I sit on the side of my bed in the dark this morning, reading this post from Brett Nordquist about his father.

In another room, my son gathers up his things before I take him to seminary at 6:30 a.m. Most of the house is dark and everyone else is asleep.

I should get going now, but the post about his recent four-day visit with his father keeps me reading to the end. Although his father failed to show a lot of emotional support growing up, the post tells how their relationship gradually evolved over the years.

Brett describes the scene at the airport as his father said his good-byes:

“I stood a few feet away as my dad pulled his luggage from the van. He said goodbye to each of the kids. Eyes were red. Cheeks were covered in tears.

When my father reached out to hug me, he leaned over and told me he loved me.”

The words are still on my mind as I wait in the van for Riley to come out of the house.

As I pull out of the driveway and onto the street, the wipers do their best to push away the steady rain. Neither one of us speak.

As I drive, my mind flashes back to my father and what I remembered about him. To quote Ralphie from “A Christmas Story”, “He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium.”

I remember his penchant for Pall Mall cigarettes and Rainier/Papst Blue Ribbon/Olympia beer. I remember the time when I walked into the house to hear a loud explosion from the bedroom.  This was followed by my father storming out of the room, accusing of me of playing with his gun in a profanity-laced tirade.

It turns out it was he who pulled the loaded gun out of the bedroom closet and fired a bullet into the bedroom ceiling.

I don’t remember him hugging me much. I don’t remember spending a lot of time with him.

The wipers continue their rhythmic motion this early morning as I make the left turn on to Geary Street. I turn right again while my 15-year-old son stares straight ahead.

I desperately think of something to say, anything at all.

“Boy, this rain won’t let up at all will it?”

No response from him.

I pull up to the church where he opens up the door and gathers up his gear. I tell him I love him and he leaves without a word.

It may take awhile, but I will give my boys something better to remember. I promise.