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.