September

September is my birthday month.

When I was younger both my dad and mom would write a yearly birthday letter to me.

Yesterday evening I felt I should read through some of the letters they had written to me. I knew it would be emotional and hard and I’d probably cry, but I felt it was something special I needed to do to celebrate my birth month.

September is a beautiful month. The weather is nice and cool, the sky is so blue, the air sweet and fresh. I’ve always loved this September and I’ve always been happy to have been born in the most gorgeous month of the year.

While reading through the letters yesterday, I also happened to come across a diary that my dad had written while my mom was expecting me (A long time ago, may I add).

I’ve had the diary for awhile, and I’ve read it before although it had been many years. In light of my dad’s passing earlier this year reading through it again was even more special, meaningful and poignant.

The diary was written on loose leaf pages, torn from a spiral bound daily planner, complete with hours of the day on the sides of the paper, and all stapled together in the corner. The papers are now quite yellow with age.

My dad’s familiar, messy handwriting penning the words of an excited, expectant father.

My parents had had a hard time with starting a family and they had lost two babies prior to my being born. This, this time was different.

I can see my dad, a young man, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his first child, chronicling the months as they waited, the preparation (They refurbished a dresser for me!), the trips to the doctor, my dad writing how much he loved me, how much he wanted to raise his children for the Lord, dedicating my life, even before I was born, to the One who was creating me.

There are no words to describe how precious my dad’s expectant father diary is to me.

And the birthday letters. My dad saying how when I was a toddler I’d wait for him at the door to come home from work.

I can just see my toddler self at the storm door, peeking out, waiting. Little towhead me, with barrettes in my hair, waiting for dad.

My parents memories of me during a time I don’t remember are very sweet to me. Knowing that I was wanted, expected, loved, cared for and prayed for while in the womb…knowing that I was so special to my dad.

I can just see my dad, a young man, living his dream of living in a house he rehabbed, his wife and child at home, him waiting to come home and be with us at the end of a long work day, just as we waited for him.

My dad, a true family man. My parents, family people. Grassroots, hippie-turned-to-Jesus, unconventional, not radical, but counter-culture. They were intentional and specific in how they raised their children. Their heart was for a family, raising their children in the knowledge and true love of Jesus. They ended up having a big (rowdy and noisy) family with lots of kids.

As the years went by, and I became bigger, older, aware of life and God and people and things and could express my feelings…I wonder…how much did I hurt my parents? My dad? I know his heart towards me was always kind, even when we were conflicted in our personalities when I was a child and teenager. It’s part of the growing up process. How much did I think of my dad, my parents? I was just myself, living life, growing up, not thinking of them, really at all. Of course they were a part of my life, of who I was and who I was becoming, we interacted on a daily basis, we did things together, but I was busy growing up, into my own life, my own person, interests and schedules.

As I matured into adulthood I learned to appreciate my dad, for who he was, as a person, and not just as a parental figure in my life. I do appreciate my dad, how he raised me, how he loved me. He was human and not perfect, but he was a good dad.

I’m thankful for the memories my parents wrote down, how my dad’s words, written over 40 years ago, are impacting my life today.

In a way, I still want to be the little girl at the storm door waiting for my dad to get home from work.

Maybe, in a way, I always will be.