize it isn’t the person who is in the office, but on the floor or pounding the streets who is aware of the issues, potential solutions and is willing to go the extra yard to make it happen. In part, because it will make his/her job easier. Yet, I also believe those are the people who want to help others. They aren’t looking for the next rung up the ladder, they are up and down that ladder everyday, lending a helping hands to others and they make things happen.

Throw out all you’ve read about “executive presence” or fancy MBA speak. Stop talking results and initiatives. Get real. Get honest. Get dirty. Remember, the trash collector is more important than a CEO. Be a trash collector.


Posted on

Prologue – Dad’s Last Project

It had been two years since my Mom died. Dad had finally settled into a routine. He was involved in the Loss of Spouse group at church, went to bingo with friends at a local casino on Saturdays and re-engaged in his Catholic fraternity, the Knights of Columbus. But the winter of 2013-2014 set him back.

That was the winter of the polar vortex. With life-threatening wind chills and snow that didn’t melt until June, events were canceled and people hunkered into their homes. Dad reverted to those early days after Mom died being grumpy, sad and difficult to be around. He needed a new project – something he could do indoors.

Dad liked to build things, mostly with wood. Our family home, built in 1961, had a large, tuck under garage where he would tinker away on one project or another. He made birdhouses, wishing wells, adirondack chairs, bookshelves, nightstands and many other things. He would start with a general plan, but often improvise and figure things out on his own.

That winter, I had seen a video on YouTube of a convertible bench/picnic table. I realized that this would be a great project for Dad – and admittedly it was perfect for my deck. Even if he didn’t make it, figuring out how would keep his mind occupied and challenge him. So, I showed Dad the video.

As winter dragged into spring and snow still falling in April, Dad started surfing the internet for plans for my new deck furniture. By the summer, he had an idea in his head and by fall of 2014, he started building – plank by plank and bolt by bolt, Dad built my new bench/table. It kept him going through the fall and early winter. But by the new year, Dad’s motivation started to wane. He would still work on the bench, but not as vigorously. He started to get sluggish and was often tired.

There were other things that I noticed those last months of 2014 and early 2015. Dad wasn’t eating as much, the house was getting messy (Dad had been excellent about cleaning the house since Mom died) and he wasn’t as motivated to be social. I would come to his house, notice he had voicemail, only to find he was missing his normal activities. Many of these signs were similar to what had happened with Mom when she had cancer. With those memories looming in the back of my mind, my stomach tightened and suspicions grew. Something was wrong – medically, not just emotionally.

Dad started to complain about his back and that he was wobbly on his feet. He said he often fell, but had found a way to walk around the house thanks to trim on the walls. He was also complaining he had stomach pains. I kept telling him he should go to the doctor. He thought it was just his arthritis. I said, maybe not…

Dad regularly had morning coffee with a bunch of “old men” at McDonald’s. It was a group of guys who had lost their wives or were retired. He connected with them through a man at church, whose wife was good friends with mom. His wife had entered memory care a few years back and he had formed this morning coffee group to keep him going. Dad liked hanging with those guys, and he listened to them. So when one Friday morning his buddy suggested he should go to the doctor, he went.

Dad’s primary care was given by the VA hospital. Although one of the better VA hospitals, they are still shamefully understaffed. Despite their limited resources, they were able to get my Dad in that day, providing him with genuine and compassionate care. It takes a special spirit to serve those who have served us. And, I am proud that the VA hospital in the Twin Cities was able to provide Dad care.  

During his exam, they ran an X-Ray and found a spot on his left lung. At that time, they believed it to be cancer but needed further tests to confirm.

I went to Dad’s per my usual Sunday routine. He was in the living room in his recliner. This was unusual as he typically was at the kitchen table waiting for me. I could tell he hadn’t been sleeping or resting, rather thinking. While I was there, my middle sister called. Dad put her on speaker phone and told both of us that they had found a spot on his lung, it was cancer, it wasn’t curable and that he was dying. It was Mother’s Day, 2015.

That week, I went with Dad to the doctor. His doctor sat with us patiently and pulled up the X-Ray he had from over the weekend. He pointed to the spot on Dad’s lung, which was a large mass. His diagnosis was it was cancer. “We could treat it,” he said. But that would only minimally extend Dad’s life – maybe to four months.

Dad looked at me, with tears in his eyes and said, “You might want to put Joe’s number on your speed dial.” Joe is the director at the funeral home.

There were a couple of exams he needed to go through before insurance would approve hospice care. But Dad had decided – no treatment. Just take him home.

The following week, Dad had a PET scan. Since Dad was going to have a sedative and unable to drive, I needed to take him to and from the doctor. I got him home and he went to bed to lie down. He got up to go to the restroom and while walking back to the living room, he fell down and couldn’t get up. I tried to help, but couldn’t lift him. He was weak and drugged. I ended up calling 911.

When the paramedics arrived, they were able to get Dad into his recliner. They ran his vitals, which were fine. Because we thought he was weak from the drugs, they decided to not take him back to the hospital. He rested that night and I stayed over. When I woke the next morning, he was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He had gone outside to pick up the paper from the end of the driveway and was reading it at the table. He got up and walked around. Everything seemed fine, but I was still worried. I was to leave that day to go to California for my niece’s college graduation and was tempted to cancel the trip. Dad got upset with me and said I would under no circumstances miss her graduation. So I went.

The day after graduation, we were on a wine tour in Sonoma and at the end of the tour, I received a text from my Dad’s neighbor. Dad had again fallen down and she couldn’t get him up. He was taken to the closest hospital, not the VA Hospital which is where it traditionally received care. The doctors ran the same tests and said the same thing. Dad was dying.

Over the next month, Dad was in and out of three different hospital facilities, plus a rehabilitation center. Because each hospital had to run their own tests and could not rely on the results from previous stays, I heard the same story over and over – there was a spot on Dad’s left lung. It was cancer, not treatable, he was dying. Each time, same diagnosis – and prognosis – was confirmed. Finally, after the third hospital stay, we were able to take him home. He entered hospice care.

During that month while Dad was in the hospital, he talked a lot about my bench/table. It wasn’t quite done, one thing he hadn’t quite finished. He told his sisters, his brother, he told my brother what needed to be done to finish the benches. He wanted to get home to work on it. He wanted to finish in time for my 4th of July party.

Dad died on June 12, 2015. My brother, nephews and nieces helped put the final paint and bolts on the benches. They remain imperfect and I cherish the warped table top because those benches, they were Dad’s last project.