Dear Daddy,

It’s Father’s Day, and even though you’ve been gone a long time, and even though I didn’t get to know you in the way I wish I had, I wanted to write to you. After all these years, my memories of you are blurred, but they’re enough to feel your presence in so many parts of my life. 

I remember driving on the road that crossed over the river at the Falls near Marlin. I imagine it would’ve been scary, with the water coursing over the road—but not for us, because you were calm and we knew you would handle it and we were safe with you.

I remember when you brought home baby chicks for Easter, one for each of us. They’d be there for us to find that morning, all snuggled down in a bushel basket by the barbecue pit. Some years there were baby bunnies, too! That gesture said everything: joy and sweet fun for us. 

I remember you keeping rhythm on the dashboard while we drove with the windows down, your big gold Texas A&M ring tapping time. Your hands were strong. They knew fishing, hunting, and careful work. I always noticed them, and it was such a strong memory.

I remember that little alcove off the den—the room with the tiny wooden drawers and organized rows of little supplies. The tall stool, the light. That was where you created your fishing lures. You painted them in shimmering colors so they’d catch the light underwater, and you knew exactly how to make them perfect for catching fish. True craftsmanship! That room said something about who you were: artistic, creative, and someone who found great satisfaction in attending to details.   

I remember sensing how people greeted you. You were known and loved. That this warmth coexisted with your inner struggles only deepens my understanding of your strength—and your humanity.

And I remember standing in the TV room during the Aggie War Hymn, watching a game. We stood together and sang it by heart. I still know every word. Even now, just thinking of it, hearing it, brings tears. There was something about that moment that felt so good. It felt like belonging and tradition.

I wish you could see how my life turned out. It’s been full of glorious things!  I’ve had to navigate some dark seasons, but I came through them with strength and with faith. I’ve come to believe that God never wastes a thing, not even heartache. I see now how He was working in my life.

You have grown grandchildren  – successful and so admirable, each one. You’d be proud. There’s not enough room here to describe how much I love them and I know you would, too.  

Bess, my eldest, is lovely in more ways than I can count. Sharp, beautiful, and accomplished. She inherited your extraordinary hand-to-eye coordination and your all-inclusive nature. She and her husband, Lee, have four little ones – Vivienne, Charles, Jane, and David, your great-grandbabies!  Lee is such a good man – Generous, kind, and smart. They’ve built something beautiful together.  

My David is handsome, just like you were. So often, when I look at him, I see you. His hair, his eyebrows, his eyes. His attention to detail, his brilliance, and his integrity, are such strong parts in who he is. His wife, Haddie, is industrious, talented, smart and beautiful. They’re building a sweet life of their own. They have little Henry, (your great grandbaby!) and they are expecting another little boy in November.

All of the little ones call me Mamamom. You would’ve loved them. And you’d have told them they need to be Aggies!

I know that my precious siblings, Ann and David, have their own memories of you—memories shaped by their own experiences. In recent years, we’ve often found joy in reminiscing about the good ones, letting those lighter moments rise to the surface and be shared.

Several years ago, I wrote a blog post in which I struggled to recall the good about you. But in time, I’ve come to see that there was much light about you — more God-given light — than I could see then. I just hadn’t opened the right doors. Once I did, what came rushing back was kindness and a sense of delight.

I believe that your story was more than we understood. You were a good man, carrying pain like so many others who came home from war with burdens they couldn’t name. You earned awards for your service and for your work afterward, building a respected career while carrying the weight of both visible and invisible injuries from the war. I hold that truth with both tenderness and reverence. It feels like something God wanted me to see before too much more time passed.

I’ve thought a lot over the years about what it means to honor your father in the truest sense. I’m not erasing history or showing blind loyalty. I want to honor you. To do that, I am acknowledging and remembering the good.

“Honor your father and your mother”—yes, that’s a commandment. And, it’s an invitation to peace. What an enormous and fortunate gift you give to your parents (and, by the way, to yourself) by honoring your father and your mother. The gift is peace.

Daddy, I know that your relationship with Mother had many moments of strife. But, with time, I’ve come to recognize qualities in you—strength, tenderness, resilience—that I couldn’t fully see before.

This letter is my way of reaching toward you with the sweet memories I have, and the love that has been there, waiting. Today, I honor you for the part of you that lives on in me and in the family that followed. I’m proud to hold the memories I have of you, and grateful to share them today.

Love,

Jane

P.S.  I called you Daddy in this letter because that’s what you were to me back then when I was little, before everything changed. After the divorce, we used your first name, Carl, instead. But today, I remember you again as my daddy—and that’s what you’ll be to me from now on.

A Note to the Reader:
We all have people in our lives whose stories we think we know. But sometimes, if we look again with a bit more light and a bit more mercy, we find a fuller picture.

I wonder if there’s someone in your life you’ve seen mostly through one lens—perhaps clouded by time, distance, or unspoken grief. What might shift if you cleaned the glass a little? Or turned the frame to let in a different angle of light—an angle filled with mercy and grace?

In making this space, it’s my intention to release the grip of certain conclusions. That’s what I’m endeavoring to do regarding both my past and my future, in every relationship.  

How about you?

With love,

J