He is like me

Taking some time to remember my dad today, on what would have been his 70^th birthday. I like to get out old pictures and celebrate his life, and what a great dad he was. I especially love pictures of him near the age I am now. I was too young back then to have many memories of him but the pictures tell me so much.

Christmas dinner 1980 rocking the 3 piece suit with a full beard

Summer 1984 helping Grandpa Art build the log cabin like a boss (I seriously almost ordered those Cortez aka Forrest Gump Nikes last year. Now I might have to.)

February 28, 1987 His 40^th birthday (I included this one because omg I turn 40 this year)

His birthday tends to be one of the most, if not the most difficult days for me of the year. It’s a day when I miss him the most. I can’t do something that I did without exception before he died – call him and tell him Happy Birthday. It’s his day, it’s always been his day, and he isn’t here.

Birthdays were special to him and I have tangible proof - the miniature gold & crystal birthday cake he gave me on my golden birthday August 23, 2000. So…first of all he remembered it was not just any birthday, but my golden birthday. Second of all he went to a gift store and bought me a tiny golden cake. How precious is that?!

my tiny golden cake

While I love the pictures and objects he gave me, there is something more that he gave me – a lifetime of memories with him. There are two memories I have of him that have been running through my mind over and over and over in the past year. They seem almost too ordinary or too simple on the surface but I think he might be trying to tell me something.

(1)

It was 2005. We were building our house in Polk City and dad wanted to go for a (long) motorcycle ride, so he decided to come see us on his bike. It was his second trip out and with the first trip we laughed because apparently I gave him bad directions (Hey, it’s not my fault if he didn’t recognize the landmarks and I’d like to just point out that in recent years I’ve gotten better with N-S-W-E directions). Anyway, I was talking to him and about to remind him where to turn and he stopped me. He didn’t give me a hard time about the directions; he just said matter of factly “Let me find you” (and he did).

(2)

We were going to Sioux City for the weekend. Hannah was about 8 or 9 months old. We drove in Friday after work and had plans to go out for dinner so we asked my dad and stepmom if it would be ok to bring Hannah to their house so she could sleep and then we would come back and pick her up before going over to my sister’s house where we were actually staying. They of course said it would be no problem. She had already fallen asleep in the car and it was dim in their living room so we decided to just lay her down on a blanket on the carpet and that way they could keep an eye on her while they watched tv (I don’t remember what they were watching but I assume “Walker Texas Ranger”). We left and returned a few hours later. We came inside and dad was in his blue recliner, holding Hannah. She was fast asleep with her head on his shoulder. I say “Oh great…I thought this was going to be so easy, sorry if she didn’t sleep well.” My dad’s response “Oh no, we’re fine. I wanted to hold her.” And he had – the entire time we were gone.

::

In these simplest of moments you can recognize what kind of father and grandfather he was. But there is a different message here for me, and for everyone he knew. It’s about our heavenly father’s love for us. I forget how deep it is. I think the world wants us to forget that, to forget that we pray “Our Father.” In these memories I feel my dad whispering 

“He is like me. He will find you. He will hold you.”

I'm sharing memories of my dad but when I look at the dads all around me; my husband, family members, friends, neighbors...at the love they show their children and how honored each one is to be a dad; this is so beautiful and profound to me. 

James Bruce Netley

February 28, 1947 – August 30, 2010