Saying ‘Happy Father’s Day’ Doesn’t Do Him Justice

In the summer after 8^th grade, he briefly let go of my hand and smiled awkwardly as he wiped off his sweaty palm, then nervously grabbed my hand again and squeezed. With butterflies in my stomach, I thought it might be love.   

When he was sixteen, we rode up a chairlift on a cold winter day and I rubbed my hands together for warmth. He calmly took each of my gloves and blew into them with his warm breath, then placed the warmed gloves back on my frozen fingers. I looked into his kind eyes and knew it was a love too real for teenagers.

A year later, he had just been baptized and the Holy Spirit filled his heart, he hugged me tight in a crowded church lobby as tears streamed down his face. I thought how much God loved him and I knew he had a plan for us… either together or apart… I knew he would always be my first love.

He was a few months shy of nineteen, sitting on a picnic table in Mueller Park Canyon as I sobbed out the words, “I’m pregnant,” but this is when his eyes lit up and he enthusiastically exclaimed, “Now we can get married!” He held me tight and I thought I would never love him more than at that moment.

Six months later in a hospital room, a squirmy newborn flailed and screamed at the top of his lungs as we attempted to change our first diaper and realized we didn’t know what to do. I panicked and pushed the emergency nurse button. After the annoyed nurse rolled her eyes and reviewed the diapering  procedure once more, he looked at me with confidence and said, “It’s gonna be okay; we can do this.” I was skeptical, but I knew I couldn’t love him more.

Later that year, we each held one of our son’s tiny hands as he laid on a beautiful alter adorn in lace. Our sweet baby smiled at us as Tim looked me in the eyes and promised me forever.  We felt God’s love bless our little family and I thought I couldn’t love him more.

At twenty-three, he convinced me to move to Idaho where we didn’t know a single soul. I complained one night about missing my friends and he said he would be my best friend. The move turned out to be the best thing for our marriage and family; he’s been my best friend ever since and I thought I couldn’t love him more.

When he was twenty-seven years old, he took it upon himself to cook Sunday dinners. Everyone knows he’s a much better cook than I, but having this reprieve was priceless and became a tradition the kids looked forward to ever since. Each Sunday as we sit down for dinner together as a family, I swear I couldn’t love him more.  

At thirty, while stumbling over Legos, army men, and toddler toys, I was holding a baby on my hip and in denial that I could possibly be pregnant again, I watched him as he stood among a pile of laundry and methodically folded the clean clothes. I realized there is nothing more enduring than a man willingly folding laundry. I knew I couldn’t love him more.

At thirty-three, he fished, golfed, coached our kids’ sports teams, and took time off work to go to scout camp. He called home in tears one night as the realization sunk in that our oldest would never be like the other boys. He didn’t express self-pity or disappointment; it was an overwhelming compassion and love for our son as he wept, “I never fully understood.” Regardless of what the future held, I knew we were together in raising him the best we could and I had never loved him more than at that moment.

He was thirty-eight when a rebellious child declared his independent rage and frustration with a mother who was holding on too tight. He looked up to the growing child with a firm tone and warned him to never speak to his mother that way again. We slowly learned to let go, but our love for each other and united front has been a constant. I knew I couldn’t love him more.

At forty-two, he wiped away my tears while calmly explaining college algebra at 1am in the morning. He encouraged me and told me I could do it, that I was smarter than I realized. So whatever degree I would eventually earn, it belongs to him as well. I loved his logic and unwavering support, because college would simply not have been possible without him. I thought I couldn’t love him more... but I was wrong.

At forty-five he holds me tight through the pain and fear of breast cancer. He’s been there throughout the endless appointments, medications and sickness, caressing my patchy bald head and bloated face while insisting I will always be beautiful to him. His positive reassurance is what calms me the most, and his resolve that “We will do whatever it takes to be together another forty years.” There’s no way I could ever love him more. 

The love of my life has continued to amaze me, this incredibly steady and strong husband of mine. He has shown our children what true love is all about and what it means to be a good father… a good man. Whatever challenges, trials, or adventures life has brought throughout the years, I thought I couldn’t love him more – but he continues to prove me wrong each day as our love evolves and grows.