Father’s Day has long been a tough one for me.
For many years I didn’t acknowledge the holiday at all. These past few year though, I’ve made a habit of sending three special Father’s Day cards: one to my step-father, one to my uncle, and one to my sister’s wife (same-sex parents should each get a day, I think.)
In 2018, three days before Father’s Day, I learned that my dad was placed in hospice care, and on June 18, 2018, he died.
My relationship with my father has been deeply complex, heart-wrenchingly difficult at times, and in many ways, truly profound.
He was a man of many contradictions. In his own backward way, he became one of my greatest teachers.
When I was a kid, something he often said to me was, “Do as I say, not as I do.” He’d also occasionally advise: “Do unto others before they do unto you.” He thought that was funny.
In many ways, his example was not one to model or strive for. While it may sound like I’m criticizing him, I’m not. Based on what little I know about his growing up years, I’ve come to understand why he would subscribe to such philosophies. Everyone has a story.
My dad grew up on the lower-east side of Manhattan. As a girl, I remember him telling me about how he and his friends, after a big meal in Chinatown, would – one at a time – walk out of the restaurant. He shared this story proudly, telling me that he was the last one to walk out, leaving the unpaid bill still on the table. Even many years later, he was proud to have been the lead criminal.
Perhaps in an ironic expression of rebellion, in contrast, I am fiercely honest – often to a fault. He is in large part to thank for my personal commitment to honesty. I also credit my leadership instincts to his influence. He too was a self-starter, an entrepreneur, a color-outside-the-liner. Like me, he had little interest in meaningless small talk, and he rarely gave much credence to the opinions of others.
Despite behaviors that seemed to express a blatant lack of sensitivity, I believe his many layers of armor served to protect the sensitive heart that lay buried underneath. Like so many of the people I know and tend to in my life and in my work, I know my sensitive soul requires ongoing intentional energy management in order to maintain an open heart. Haphazardly, I gained this wisdom from him.
In a deep way, I am forever committed to a much different ethic than “do as I say, not as I do”. The alignment and integrity of practicing what I preach is incredibly important to me. I am not here to tell you, or anyone, to do as I say. Quite the opposite; I don’t always succeed, but I always strive to walk my talk.
One more story. It’s one I’m particularly proud of, and one that I believe holds a powerful lesson for us all.
When I was 13 or 14 years old, I witnessed my dad demonstrate extraordinary self-discipline and extraordinary commitment. At 50 years old, he decided to train for and run a marathon. I remember he mailed in his registration for the race – the Marine Corp Marathon in Washington, DC – even though, starting out, he couldn’t run a quarter of a mile.
Now registered for a marathon (26.2 miles!), he got up, six days a week, and went running at 5 a.m. with the discipline of a soldier.
In typical teenage fashion, I stayed up late and had a reputation for sleeping as late as possible and couldn’t imagine getting up at 5am for anything — let alone to go running.
So I asked him, how in the world, he managed to do that, every. day.
Here’s what he said. I’ll never forget it.
He said, “Do you think I wake up each morning before the sun is up, and then weigh whether or not I feel like going running?? No way!” He went on to say: “If I did that, I’d never go. When I wake up in the morning, I just get up and do it, because the decision was already made.”
“The decision was already made…”
Something hard to describe happened for me in that moment.
I remember those words like it was yesterday, echoing in my mind, lingering in my heart.
“The decision was already made…”
What I know to be true – and what I’ve essentially built my life and career on – is that achieving a dream or goal, or any seemingly out of reach accomplishment, requires doing what my dad did – making the decision, once, and then doing what needs to be done.
Part of his decision included not allowing the past, or present, to determine his future. My dad knew that his past was only as relevant as he allowed it to be.
He decided to run a marathon, despite the fact that he could not yet run a-quarter-of-a-mile. He was 50 years old. His past included drug addiction. He didn’t have any marathon runner friends, if any friends at all. He was told by others that he’d fail, that he was too old, too out of shape, that he’d never be able to do it, that it would cause more harm than good, that his goal was too big, that he’d hurt himself.
Yet, despite all that, he did it.
He ran a marathon. I was there when he crossed the finish line – and then threw up.
As I reflect on his life, I truly believe that was his happiest, proudest moment.
