"Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes." ~Gloria Naylor

Part I of a tribute to my dad who continues to sacrifice for his children....
This is my dad. I know. He is larger than life, not just in physical presence, but in personality as well as spiritual presence. We have had our ups-and-downs over the years, my dad and I. I am sure if you were to ask him what life with me at about 16 was like he would say: I wasn't sure she was going to make it to 17. I had some doubts myself. Growing up, I was keenly aware of the imperfections of my father; all the ways he managed to fall short of what I felt I deserved , all the ways he managed to embarrass me. When you are young and certain that you know everything about how life should be you see life and relationships rather myopically. Fortunately, youthful self-centeredness is tempered and eventually replaced by experience and perspectives shaped by maturity. It has taken a clearer view of the world and a deeper understanding of my dad not as my father, but as a person with his own failed expectations, sacrifices, and struggles to overcome.

I have been reflecting recently on all the ways in which my rough-around-the-edges and sarcastic father taught my brother, sisters and me what life is really about. He is not one for disingenuousness. If anyone does something he finds hypocritical or small minded he never has any bones about kicking up dust to make a point. Over the years, I have been able to figure out who the people are that have been the focus of his honesty when they find out that Monk Bailey is my dad. But the thing is, my dad would give you the shirt of his back if you needed it. Sundays in my house were filled with new faces and good food. I can recall sitting at the kitchen table for hours after eating a meal and discussing faith and life and millions of other things with people my dad has just met for the first time that day. Then there were the nights our couches , or extra bedroom, had guests that my father knew had no other place to stay.

My father taught me, by the way he opened himself and his home to the stranger and to the downtrodden, that the true mark of a love of God is evidenced in how we treat his children in need. How do we treat those who are just a little bit different or those who are new faces in a new place or those who have been weighed down by the hardships of life? In revisiting all of these memories from childhood and adolescence I can't imagine having a better example of what kind of person I want to be.