I wasn’t going to write today. I’ve been too busy dancing with a demon and crying at very inopportune times, like driving towards incoming traffic and pretending I’m singing my favorite Hanson song to throw off the faces speeding towards me.
These? They aren’t tears. They’re mmmbops.
But then my father called. And after I spoke to him, I had to sit down and write.
My father is the male version of me. Or perhaps I’m the female version of him. I’ve known this for a very long time on a very deep level. We have our differences, of course. He’s the guy who the entire line to Spaceship Earth knows by the time we enter the ride and who is thrown a “Hey, Mel!” as we’re walking through Epcot, whereas I’m sitting down in said line, talking to my friend. And by friend I mean reading a book. And the only time anyone says “Hey!” to me is when I accidentally walk into the men’s restroom. But besides that, we’re practically the same person.
He has a heart for greatness, just like me. It’s just that our circumstances have never gotten the memo.
But here’s the thing about my dad: he’s the hardest worker I know. And everyone loves him because he genuinely loves them. He’s taken care of his family from day one, and I always think how amazing it is in this day and age to have somebody who truly loves you, no strings attached.
So in my mind, he is great. But just like him, I have a hard time seeing this in myself.
I keep typing up those memos, but it seems like they’ve all been sent to nowhere.
So talking to him was a reminder of what great really looks like, and I have to imagine it’s the same sort of great God is on board with. A heart outward-focused and a mind tailored to the good of others.
And a soul set free from its former binds.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I seem to have an mmmbop in my eye.