I could say a lot....

...About this man....about his unnatural generosity and humility.  His never-ending love and faithfulness.  About his very abnormal ability to choose love and righteousness over bitterness or cynicism.  About his love for learning and his flexibility.  Though I'm certain that he is human (and allegedly flawed like the rest of us)...the typical human traits of self-promotion and self-defense and self-importance are strangely absent.  He cares about being liked....I think I get that from him.  But rather than try to convince you about his worth and greatness or his many areas of wisdom and experience and expertise, he'd usually rather stoop down on all fours to be your footstool for changing a lightbulb...if that's what you needed...

His name means a great deal to many people.  I grew up knowing that.  My last name was big in a small town.  And I carried it happily, gratefully.  Because without fail, wherever I went, I got to hear stories of how my father had blessed and enriched someone's life with his teaching or his kindness or his care.  I got to hear about his wisdom and his integrity.

I believed them...and I felt proud.  But to me, he was not important because of his ministry or because of his small-town fame... he was important because he was the one who packed my lunches and drew stick-figure pictures on the brown paper bag.  He made me omelettes for breakfast and read Proverbs to us every morning.  He helped me with my horrible geometry homework and listened when I was frustrated or excited or nervous. He told me long, running stories about Charlie Chipmunk every night.  He loved my friends and invested in them too.  He still does.  I could always find him in his office reading or praying early in the morning. And I knew that often, he was praying for me.  Still does.  He fixed just about anything of mine that was broken, and now he fixes things for my children...even cheap dollar store things that should probably just be thrown away.  It's impossible to buy him anything, because he never talks about things he wants.  At family gatherings, when all the adults in the room are tired and just want to sit for some adult conversation, he's usually outside playing with the kids.

As an adult, I still get to hear those gushing stories about my dad often (though sometimes now, I get to reveal my relationship to him in my own time and on my own terms, since I'm disguised by new Corbin name).

He isn't a saintly hero to everyone.  But to me he's the closest human to ever deserve that title.

Happy Birthday Dad.  I love you.

Father.

You are the one that has given that name meaning for me. Before I ever knew the depth of the name 'Father', you showed Him to me.

I have always known that a Father is full of unending, unconditional, sacrificing love. That a Father is trustworthy, wise, and patient. That a Father desires what is best for his children.

And as you lived all of these things, you also gave me something far greater. You told me stories about my Father that created and loved me even more than you could. But I've always had a hard time believing that kind of love was possible, because I knew how deeply I was loved by you.

I knew that you hurt when I was hurting. That you hated to see my pain or failure or disapointment. Now that I am a parent, I've found myself saying the words that I so often heard you say to me..."Oh honey, I wish I could take the pain for you." Though I never doubted it then, I now know how much you really meant it.

And yet it is clear that more than happiness or comfort or ease...you desire what is best, what is right, what only God can give us whether it brings happiness or sorrow.

For all of my life, I have met new people, that somehow have been impacted by you, by your teaching, by your love, by your wisdom...and always, with great pride and gratitude, I say...

'He's my dad.'

For his first Father's Day present, Ryan told me that he wanted a new suit...navy blue pinstripe. So, when we finally had a day without a million commitments, we drove to Grand Rapids to hunt for the perfect suit. But on the way to the mall, Ryan suggested a spontanious detour to the Frederick Meijer Gardens.

The Meijer gardens were breathtaking...hundreds, maybe thousands of complex, fragile plants and trees from all over the world growing inside of an enormous glass greenhouse. Among the flowers, there were other masterpieces: sculptures by Degas, Rodin, an artist's recreation of Davinci's horse, and other contemporary pieces. It was an amazing collection of beautiful work.

My grandmother Linda was a gardener. The careful, daily tending and nurturing was a natural part of who she was. She sketched detailed maps of her gardens...labelling each plant and flower. I like to think that I could someday create something that beautiful and alive. I do share many of her traits. Her long thin fingers and toes. Her unruly eyebrows. A bit of her eccentricity. Her love for books, art, shopping, carefully wrapped gifts, Les Cheneaux". But her gardener's blood does not flow through my veins. I lack the dilligence and patience it requires. But I love to enjoy the work of those who have this gift. A walk in any garden inspires me to pay more attention to detail, to think about the complexity of creation, to actually water the few tropical plants in my living room (that I usually allow to slowly die of thirst and neglect).

Maybe someday Maya will learn to love and care for flowers like her great grandmother.
She certainly enjoyed her first day at the gardens.


...we did find a suit. And of course, Ryan looks amazing in it. Maybe someday I'll post a picture of my handsome husband in his Father's Day present from me.

But Maya got him the present he really wanted. A remote control airplane.

maya's first 'outing'

Maya arrived just in time (with only four days to spare) to see her Daddy graduate "Summa Cum Laude" (with highest honors) with his Master's degree last Saturday. She was very impressed...

Actually she slept through the whole ceremony...even when a thoughtless member of the audience blew an air horn only a few feet from her tiny, fragile ears. Her dad was pretty mad about it. You should have seen him jump up from his seat among the graduates, and storm up the bleachers to see if his baby was okay (and to share a few kind words with the man who blew the horn).

Since her first outing was so traumatic, we decided that... just to be safe, we'll just keep her at home from now on. No more outings, ever. She may complain when she's a teenager, but someday she'll understand and thank us.