A few weeks back, we lost my father in law, Joseph. Among many other things, he was a veteran, husband, and father. He was an intense man, who had a limitless thirst for knowledge and felt passionately about everything. From carbon footprints to mars missions, he knew about it, cared about it, and wanted to talk about it.
Having reached his mid-80s, he spent the majority of his life in a different century and seemed less than comfortable in the endless bullshit stream of this one. He was a man of military senses, purpose and focus, undiluted by time. Not particularly suited to retirement, you could sense a restlessness, a simmering in him. A boiling pot, covered and left, for decades. You could feel it when you are talking to him, he had a lot to say, but you needed to translate a little. You lift that pot lid, you’d have to wait for the steam to clear.
A few years ago, I was preparing to school my nephews in shooting hoops. Joe was watching when I took my phone, wallet, and pocketknife out of my pockets. He asked to see my pocketknife. He flips it open and scrapes a thumbnail along the blade, and raises one casually disappointed eyebrow. “It’s a little dull.” I told him I used it more as a tool than for y’know, stabbing people. “That’s a shame.” Leaving me not knowing if he was talking about how dull the blade was or whether he wanted me to put more stabbings on my schedule. Neither would have surprised me. He asked if he could sharpen it for me, and I agreed. Later, he comes over to me with the knife, finished. He holds a random flyer from his car in the air, and slices through it with a motion that feels dangerously effortless. A practiced grace that belied his age, not just present, but screaming.
“Can I show you something?” Waiting one second too long I agree. He asks me to turn around, and I do it. He steps up next to me with the open blade.
“If someone ever grabs you from behind…” He takes the knife and jerks down next to him into where the inside flat of human thigh would be, and pulls up, across and up, in a motion that takes less than a second. A lightning bolt...both in shape and savagery. Then he turns to me and gives me a stare that lasers through my eyes and carves words into my spine. He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and says...” Just in case.” Not knowing what to say and having very little social grace, I repeat it back to him. Just in case. He hands me the knife, with the smallest possible head nod, and walks away. This was one of our first conversations with each other.
It took a while for the steam to clear....but I got it. “You protect my daughter, no matter what.” Man to man, he was making sure I was ready to take that baton from him. A mantle of protection...descending one notch.
After he died, we had a ceremony. At a lake that his family loved, we were each going to write a message to Joe on a stone and throw it in. I wrote mine out, and wasn’t sure how to take the next step. Just throw and that’s it? I have never been a person that has a deep connection to faith, and that’s where times like these become nebulous. I squeezed the stone in my fist and pushed the thumb side of my fist against my forehead. I could feel the rough edge cutting into the underside of my knuckles. The top edge of the stone just barely touching the skin on my forehead. And then I just….pushed. Reached down and pushed the warmest thought I could muster. Human will against stone. Then shredded a shoulder trying to get that rock as far and deep into the lake as I could get, thinking that if I got it far enough, Joe just might get it at his new address. A new faith created in a moment, for a moment, for a single purpose. To let a man know, that after half a century as a father, he can rest, without worry. I wrote what I thought would bring any father of daughters a moment of respite, the right response to that first interaction.
“I always will.”
Thanks Joe, we love you man...and we miss you every day.