Sunday Message

Father's day

Happy Father's Day

Fathers and Sons: Three Generations - Red River, Idaho, 1998

Writing a meaningful message on Father’s Day is an interesting – and sometimes challenging - experience for me.  I can write an effusive, glowing commentary about the stellar virtues of dear old dad, or I can openly acknowledge that at times, life with dear old dad isn’t or wasn’t exactly as Hallmark card pretty as the Father’s Day advertisements portray. 

While both might contain relatable elements of reality, I’m not sure either approach can stand completely on its own and really hit the mark on the truth meter.

The truth about “dad,” though honestly stretched by the extremes, usually seems to comfortably settle itself somewhere in the middle.

Spiritually, we are called to acknowledge, learn from, accept and heal that which seemed difficult or felt less than ideal, and also recognize, embrace, honor and cherish that which was beautiful and uplifting.

It's not always easy to tell the difference. 

Discernment can be a life-long process.

Father's Day is a good day to evaluate your relationship with your father, be he living or dead.   Are you at peace with the picture?  How are you framing it?  How have the memorable and loving aspects of your relationship with your father impacted your life for the good?  Have difficulties or adversity been helpful to your growth and spiritual understanding?  Are there still areas where further healing is needed?

“Father” is a common religious archetype.  Hence, in the collective consciousness, it is important that we recognize that our personal experiences with our fathers can deeply impact and influence our relationship with and understanding of God.  A fine way to honor our Fathers on this day is to further clarify and understand the significance and honest reality of our relationships and personal experiences with them.

I believe that our ultimate discovery is always love - and that is what endures.

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(The following is an essay I wrote about my father that was printed in the Seattle Times on Father's Day 2003.  It is a favorite memory about my father.)

The Goodbye Dance

By Thomas L. Newman    © 2003 - All Rights Reserved

All good things do come to an end, and so it was with my annual fly-fishing trip to Idaho.  After a week of camping in the backwoods with my Dad, my brothers, and our sons, the big goodbye always took place at Dad’s modest little home on the banks of the Payette River in Gardena, Idaho.  My leaving, as usual, would be a rather drawn out affair.  Oh, Dad was okay with the reality of it, but he approached it with an air of philosophical quiet, a masterful nonchalance.  He’d just hang out, watch me load my pickup, occasionally bring up open ended topics to visit about or repeat with a slight smirk his favorite experiences of the week.  He’d dig around the house to find something to give me, or even take me down to the river to show me something he had forgotten to mention.  While never blatant or rude or annoying, there were always gentle little delay tactics going on.  Sherm Newman was never in a hurry, a natural propensity that grew stronger and more fixed with each passing year.  Goodbye, therefore, was not supposed to be quick or efficient, rather it was an idea to get used to, and a darn good reason to lollygag around. 

With a long drive looming, I was typically quite antsy to hit the road, but that didn’t matter because every year the result was the same - I left two or three hours later than I had planned - I couldn’t help it.  In the early years I tried to help it, push it up a bit, get the show on the road, but as the years passed and the fishing trips and memories grew, I too, grew - older, wiser, slower.  I simply gave up trying to help it, what’s the use?  It was just the goodbye dance we always did.  As impatience dwindled and acceptance grew, so did a foundation for crystal memories that these days come to me in quiet hours.  I see him now, standing in the morning sun, hanging out, kicking at the ground now and then, watching, listening.  I recall how I learned to lean on my truck with a masterful nonchalance, chat with him for a while, sit on the tailgate, load some things, kick at the ground now and then, talk a little more.  For a brief time, I would allow myself to not be in a hurry.

When Dad died in 1999, all seven of his children gathered at the funeral home in the afternoon two days prior to his funeral.  It was a time when friends and relatives could gather to pay respects, and for an early evening rosary service.  While generally not fond of open casket rituals, this proved quite the exception.  Dad looked natural with a peaceful smirk on his face, a smirk we had seen a million times.  We all gathered around him, we laughed and cried, laughed some more and cried some more, and just hung out.  Hours passed.  We couldn’t leave.  Eventually it dawned on us that we were all pulling a “Sherm Newman;” hanging around, saying goodbye, then returning to hang around some more.  Each of us behaving exactly like our father always did when it came time to say goodbye.  Subtle little delay tactics filled the room, multiplied times seven.  This realization spawned poignant laughter at how well he had taught us such things.  We brought up open-ended conversations, kicked gently at the floor now and then, recalled our favorite memories, and did not, would not, could not leave his side.  No hurry.  It was irrational.  And so very healing.  By the time we left it was nearly 10:00 PM, we had been there since early afternoon, and a deep peace was nestled in each of our hearts because we had honored him so, and told him we loved him in the way that he would understand best, by just hanging out with him for a long, long time before truly saying goodbye.

For Sherm Newman and his beloved children, the earthly, sacred, and final goodbye dance was complete.