And he was able to do it because …
1.) He decided. Once.
2.) He declared it.
3.) He didn’t give in to the reasoning of naysayers, however well intentioned.
4.) He got up, each morning, tied up his sneakers, all with the clarity and focus that the decision was already made.
So much of my dad’s life, and story, and our shared story – is profoundly sad.
When a sad story ends it is bittersweet indeed.
Robert A. Gross (March 3, 1942 – June 18, 2018)
I love you, Dad. However challenging the terrain was, I’m grateful for the journey we’ve had. You helped shape who I am, and I am grateful. I will always remember our roller-skating outings and Mexican food “dates”. I will always remember the big beaming hug you gave me the day I told you I got the lead in the school play.
Despite you having come from a place where even the playgrounds were cement, I am happy to share your love of the woods. I cherish the old photos of little me in a pack on your back while you hiked, walking stick in hand.
[The picture seen here was taken February 20, 2016, the last time I saw him, the first time after many years. Look closely and you can see he was still wearing a pair of those New Balance sneakers, 20+ years later.]
While the last 20 or so years, our contact has been inconsistent, at best – with gaps that spanned many years – I never stopped loving you. In my heart of hearts, I believe you know/knew this, and that you love me too.
However unintentionally, thank you for the ultimate lesson: that love is utterly indisposable.
Thank you, for modeling discipline, providing me with numerous opportunities to discern when it’s helpful and when it isn’t. And thank you for the immense beauty that comes with forgiveness.
Godspeed, Dad. I know you did your best. We are all doing our best. May you rest in peace.
(Click here to read Father’s Day, Part 2eulogy)
Written by: Tara Sage, curator of Sheulogy.com + founder of TaraSageCoaching.com
What you have shared here is so beautiful and brave, Tara. It is also a reminder of how extraordinary gifts that change the world come from flawed people and from places we would never expect.
Thank you so much, Dawn. That really means a lot to me. And what a wise, insightful observation about the boundless opportunities and blessings that can come from even the most unexpected places. xo
Tara,
As always your writings touch my soul. How could I not want to partake in Shueology?
Father/daughter relationships can be so brittle yet the ties are indestructible. The lessons learned can’t be measured! Don’t mess!
My dad has been gone 13 years. Who knew I’d be able to survive one day without him. His words ring in my ear! My mom died many years earlier, so I called him my dad/mom. He probably heard a lot more then he ever reckoned for!
Thanks for bringing me to a moment of my recollections.
May their memories be a blessing!
Melissa
I know! A total no-brainer, right, Melissa? lol. Thank you for your kind words and thoughtful comment. It warms my heart to know that reading this has sparked special memories of your own father for you. May their memories be a blessing indeed!
Thank you Tara. Your story and openness touched my heart. Yes we are all doing the best we can. When I remember that, there is no judgement only love. You have inspired me to think about my own father who passed 20 years ago and what I learned from
Him. Sending love and light sister and keep shinnng.
“When I remember that, there is no judgement only love.” << What a beautiful, true statement, Pat. I'm so touched to know that what I've written has inspired you to further explore what you've learned from your own father. xo
This has touched me so much Tara…a reminder of My father…he was so brave and I have always believed he came from a rare species. He moved us from Canada for a better life in 1963. But, what my father was not is a good husband. Because my father had the guts to move us all five children from Canada to USA Florida for the good life, I have a lot of respect for him. My mother suffered and let my dad be on a pedestal so we would always worship…respect my dad. They are both gone today. My heart remains with my mother because she covered for him. He was a big time alcoholic and she covered for him. After 30 longs years there was a divorce. Does Not matter how old we are, we all suffer differently from it.
I loved and still love my dad….but he was not good to my mom. But, my dad was a very special person to speak up for us all to move from one country to another….he wanted the paradise for us all. So, my dad….was a very special man that I will always cherish because of my mother….she put him on a pedestal.
Thank you for your comment, Diane. I’m so glad to know it touched you. And thank you for sharing part of your own dynamic family story.
How beautiful. Having recently lost my dad, also a complex relationship, I found it especially touching.
My deepest condolences, Lisa. May his memory live on and light your path. xo
Sometimes our greatest teachers come in the most unlikely packages. Beautiful story.
So true, Barbara. Thank you.