Characters

One of the greatest joys in my life these days is the chance I have to spend time with my sweet girl — my granddaughter — Whitney. One afternoon this spring we took a stroller ride along the lake shore, just before it came back to life for the summer. It was a memory I'll never forget, and one she was too young to remember. No matter — there were smiles, fresh air, she tried to "eat" the breeze as it blew by, and I'm quite sure I sang a few songs as we walked. Yes, I am rich. One day I hope she thinks so too.  

Now that father’s day has come and gone, I can finally write — not because the calendar says so, but because I mean it. My dad’s a real character. Everything about him proves that — his enormous musical talent, his corny sense of humor, his magician-like ability to create a masterpiece out of trash can lids, kazoos and power tools, his unending love for his bride. He’s not a demonstrative man, not apt to give casual praise or deliver prepackaged sentiments just because it’s “time to.” But he is very likely to look you in the eye, wait a beat so you know he really means it, and then say with voice breaking, “you did great” or “we’re proud of you” or “that was your best ever.” He taught me about value, purpose, honesty, humility, pride, and perseverance. He taught me to work hard and long, and to do it with passion. He taught me that excellence is worth pursuing. He taught me that heart is even more valuable than excellence. He taught me never to settle, never to give ...

I opened my personal email account the other day thinking I would rapid-fire delete some news updates, ads, and frivolous forwards, and then move on with the important events of my day. I was wrong — seriously wrong. Staring at the screen, eyes blinking, tears streaming, the lump in my throat grew so big I thought I was going to choke. The message in front of me was both direct and profound: "Today, by the grace of God, is 90 days sober." As I read it, a thousand pictures flashed through my mind. From a distance I have watched him wander on this long, silent, solitary journey. How long has it been? Months? Years? More than I know is all I know. I’ve watched him win, and stumble, and struggle, and win again. I’ve counted the hours on his long dark nights. I’ve imagined the excruciating images and memories he has tried to snuff out. And I’ve wondered how many mornings he woke up feeling like a hopeless failure. He’s not. Especially not this morning. Not even slight...