In my childhood, Father’s Day was just like every other Sunday. Singing to the great big man upstairs at church where the teacher with her colorful spotted smock pranced from corner to corner of the room trying to get us all to concentrate on the to and fro of “he’s got the whole world in his hands”; dressed up in our “Sunday best,” a sort of masochistic exemplification of my father’s ability to yell and scream and tell us all that our image matters, that we need to look sharp, and that our non-collared, non-ironed t-shirts were just another means to curse our holy father; and rendered mute and cowering as the monumental martyr explained to us that Jesus would be doing quite the opposite of what we were doing.
In retrospect, this is all a bit dramatic and saddening, but that doesn’t really matter much anymore. Today, I have a Father-In-Law.
And his name is Rich Dobson.
He isn’t spiteful. He isn’t angry. He isn’t a cheat or a liar or a bigot.
He is wonderful, and I am thankful to have him in my life.
Even if, at times, it’s difficult for me to show it.
Love you dude.