Confidence Deficit

A few weeks ago, I had some unhurried and relaxed time with my two precious, older sisters. Kim was in town from Florida, and as we sat and caught up, talk (of course) turned to the gaping wound of Dad's death.

When Candy tenderly asked "What's been heaviest on your heart these days, Bud, in your grief?" I immediately knew...the deficit of confidence.

I've written previously about the gifts Dad so freely gave me as a son. He had a generous spirit, Dad did, and it marked me. The most distinct impact of late, I told Candy and Kim, was that I no longer had him in my corner. He was my biggest fan.

From my earliest days, I remember how much he believed in me, whether it was as a student, an athlete, an employee, or even a husband. Growing up, while riding alongside him in the front seat of his truck, I'd tell him about the anxiety I was feeling because of an upcoming match, test, or interview. He'd listen carefully, ask a few specific questions, and then thoughtfully and calmly instill a level of confidence that empowered me to believe. Always. I'd get out of the truck and think, "Wow, if he believes in me, then surely I'll succeed."

As a husband and parent, life is increasingly difficult. Even in recent years, I'd bring my child-like fears to him for council. Only now, these were adult-sized challenges. For this was a man of wisdom, a self-made giant with insight I craved. These chats were precious, for it was at these moments I was still his child. Even in the final weeks of his life, he continued to fill me up with strength. He empowered me with his words, his love, and his belief in me as his son. I was cherished. What a gift.

My biggest fan has relocated to Paradise, and left me here to persevere without his hand in mine. Perhaps it's the cliched "natural order" of things. It's my time to believe for myself, blah blah blah. I'm not ready. Life's obstacles feel bigger then they use to because of his absence. Who will ever believe in me the way he did?

I had a dream last week. There was Dad, in his white Jockey brand T shirt and shorts, working in the field the way he always did. It was a hot, sunny day, and I was running to him from behind, calling out. I was so thrilled to see him! I threw my arms around his back, screaming "You haven't left me! You haven't left me!" I saw his blue eyes, his glorious face, his sweet smile! It was as real as being there. And for the first time, I heard his voice.

"Of course I haven't left you, Scott. I'll always be right here for you."

And then I woke up, sobbing but stronger. Even in death, he was still there for me.