Early/ Late/ Missed Father's Days

My father makes an annual summer trek to Florida in June. He goes because he is a good man. He goes because he has a family there, a mom and a sister, who, despite every feminist inclination, sometimes need a man around to help out. He goes because perhaps the presence of a man of great faith might encourage curiosity, might encourage lesser known paths, might bring hope and joy and peace. Although, I suppose having an enormous, 85 degree ocean minutes away might be another small reason he goes.

Noah misses him, when he goes. My still very two-year old son nearly had a melt down this morning, when I tried to take him out of his car seat. That is Papa's job.

Hannah was utterly confused. As my father comes down the ramp she always points and utters, "Baba! Baba!" But today, it was Nana.

I generally miss father's day with my dad. We still celebrate the holiday (which is generally what happens when you marry into an enormous family. I am living my Big Fat Tipsy Greek Irish Wedding). We make sure we do something for my dad either before he goes or when he comes back. But that Sunday, I am always a little sad, when I can't give him a hug, tell him how blessed I am to be his daughter, how good and wonderful a man he is, and that I love him so completely.

He is a good man. And he serves a great God. I can think of no better compliments than these. I can think of no better life than this. And I can imagine no other childhood, than the one I had growing up under the watchful, fun, loving eyes of a good man and a great God.