My Tribute This Father's Day

Reading stories on Father's Day by daughters who had wonderful dads who lavished love on them throughout their childhoods always warms my heart. The memories they share, however, might also stir an emotional response from daughters whose dads were not so wonderful or were absent. My personal experience has been a combination of both. I am the product of an absent dad who rejected me in every way and sorely failed my mother while simultaneously building a family with another woman. Thankfully, God filled the huge gap caused by his failure to be a father to me and provided a wonderful dad who lavished love on me and gave me the best he had to offer. I may not have been his biological daughter, but I was his in every way, without a doubt.

On Father's Day, I owe my tribute to the man who became a true father to an orphan, unlocking his heart, his heritage, and his home to give me what my absent dad refused and/or was unable to provide.

(Note: I have forgiven my biological parents for their failure to make a loving home with me. God had a plan to provide for me everything I needed in a family. I am not bitter; I don't mean for my mention of either of them to convey anything less than respect for the role they played in my life.)

Dad, although not infallible by any means, was a good man who loved God and made sure his daughter was raised to know the Lord, love Him, and serve Him. Dad loved serving his church and always did his best to include me in acts of service on some level. Although a proud Dutchman, he had a tender heart – a servant's heart when it came to his family and church.

He was a forgiving and merciful man, truths so obvious to me as I watched his relationship with my Mom. She wasn't always easy to live with yet he never failed to allow his heart to be deeply impacted by her emotional and physical needs. His way of loving her strongly influenced me to have a clear idea of the value of marriage vows and promises kept.

Dad loved life! Fishing, boating, water skiing, ice skating, swimming, and anything to do with water, lakes, and outdoor activities throughout the year. He loved going with "the guys" to Canada, camping and fishing in rustic settings. He loved playing in the snow, building snow forts, having snowball fights, and tobogganing down the hills in Cleveland Metropolitan Parks.

Some of warmest memories I have from childhood include those chilly fall afternoons, holding Dad's hand as he led me down paths in "the Valley". The background noise of horses clippity cloppity down the nearby trail, the sound of water rushing over the fjord, the smell of freshly fallen leaves, the brilliant colors, the excitement we shared as we found an exquisite leaf, unblemished by nature's intruders. We picked up the unique leaves and carefully placed them in our pockets to show Mom when we returned home where she was waiting with hot chocolate to warm our chilled bones.

Dad was a die-hard Cleveland Browns and Cleveland Indians fan. From an early age, I was introduced to his favorite sports when he received complimentary tickets to Browns or Indians games from his clients at work. Our trips to the stadium always included a special time walking the streets of Downtown Cleveland, stopping for a sandwich at a nearby deli, and picking up some warm salted roasted nuts from the peanut shop on the Square. We loved Christmas in Cleveland, the storefronts were so amazing! The hustle and bustle of shoppers crowding the old department stores like Higbee's, Hallee's, and May Company. So many amazing memories!

Dad was a proud United States Army Veteran, having served during WWII; he loved this country. While I rarely heard political discussions from the adults in my life, I just knew he was grieved as he grew older and witnessed the not-so-gradual transformation of his party affiliation. Had Dad lived to today, he would probably been labeled as a racist much the same as so many of his generation. He couldn't tolerate unpatriotic gestures or the foolishness we find in our contemporary government. Yet, he was a man who was known for his love of the least to the greatest.

Family was an important element of his life. He was the youngest of seven children, his parents and older siblings having immigrated from Holland around the turn of the century. They all remained in the greater Cleveland area where they worked, played, and loved their families. I was blessed with several aunts, uncles, and cousins. Most were older than me because he was the youngest and Dad and Mom had already been married more than 10 years before they adopted me. By the time I became part of the family, most of his siblings had children in their teens and early adulthood although there were a few cousins around my age which enriched my childhood.

My description of Dad would be incomplete without mentioning his love for music. He had a beautiful voice and wasn't the least bit backward about singing. He taught me to dance by standing on his shoes while we swirled around the living room singing along with the music. Dad and Mom loved to polka; we hardly missed watching Polka Variety on Sunday afternoons. He had quite a collection of records; the walls of our home were often vibrating with the sound of the classics, big bands, Mitch Miller, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and too many more to mention.

When I was learning to play the piano, Dad would go downstairs to his workshop and listen. It wasn't rare for him to come running up the stairs to applaud me for a job well done, especially after knowing the struggle I had with some music from time to time. I remember him telling me to play a song over and over again so he could sing along. Those moments always ended in laughter and hugs too precious to forget.

Needless to say, I miss Dad in so many ways. One of the most notable was his insistence on reading the Bible at the dinner table on Sunday after church. He would pick a passage and lead us in prayer, asking God's blessing on the food and his family. I still have his well-read Bible which, in some ways, led me to grow up loving God's Word. After all, if it was important to Dad, it was important to me.

Dad and Mom had been married more than 60 years by the time Mom passed. Dad died about 11 months after Mom. I wanted so desperately to be with him as he took his last breath, but I had more than a two-hour drive to reach him when I received the call that he was passing. I missed being with him by less than five minutes, something I've never gotten over. It hurt me so bad not being able to hear his last words, to hold his hand, and to love him into eternity.

John Bosch, the Dad who chose me as his very own. The younger generations at church called him "Uncle Bosch" as he slipped a piece of candy into the hands of kids eagerly anticipating his treats.

My Dad was one of the rarest gems, not only to me but to all who knew him and loved him. Happy Father's Day, Dad ... I will forever love you!