D-Day 2025

Early on the morning of December 3rd, 2025, I was awakened by a phone call. It is the phone call no one ever wants to receive. My father had passed away.

My dad was a great man. He was the greatest man I ever knew. And even though I was taller than him, he was a giant among men.

He was a tremendous example of faithfulness in marriage and devotion towards children. From him I learned so much. What it means to be a man. How to work hard. How to prioritize tasks and how to make hard decisions and what to do when faced with a challenge. I learned how to cook and clean and drywall, cut wood (so much time spent holding wood at the saw table while sawdust flew everywhere, covering everything). How to say no. How to make small talk and carry on a conversation with strangers (look them in the eye, speak up when you're talking). I learned the importance of family and a strong work ethic and my role as the provider for my family.

From him I learned advice on marriage that has been shared countless times to others. He once told me that you will fall in and out of love with your wife. And when that happens, you need to focus on what it is about her that you respect and admire so that you don't start looking elsewhere because the love will return.

My dad used to joke that he'd been married multiple times to the same woman because mom had changed so much over the years. He joked a lot about many topics. He was quick witted. I learned the importance of facing life with a smile on your face that let others know you were in on the joke, even if they weren't.

I admired the heck out of him. I used to tell people he was the living embodiment of Ron Swanson because he was. Dear employee: don't bother asking him if you can help him if you happened to see him shopping at Home Depot--he knows more than you do. Buried or hidden gold? Check. A talented craftsman? Check. A man among men who doesn't understand man buns or anything even remotely effeminate? Check. When I was young and started playing sports, evidently, I ran like a girl. He let me know. It was a repeated message that caused some pain at the time. But by the time I reached HS and saw how vicious HS boys are towards one another I was quite glad that no one made fun of me for running like a girl. Hold the door for others. Ladies always first. Always, always compliment a woman if she looks nice. And even if she doesn't, find something to compliment her on. But I digress. A fairly high level government employee who hated the government and would like nothing more than to topple it from the inside? Check.

He was a hard worker. When faced with poverty and prolonged unemployment, he went to Columbus State and got a degree. He worked his way from the mailroom all the way up to C-Suite director of one of the largest state agencies. He was a natural born leader. He always wanted to be an architect (cue the Seinfeld jokes) but wasn't good enough at math to pursue it. In God's providence, he would end up overseeing multimillion dollar constructions by the state and run billion dollar budgets. I remember one time in the basement, him proudly admiring the blueprint for a tower at a facility, and remarking that it turns out he got to build things anyways. A good reminder that even if life doesn't turn out the way we planned, it doesn't mean we don't end up doing what we had hoped to do.

His oversized hand was the one I held when I was little. He was the candy man. Feeding me candy to keep me happy as we made our way through endless art museums which we would visit on every vacation to make my mom happy. When I had children, he always had peanut m&ms in his pockets for them. He was the gentle voice I needed to hear when I was sad and the wisdom I'd seek when I was older and knew I could get sound, no nonsense advice. He was the one who would tell me on every birthday when I was little, and call me when I was older, just to let me know that on this day X years ago, the angels brought you down from heaven to be my son so that you could one day bring joy to others, or make people laugh, or be a great father or... insert compliment here.

He never missed a single sport game I played in. His dad was absent from a lot of his basketball games, enough so that it left the wrong kind of lasting impression and so he had promised me he'd be at every single one. And he was. Often standing by himself, in this oversized maroon jacket, yelling at the referee. For he was a vocal one, my dad.

He was well acquainted with fighting. His father was a pastor and my dad was teased a lot when he was growing up. He was taught to be a pacifist and never fight back. His breaking point came when a boy beat him up pretty good, with his dad watching. When it was over his dad praised him, saying he was glad he turned the other cheek. That was the last time he turned another cheek.

Always be prepared. Always keep the keys because then no one can leave without you. Know your surroundings. If you're in an area that seems even remotely unsafe, walk with your keys in your hand and the keys sticking out in between your fingers so that when you punch someone it'll be like you're wearing brass knuckles. If the situation can't be resolved without a fight, either punch them in the throat or hit them in the family jewels. There's no honor in fighting anyways, so don't worry about how you fight. Bite and pull hair. Just win.

