{"id":2641,"date":"2015-06-19T21:36:54","date_gmt":"2015-06-20T02:36:54","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/admin.patheos.com\/blogs\/tomzampino\/?p=2641"},"modified":"2015-06-26T05:23:26","modified_gmt":"2015-06-26T10:23:26","slug":"more-my-dad-remembered","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.patheos.com\/blogs\/tomzampino\/2015\/06\/more-my-dad-remembered\/","title":{"rendered":"MORE . . . My Dad Remembered"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<\/head>

It will be two years this July since I lost my dad.<\/p>\n

He wasn\u2019t a doctor, a lawyer, a professor, or any kind of white collar<\/em> worker at all.<\/p>\n

A high school graduate, he first became a US postal worker before settling in as a maintenance man for the New York Public Library on 42nd Street in Manhattan.<\/p>\n

There, he spent the next 25 years of his working life, commuting\u00a0over two hours \u2013 each way<\/em> \u2013 every single workday.<\/p>\n

He sure worked hard for his family.<\/p>\n

During his retirement years, he\u00a0crafted magnificent wooden projects for his kids and his grandkids.<\/p>\n

But most importantly, he set an example for us about what it means to live and to love.<\/p>\n

And how to die with dignity.<\/p>\n

In honor of Father\u2019s Day, and what would have been his 86th birthday on June 16, I reprise my talk about his story, about his life, about his love.<\/p>\n

But quite honestly, this story is\u00a0also my mom\u2019s\u00a0story.<\/p>\n

For their stories\u00a0cannot be separated.<\/p>\n

But then, neither can their love.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

MORE<\/strong><\/p>\n

More.<\/span><\/p>\n

M-O-R-E<\/span><\/p>\n

Children always want more.<\/p>\n

More ice cream. More time to play. More toys.<\/p>\n

As adults, we try to put away childish things as the scriptures advise.<\/p>\n

But still . . . we always seem to want<\/p>\n

More<\/em>.<\/p>\n

More money. More Power. More status.<\/p>\n

And, of course, more toys.<\/p>\n

Some things never change.<\/p>\n

So when we use the word\u00a0more<\/em>, it\u00a0tends to come\u00a0from some selfish place deep inside.<\/p>\n

We can\u2019t get enough.<\/p>\n

We want more than our share.<\/p>\n

We always want . . . well<\/p>\n

More<\/em>.<\/p>\n

But recently, I was privileged to\u00a0hear how my dad used that word. My mom was kind enough to share this story with me.<\/p>\n

Throughout their 59 years of married life, whenever my mom told my dad that she loved him, my dad always<\/em> responded with four\u00a0words:<\/p>\n

\u201cI love you more<\/em>!\u201d<\/p>\n

Last week, in my dad\u2019s final hours, with my mom sitting next to his bed, holding his hand, and with his breath slowing, his heart weakening, mom \u2013 through her unhidden tears \u2013 said \u201cDanny, I love you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad, slowly, painfully, struggled and managed to mouth but a single word:<\/p>\n

More<\/em>.<\/p>\n

My dad was not a philosopher. He was not\u00a0a worldly man.<\/p>\n

He was a man of few words.<\/p>\n

But he was always a kind, independent, strong-willed, man who deeply loved his family.<\/p>\n

A man who had always worked with his hands, not unlike the carpenter who embraces him today.<\/p>\n

You know, I\u2019m even convinced that my dad could have built an ark that would have given Noah a run for his money!<\/p>\n

And everyone knew his talent and his passion for woodworking, his basement shop overflowing with all too many machines, and the numerous beautiful keepsakes that he had made for each of us over the years: dollhouses, clocks, chairs, benches, and so much more.<\/p>\n

But you know, I learned great deal about\u00a0both<\/em> of my parents during his final weeks.<\/p>\n

About the kind of love that they had shared.<\/p>\n

It\u00a0was not a perfect love, mind you.<\/p>\n

But a deep, unyielding, committed love.<\/p>\n

A love to envy.<\/p>\n

A till death do us part<\/em> love.<\/p>\n

No \u2013 actually, a love that has now survived even death.<\/p>\n

\"image\"<\/a><\/p>\n

All of my dad\u2019s caretakers loved him.<\/p>\n

They called him \u201cthat great big Teddy Bear<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

And they loved the love story that they\u00a0saw unfolding right before their eyes.<\/p>\n

Mom tenderly loving my dad, without hesitation, through his final, agonizing days.<\/p>\n

Her very presence offering him comfort.<\/p>\n

Her very touch offering him a final assurance that they would both<\/em> be okay.<\/p>\n

And I learned that two people can emotionally and physically connect even after so many years together \u2013 even when one has had his physical body torn apart by incessant pain and endless suffering.<\/p>\n

But I also realized something else.<\/p>\n

I realized that my dad might not have gotten it quite right.<\/p>\n

Because what I had witnessed during\u00a0his final days\u00a0was not necessarily that my dad had loved my mom more<\/em>.<\/p>\n

No.<\/p>\n

Rather, what I saw were two loving hearts, two kind people, each of whom expressed, in both words and deeds, that they had each loved the other . . .<\/p>\n

More<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Thank you, Dad.<\/p>\n

And Happy Father\u2019s Day.<\/p>\n

Peace<\/p>\n

Image Credit Here<\/a>: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n<\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It will be two years this July since I lost my dad. He wasn\u2019t a doctor, a lawyer, a professor, or any kind of white collar worker at all. A high school graduate, he first became a US postal worker before settling in as a maintenance man for the New York Public Library on 42nd […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1976,"featured_media":2663,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2641","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nMORE . . . My Dad Remembered<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"It will be two years this July since I lost my dad. He wasn\u2019t a doctor, a lawyer, a professor, or any kind of white collar worker at all. 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