daddy

There's no guide or rule book for the journey I'm about to embark on. Journey is a term I use loosely here, because this thing I'm about to do is something I've thought about since before I can remember. This post and the emotions it contains are about a subject I've alluded to in the past, but never had the right words or felt the right time to openly talk about. For the sake of full disclosure, I'm still unsure if this is the right time or forum, but here goes...

I've never met my biological father. Here I hesitate to use the word father, but by definition, that's what he is. When people close to me find out the dad I grew up with is not my biological father, they incorrectly assume, oh so he's your stepdad? Guarded and protective more-so for his well-being than my own, I bark back, no he's my real dad - just not a contributor to my stellar DNA.

I think we all knew the day would come where my curiosity and longing to meet the man that walked out on my mother and I 29 years ago would creep back into my life and cause the potential to break the heart of the only man that has ever stuck by my side through every trying moment of my twisted adolescence - the man who means the most to me in this world, my dad.

I remember the days of Jerry Springer when families would tearily be reunited on stage for the first time and all the happiness and emotion that came along with these talk show varieties. Even as a young girl when I imagined meeting my biological father, my dreams never went down that path. I was lucky enough to know from an early age, that no matter a man left me when I was young, another man stepped in when he didn't have to. But because he wanted to. And because it was God's plan for our lives.

Even at my highest possible level of anger and what I thought then was hate towards my dad, watching these shows and seeing girls run across stage with a barely audible sobbing "daddy" as they ran into their arms, never seemed fitting for me. I've yet to understand if this was all part of the talk show act or if these girls were really happy to find these strangers. Strangers -that's exactly what they are. These men that due to whatever circumstance had no ties to them other than a few genetic markers and perhaps an unlikely but potential kidney match.

I've thought about searching out my biological father more times than I can count and even started the process and mailed a few letters to what I hoped was his correct address years ago. Finding this man is not an essential piece of my happiness, as I can assure you I have lived and will continue to live a happy and fulfilling life with love from two supportive parents.

So when I do meet this man, and I hope for closure and the sake of understanding that it happens sooner rather than later, I'm not going to run to him with open arms calling anything other than his first name. I'm not going to cry or curse at him and tell him how walking out on me ruined my life. I'm going to ask for understanding, get to know him on whatever level I deem appropriate at the time, and then thank him. Thank him for walking away and allowing my mother to find true love. Thank him for walking away and letting me see what a long-lasting loving marriage looks like. Thank him for allowing this amazing man to let me call him daddy even when I wasn't deserving and didn't fully understand what that word meant.

While writing a blog post about such a personal and emotional topic may seem unorthodox to most, my dad and I have always had a special relationship. Delicate words and intimate moments are not so much our thing, but his feelings, his understanding and blessing of what I'm doing is of the utmost importance to me.

I want him to know, I need him to know that the word daddy is reserved for him and only him. That when the day comes to walk me down the aisle, there isn't even the slightest question or hesitation in my mind as to who will be by my side. My wish, my prayer tonight is that he is just as certain of those things as I am.

.jl.

My Hero.

The man pictured to the right is my dad. My hero. For words that I’m not ready to write and not quite sure when I will be, this man has been my hero since I was two.

And last week he upped the ante and reminded me why he’s my hero.

Since I was about ten, my parents have loved riding motorcycles – Harleys to be exact. It was their thing. Last Saturday I got the call that I’d had nightmares about for almost 20 years – they were in a motorcycle accident – together. In the span of 5 seconds I could have lost my entire family. The only two people in the world that I know and have known since day one have loved me every single minute of my life.

I wasn’t there so I don’t know the full story, but I got the rundown from my mom (obviously no pun intended). On a lazy afternoon ride on a country road, their bike veered around a curve and into the other lane. They ran into a truck – going ~ 45 – 50mph. In an attempt to handle the bike and make sure my mom who was riding on the back, didn’t go flying off, this hero of mine somehow managed to bring the bike to a stop, safely. Well about as safe as it could have turned out given the situation.

Hearing my mom’s recount of the incident merely reiterates two facts I already knew, but maybe I had forgotten. One, and most importantly that God was with them. He sent an angel along for the ride that afternoon and thank the Lord that angel kept them safe. I can’t say thank you enough in my prayers because tears start to well up at the very thought of possibly losing one of my parents. Two, is that my dad is the hero I always knew he was. Growing up in school they always asked who our heroes were and while everyone else would say Abe Lincoln or their Uncle the firefighter, I always said my dad. And here is bonafide proof that is still is and always will be my hero.

Mom and Dad – Love you. Love me.

Daddy – here’s to a quick recovery and hoping we can go snowboarding again someday. I love you. Thank you for everything. Since day one.