Well, sons will become prodigals. I enjoyed his stories of rebellion. But for his sake, I won't make it public. Perhaps it was his mistakes that would prompt him to repeatedly tell me when I was a teenager and in college "if you get into trouble and end up in jail, don't waste your one call on me." I knew he meant it. I did a lot things. Too many illegal or borderline illegal. But I made sure to never get arrested. I can remember one time with friends telling them I couldn't do that. Why? They asked. Because if I get arrested I don't know who to call.

Eventually, he moved into the hippie movement. His dad admirably defended his appearance, telling others his long hair and voluminous beard reminded him of Jesus.

His opinion was ready whether you asked for it or not. He had no problem telling complete strangers off, even police officers, if they were annoying him. He was fearless. Once a large number of teenage boys had gathered in the front side yard. My dad didn't know what they were doing but decided to go stand just inside of our gate, hidden from the light of the moon by mom's landscaping. The boys approached the gate and just as one put their hand on it to open it my dad spoke in a deep voice, "What are you boys doing?' They jumped out of their shoes and took off running. Another time he was pushing me in a wheelchair. My leg was unable to bend due to a knee injury and because my parents were cheap as sh*t my leg was resting on a 2x4. A pick up truck went by and made some sort of comment towards us, the back bed full of rednecks. My dad slowed down the wheel chair and stared them down. They turned around in a drive way and passed by us again, my dad rose to the challenge and a shouting match ensued between the truck of rednecks and my dad. They drove past again and he stood there watching them until they disappeared. Are you crazy? I asked him. No, they're young and stupid. They could hurt us, I countered. No they can't, my dad said. If they're stupid enough to stop, before they're able to get out of the truck I'd have broken their skulls in with that 2x4 your leg is resting on.

I was always proud of him. Proud of his success story. His success was a combination of hard work and a will that never, ever surrendered. He was so stubborn. So, so, so stubborn. The type of stubbornness that will look at a sparking electrical fire inches from his face with a look of sheer annoyance--how dare it flare up? The kind of stubbornness that would take used wood from a construction site, hammer out all of the nails, then hammer all the nails straight so they could be reused, and then force this crooked cabinet door to be repurposed for cabinets at the lakehouse. The type of stubbornness that, while sitting in a chair and leaning over to pick up the newspaper somehow deflates a lung. And instead of doing something about it, decides to sit there all night and wait until mom wakes up to go to the hospital--and if that sounds similar to an episode of Parks and Rec well, what can I say? He was the living embodiment of Ron Swanson.

His stubbornness knew no bounds. When we exited the Toledo Zoo and discovered the van battery was dead because I'd left the headlights on he did what any normal man would do, popped the hood and stood by it holding jumper cables. After watching vehicle after vehicle pass by without helping one stopped. They rolled down their window and asked if our battery was dead. My dad said yes, they said that's too bad and then drove off. Much swearing ensued by my dad as he slammed the hood down and went and put the van in neutral. Push it! He instructed. So we pushed the van. If they won't stop to give us a jump, I'll make them give me a jump And we pushed the van until it was blocking the exit of the zoo. Then he walked back around and popped the hood. We had a jump a bit later.

It was the type of stubbornness that felt he could speed if he wanted and nuts to those who would say otherwise. While driving home with my temps, we entered a construction zone. I was speeding. A uniformed officer stepped into the road and waved us over. He waved a lot of vehicles over with us at the front. My dad looked backwards and said, When I tell you to, I want you to punch it, okay. I nodded dumbly. Excited and worried at the same time. When the cop went to the door of the car at the back of the line my dad yelled punch it! And I floored it out of there. 

So strong willed. So forceful. So, so dependable. So constant.

I miss him already. I've missed him for the past two years which I can only describe as darkness, disappointment and regret. I will not speak more on it.

But it is a different type of hole now that he is gone gone.

Yesterday wasn't D-Day because he died. It is D-Day because it was the day dad crossed that border and entered Heaven. I imagine his entry was almost like an invasion. Who is this forceful, strong minded, opinionated man? I have no doubt he has some things he wants to let God know he did wrong. But you know what? My father loved the water. He could sit and watch it for hours. I trust that on his way to throne room of God to share said opinions my dad saw the "crystal like a sea of glass" and became distracted, settled down, and is even now, enjoying the view.

I love you daddy.