first position

Yesterday I told a friend I needed my dad. It happens sometimes, though not as frequently as it once did. There are days when it's the sitting and talking together while the coffee somehow doesn't get cold despite the hours and hours in our pajamas at the breakfast table that I miss. Then there are the late nights as a young adult sitting in the kitchen counter while he sat in a chair and we debated some decision - the pros and cons and everything in between - until we couldn't remember what the dilemma was in the first place. The left arm hugs from the side with the side of my head playfully smushed to his face. "You done good, kid." 

Yesterday what I missed was the crawling onto his lap and curling up there part. I haven't actually done that since I was about 10, but he had a way of making the comfort of it all come back when I needed it most. For the third time in three years, my heart is being broken. I would say that all were circumstances mostly outside my control, but the fact is only one started beyond me. The other two are very closely related, and as a result I chose as I did. It's the realization of the similarities that hurts the most. 

I don't know how much Dad really could help, but he always had that safe place for me, snuggled up against his chest. 

Anyway, last night one of my sons and I were chatting, and I heard in him that same comfort. It wasn't until afterward, when we told each other good night, that I realized. And later I tucked myself into bed knowing that Dad had been there, too. Not in any supernatural way, but in the way he taught me by example to teach my kids. And not just my own kids - all the kids I've ever worked with. 

Being genuine. 

Last week I was twice asked about dancing (just about a week apart, actually). The first asked if I miss teaching; something I've been thinking about quite a bit lately. The second asked about lessons, but in such a way that I felt a gentle reassurance that I really should be taking lessons. I'm well aware dance is a passion for me; something that makes me tick. In those moments I know Dad was urging me to take steps across the floor - risk others seeing me should I stumble and land on the floor in some awkward akimbo position. Is forgotten that was the fear, that's what causes the nerves. I'd grown so accustomed to not taking the chances. Not because they would make me look bad, but because it made someone else uncomfortable. 

Dad never once made me feel like my choices, my steps, my movements, my dance would reflect on him. And yet the joy he showed at seeing me be felt like a spotlight; a warm and cozy place in the sun. 

My son said to me, "You are good at this, and anyone who acknowledges that deserves some help." You, my son, are a good man. Your grampa would likely have put it something like that. Thank you, Lord, for putting them both in my life.