Kingsport Spirit

Our days, hours, and minutes are numbered from our very first childhood memory until our last moment of consciousness.

Time is a finite, exceptionally precious commodity.

Like electricity, time is one of the most awesome natural forces in the universe. It is mysterious, powerful, and transformative. It can be harnessed for good, but it can also be harmful and destructive. It cannot be transferred to another. It cannot be saved. It all depends on what you do with it.

It’s Father’s Day. When I think about my dad, one of my core memories is how driven he was. Up at the crack of dawn–always rushed, purposeful, and intentional except when he sat for a few minutes in the wee hours sipping a cup of coffee. That’s when I would sneak down the hallway and sit with him. He would make me a glass of hot chocolate (really it was just powdered Nestle Quik and cold chocolate milk, but that’s the term we used for years). He was a veteran of World War II and like many veterans, he lived his life by military rules. I was held to the same standard, one that I did not completely understand–but didn’t dare question. It seemed like we were fighting a mysterious battle that had long since ended. We were on a mission. Failure meant life or death.

He gave me lists of chores I had to accomplish each day. In hindsight they weren’t that difficult, but to a little guy they seemed daunting. I wasn’t afraid of physical punishment, okay well sort of, but mainly I didn’t want to disappoint him. I wanted him to be proud of me.

Each day we quietly reviewed the list, like a day planner at 6 am. He wasn’t a drill sergeant, but I knew in no uncertain terms that I would be held accountable when he came home by 6 pm to inspect. I remember the anxiety and fear when that hour rolled around. Would I pass the test? It was instant judgement. I didn’t have much of a rebellious spirit, I was pretty compliant. I honestly don’t remember a time that I didn’t pass his test, but I do remember the feelings that preceded it. And I remember the great sense of satisfaction of receiving his approval. You also have to understand there were no rewards, payments, or prizes for passing–other than the proverbial, “Good job”. But to me that was priceless.

As an adult, I now know that his sense of urgency, his militaristic, purpose-driven mission, was to build a business, a life, and a future for his family–for me. He was teaching me responsibility, accountability, and instilling a work ethic that has lasted a lifetime. He was giving me the benefit of his time, his energy, his power. So many kids don’t have that force in their lives–always present, always pushing, always encouraging.

My relationship with him helped me to understand my relationship with my Heavenly Father, as well. Dad was a believer, but he wasn’t preachy or pretentious. He didn’t quote Bible verses or recite them to me in regimented ways. He hid them in his heart and used paraphrased references. It took me years to figure that out. I knew without a doubt where he stood on the subject, but it was more just a core part of who he was rather than a doctrine.

He had a temper. He was explosively angry at times. Occasionally he may have misdirected his anger towards me or my mom–he was human–but he was never abusive. Mom had a way of letting him storm around and vent, but she also had a way of putting him in his place if she ever thought he went too far. And I remember thinking it was magical to watch her get him to obediently ‘stand down’. My preacher used to say that a man may be the head of the household, but the wife is the neck that turns the head. That’s the best way to describe what I witnessed. I now know it was because of the external stress he faced in trying to earn, budget, pay the bills, and provide for our needs (not necessarily our wants). Everything he did was ultimately for our good, just like our Heavenly Father.

One of my fondest memories is riding down two-lane 11W to attend UT football games with just my dad. I’d lay across the front bench seat (unbuckled I might add) and use his knee as a pillow. We only had AM radio at the time, and he’d constantly turn the knobs to find the local station to listen to the pre & post-game shows. I didn’t know a lot about football, but he always made me feel like we were on a mission to beat whoever was invading Tennessee that weekend. When we were watching from home, we’d turn the game on TV, turn down the sound and listen to John Ward’s play-by-play on the radio. Sometimes we would drive all the way to Knoxville just to watch the Vols on TV with my brother and his family. One time my oldest niece invited her new boyfriend to watch with us. We were playing Auburn. He made the mistake of letting it be known he was an Auburn fan. When Auburn scored, he made a very subtle, non-verbal gesture like, “yes”. My brother jumped the furniture and put a finger in his face. He said, “Listen, son, this is a Tennessee family. Either put your heart in it or get your <expletive> out.” The boy left, never to return. My niece cried and the rest of us didn’t see a problem. We cheer for the Big Orange to this day (as do all of our significant others). None of this ‘house divided’ stuff for us. Over the years, I don’t remember many of the scores, but I do remember spending the time–together–especially with my dad. UT football was just an excuse for bonding, a shared experience, a common purpose that offered escape from our day-to-day realities.

When I became a father, I finally began to realize what he felt for me. It was an immediate sense of lifelong, undying commitment that I felt in my core. It’s hard to explain the intensity and certainty with which I came to this realization, but I knew my life would never be the same–in a good way. For the first time, I was unconditionally putting someone else before myself. And when my daughter came along, those feelings intensified exponentially.

My wife and I were young and naive. Our parents gave us firm foundations, but we were still new parents ourselves. We didn’t have much money, but we had two sets of grandparents always waiting to catch us if we fell. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t help us on a regular basis. They expected us to live our own lives, but we knew they were there, always in our corner in the background.

