My father was a dude. Not always the most athletic, but highly competitive. Helicopter pilot cool.

I miss him and think about him often, wondering what he would do in tough situations and congratulating myself if I know he would approve of something.

My forays into extreme sports would please him. So much so that I speculate he is rooting for me in heaven–asking God to help me find time to wake- or snowboard, asking God to help me confront my fears.

Today the little girl in front of me on the practice slope was crying because she was scared.

I told her I was scared too.

She asked, “why?”

And looked puzzled–are old ladies even allowed to be scared?

I told her because I was learning how to snowboard and I was afraid. I told her her father was there and she had nothing to fear, he would guard her.

Then I shrugged and made a face–my father is not here.

Almost immediately I thought–that is incorrect.

My Father was with me. He always is.

Thank you, God, for being such a good daddy.



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