Dad’s Lessons
What my father taught me about time.
When my dad was diagnosed with leukemia, the one thing he kept talking about wasn’t treatment.
It was time.
He had been diagnosed with AML late in life, and the doctors were honest with us about what that meant. The outlook wasn’t great. But Dad approached it the same way he approached everything else in life: if there was a way to get through something, he’d find it.
He started treatments right away. At first things looked promising, but as cancer often does, it adapted. Treatments changed. A clinical study was started. There were a few scares along the way, but the thing that stayed at the front of Dad’s mind was always the same.
More time.
Time to do the things he loved.
Time to be with family.
Time to be with friends.
That idea of time made me start thinking about something we all tend to forget while we’re living our everyday lives.
We spend time with the people we love, but we often take it for granted.
My parents never did. Growing up on a farm meant life was busy. There were long days and plenty of hard work, but looking back now I realize something: my parents were always there. They were teaching us, supporting us, and making sure we understood how to navigate life.
And Dad was especially good at teaching life lessons.
Sometimes the hard way.
One of my earliest memories involved a horse, a saddle, and my own impatience.
Dad and one of our hired hands had gone out to check the cattle. I had been told to wait by the trailer until they got back. That was the instruction.
Waiting, however, was never one of my strengths.
At ten years old, it felt like I had been standing there forever. In reality it was probably fifteen minutes. Eventually I decided it was time to head home and started walking.
About a quarter mile into what would have been a three-mile hike, Dad and Ray pulled up beside me in the truck.
Instead of picking me up, Dad simply said, “I asked you to wait. See you at home.”
Then he drove off.
He wasn’t heartless. He actually stopped at a neighbor’s house about a mile down the road to make sure I was okay. But I couldn’t see that through the tall corn.
Lesson learned.
Honor your father and mother — and follow instructions.
Another lesson came when I was learning to drive. Like a lot of farm kids, I started young. One day I was backing Dad’s pickup out of the barn. I was doing everything right — checking mirrors, turning my head, making sure the rear end cleared.
So I cranked the wheel to turn toward the house.
Immediately I heard Dad yell “STOP!”
A split second later came the sound of twisting metal.
I had caught Dad’s aftermarket grill on a post and bent it about ninety degrees away from the truck.
Lesson learned.
Be aware of your surroundings.
Sports brought their own set of lessons. In little league baseball our second baseman had a cannon for an arm. Every throw to first base felt like it was coming in at about a hundred miles an hour. Week after week I left the field with a bruised left hand.
Later in junior high basketball, I once forgot to pack my shoes for a game.
When you wear size 13s, borrowing a pair isn’t exactly easy.
And during seventh grade football camp, the drills were so miserable that quitting started sounding pretty appealing.
Dad had a simple response to that. “You’re not quitting.”
I stuck it out, and eventually went on to play varsity football and basketball.
Through all those years, I don’t remember my parents ever missing a game.
Lessons learned:
Watch the ball.
Prepare ahead of time.
Finish what you start.
There were bigger moments too.
One day Dad and my Uncle Fred were harvesting corn while I rode in the combine. Fred was driving the auger wagon alongside us, and both he and Dad had shotguns in the cab because pheasants often flushed out of the rows.
Sure enough, a pheasant took off running down a corn row. Fred slammed the wagon to a stop, jumped out with his shotgun, and took aim.
The bird suddenly changed direction and flew right over the combine.
Dad immediately yelled, “Hit the deck!”
A shotgun blast went over the cab a moment later.
The pheasant survived. So did we.
Lesson learned.
Expect the unexpected.
Over the years there were countless moments like these. Work on the farm. Long harvest days. Stories told from sunup to sundown.
And even though Mom and Dad always believed they didn’t spend enough time with us because they were busy farming, the truth is they gave us something much more valuable than they realized.
They gave us their time.
Later in life Dad introduced me to another lesson through Masonry. When I finally joined the lodge years after he first suggested it, I asked him a question.
“Why isn’t everyone doing what they need to do to help things grow?”
Dad’s answer was simple.
“It’s a volunteer organization. If you want people to help, you need to get your hands dirty first.”
Lesson learned.
Lead by example.
Over the last few months of his life, Dad never wanted to talk about what was coming. But he did ask for a few favors when the time came.
I hope we honored those.
Because if there’s one thing my father understood better than most, it was the value of time.
Mom and Dad always made time for us.
Unfortunately, time wasn’t something the doctors could give back to them.
Heaven received a hero that week.
A strong man.
A devoted husband.
A father. A grandfather.
A friend.
And a man who left behind a lifetime of lessons.
We love you, Dad.
I didn’t understand it then.
Now I hear his voice in my head more than ever.
Funny how that works.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
