A couple of years before my dad retired, he mentioned to one of his clients that he had always wanted to learn how to play the guitar. On the client’s next visit, he came into my dad’s office carrying a new guitar. “You said you always wanted to learn,” he said as he placed the gift in my dad’s hands.
A couple of years after my dad retired, the guitar remained untouched. Knowing my dad, I think he had difficulty accepting the gift as he came from an upbringing where he put in the work without complaint and earned every dollar he made. He was taught the value of his word, a firm handshake, and how to treat a lady.
When my dad was in undergrad and graduate school, he and my mom put in the hours to support their young family. They did not have much, but what they had, they used to create a loving home. At one point, my dad ran short on funds. He paid tuition but did not have enough for books. One of his professors paid for my dad’s semester books — this generous gift motivated Dad to do well and work even harder. He paid the professor back and confessed accepting help was humbling; at the same time, he knew getting his graduate degree would help his family more in the long run. He accepted the gift and cracked open the books. The long run was quite a ride: Dad was an architectural engineer for 50 years, 40 of which he successfully owned his own company.
Dad retired earlier than he would have liked because of a progressive visual impairment. His mind was still sharp, but his eyes had dulled. For anyone who has ever been limited by your body, you know the reality of having your mind trapped by memories of what once was and the permeating loss of what will never happen again.
Last year I was at a loss as to what to gift my dad for Father’s Day. I remembered the story he shared about the guitar, so I found an instructor who would come to his home and give him lessons. The instructor assured me that he was skilled in assisting people with impairments. I was truly excited, and when my dad received the gift, I could tell he was as well. Unfortunately, the lesson did not go well, and Dad did not finish the classes. The instructor was not qualified to teach a visually challenged person how to play guitar. As a result, my dad was left frustrated and disappointed. He put the guitar back in the corner where I suspect it will remain.
I thought of all the things my dad has put back due to health or blindness: his bow, fishing pole, tennis racket, golf clubs, his business, car keys, reading, writing, serving on boards, and so on. He has memories of winning trophies and ribbons for athletics and academics, driving everything from his metallic blue 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air with a white top and moon hubcaps to his burly, off-road side-by-side. He has stacks of intricate blueprints he devised and plotted amidst volumes of commercial and residential structures he designed. Dad has hiked the Colorado mountains in search of elk and caught salmon in the waters of Alaska. He has lived a full life. The struggle is knowing that life is still left, but he cannot live it in the same way. This reality can be daunting and adapting to a new normal often comes with a brutal learning curve.
Another reality that is often overlooked is the learning curve for those around someone who is trying to do life from a different perspective — the spouse, children, grandchildren, and friends who try to find ways to connect without making the challenged person feel as if they are being a burden or a bore. How do you best maintain and honor the dignity of someone who was once so vigorously engaged in life and now is restricted and discouraged by their limitations?
Part of me wishes to scream and cry with my dad. A bigger part of me simply wishes to be with him… to remain in his company and just be. After all, that is what he did for me when I was limited. I would sit and listen to him read to me as a child. As a preteen, I would position my feet on top of his feet as he taught me how to dance, spinning me and laughing as he sang the words to the song on the radio. As a teen, I would put the quarter he gave me in my back pocket to call him if I needed anything while out with my friends. And as an adult, I still take his advice on everything from relationships to financial planning. In a way, we are all limited — limited editions who need one another. We are only here for a short time, and yet, we have a beautiful opportunity to make lasting memories.
Maybe that’s what life and loving is all about: loving people in all their ages and stages —remaining and adapting, not trying to control the waves but learning how to ride them for the long haul.
This year for Father’s Day, I again struggled to find a suitable gift. I remembered the guitar and how much my dad enjoys listening to music. So I wrote a song with the help of a professional, incorporating some of the best memories and lessons I have learned from my dad. I had a musician play the guitar, do the vocals, and record the song. On Father’s Day, Dad will not have to worry about getting frustrated trying to read a card or become disheartened not being able to see a gift. He will simply listen. And as he does, I will remain in his company and just be.
May we be flexible in how we love; adapting to change, being patient with people and problems, and persevering in hope. May we hold to faith as a candle through the dark times, believing and trusting that we will rise as the sun to explore new opportunities. And let us not forget the power born within each day — no matter our shortcomings or weaknesses, God goes before us, enabling us with grace to enrich the soil of our story for generations to come. What we plant today in faith will bring encouragement and strength to those who will one day sit in the shade of our memory.
This is the truest gift we can give to another: LOVE.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails” (1 Corinthians 13:4-8).
Tiffany Kaye Chartier
SGLY, dear reader.
(Smile, God Loves You.)
Tiffany Kaye Chartier, Author 