Father’s Day

My dad was never a BBQ kind of dad.

And he doesn't play golf.

So Father's Day never quite fit the usual mold.

Instead, I started a tradition of my own.

Every year, I would go looking for the most obnoxious tie I could find.

The louder, the better.

Stripes.

Polka dots.

Paisley.

Colors that had no business being seen together.

If it made me laugh, it was a contender.

And every year, without fail, he would wear it to church on Father's Day.

Proudly.

Not reluctantly.

Not because he had to.

Proudly.

As if it were the finest tie he owned.

People would compliment him on it.

I always wondered if they were being polite.

But Dad would smile, straighten the knot, and thank them.

And standing there beside him, I would already be planning how to outdo myself the following year.

Looking back, I realize the tie was never really the point.

The point was that whatever I gave him, he treated it as though it mattered.

Because I mattered.

That is one of the quiet gifts good fathers give their children.

They have a way of making you feel that what comes from your hands, your heart, your efforts, is worth something.

Even when it is a truly terrible tie.

My father doesn't wear ties much anymore.

Time has a way of changing those little traditions.

But every Father's Day I still find myself looking at them.

Still searching for the loudest colors.

The wildest patterns.

The most wonderfully awful tie I can find.

And every time I do, I smile.

Because some of my favorite memories of my father aren't the big moments.

They're the small ones.

A man standing in church, wearing a ridiculous tie because his daughter picked it out.

Making it look good.

Just like he always did.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.