Just about the time we thought we figured it all out, our “precious baby boy” turned into a force to be reckoned with. He broke pretty much everything in our home, but he always said, “I didn’t mean to.” I’d say, “Maybe just turn the shower knobs until the water turns off, not until you wrench them off completely.” It’s a standing joke in our house, but I finally just put vice grips on the stems–one for hot and one for cold. I didn’t replace them until he moved out. He was strong (and strong-willed) and independent. Oh, so independent. “I can do it myself.” “No, I do it.” In my mind’s eye, I guess he was supposed to sit on the couch reverently and not hurt himself or others. But he rarely sat. Ever. He had so much energy and he wanted to play, but I was exhausted. When his sister came along, she cried out from her crib in the middle of the night. He took it upon himself to get her out and carry her down the stairs to us (in a headlock). He handed her over like, “Here, she was crying” (like we couldn’t hear it on the baby monitor that my wife kept on volume 10). My mission became to protect her from him ‘loving her to death’. She became tough–mentally and physically. Iron sharpens iron.

They fed off of each other–both driven and competitive. But in a role reversal that surprises many, he wears his heart on his sleeve, while she rarely lets you in. He’s more like me in that regard. She’s more like her mom. If things get a little too serious, she cracks a joke. He tells me he loves me every time we hang up. She told me once in 8th grade and she’ll let me know if she changes her mind (I’m kidding of course, but just a little). She taught me the meaning of “still waters run deep”. Her feelings are deep, but the calmness on the surface hides it. She’s not a tumultuous, torrent of emotion. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love–and love deeply. She’s not going to offer to say it aloud but make no mistake it’s always there.

I think I’ve always been pretty aware of time, especially since losing my brother too soon. He was in the prime of providing for his family, working intense hours, and doing everything possible to give them opportunities. Just like our dad, he was on a mission, but the mission was cut short. After that, I made a conscious decision that I was going to slow down and be more present. If it meant foregoing promotional opportunities, so be it. But my kids were going to know that they were unconditionally my #1 priority, not being left with unanswered questions.

Early in our marriage, my wife and I volunteered to attend a neighborhood meeting for a community visioning project. We didn’t tell anyone it was our first wedding anniversary until it was over. When the organizer found out, he firmly clasped my hand and said, “Thank you for giving me a night of your life”. He went on to say, “You know, we only have so many, and it means so much that you chose to give it up for your community.” Little did he know he changed my outlook–for life.

Whatever our kids decided to do, we committed to embracing it. Our son loved football and wrestling, while our daughter’s passion was volleyball. We knew nothing about any of these sports, really. While I was a football fan, I never played the game. I couldn’t offer much advice, but I could reinforce the coach’s advice. We immersed ourselves in their endeavors. We spent many hours on the road, sitting in gyms. My wife created elaborate photo albums and I became a volunteer journalist for the wrestling team. I honed my skills (primitive by today’s standards) creating photo/video content for the year-end banquets. She celebrated a state championship, and so did we. He continued in college and so did we. I shudder to think how many hours we spent on the road and in hotels. But like UT football with my dad, this was our bonding time. It wasn’t the selected sport or the outcome, it was the time we spent together that mattered most. One of the greatest compliments my son unintentionally gave us was when he said, “Y’all were always there. I never realized that everybody didn’t have parents like you.”

Now, as grandparents, we get to wear our gray hair like a crown of glory. It’s a second chance the skills we only got to practice on our own kids. The long car rides aren’t as irritating. The little messes and dirty fingerprints aren’t as bothersome. And the nap schedule is something to be planned around. But in many ways, we are just continuing what we started with our own kids. Thankfully, they let us. They even seem to welcome it (with boundaries of course) and they always make it very well know how much they appreciate us. That’s priceless.

This weekend our son decided to run his first sprint triathlon. He trained for months. He changed his diet and exercise routines. Just like his other endeavors we didn’t know the rules, but we didn’t care. We knew from the moment he invited us that we’d be there to cheer him on win, lose, or draw. To us it was an excuse to travel as a family, sleep in an AirBNB, and enjoy all the little interactions of just being together. We went to the zoo, hung out with my nieces and their children. He bought groceries and cooked a delicious, healthy meal for us.

Then he gave me my Father’s Day present. It was the perfect shade, color, and fit. But when I asked where he got it, I did some mental math and realized it was likely purchased on their anniversary date night. My mind went back our first anniversary, how we spent it volunteering, and what the organizer said to us. And I thought to myself, the greatest gift wasn’t the actual present, but the time. I know how limited it is. It cannot be stored or transferred. It is finite, and he chose to dedicate some to me.

I remember the first time I truly realized that my parents were aging. The man I once thought was scary and invincible was only human after all. But he was my human, all-in all the time. He was optimistic, funny, upbeat, and always in my corner. He tried to say “yes” more often than “no”, even if it meant he had to rearrange his schedule without my knowledge. When his time on earth ran out, it left a void.

That’s why time is a priceless gift for a father to receive–and give.