
Maybe it’s because I’m nearing thirty, or maybe it’s because COVID has prevented unimpeded access to my parents. In any case, I’ve spent a lot of time ruminating on my mom and dad lately – their hard work in raising their six kids, their gifts and sacrifices, their dreams and character. When you recognize your parents as real, individual people with personal narrative and God-given purpose (as opposed to just The Parents in your life movie’s cast), you hit a major adulthood milestone. With Father’s Day coming up this Sunday, I’ve been thinking a lot in particular about my dad.
If you’ve met my dad, you probably think of him as a quirky, fast-moving, pun-loaded pianist. True enough, but those traits don’t tell the whole story. The dad I know is also a bona fide genius, with an IQ in the 99th percentile and a penchant for invention. He’s an artist by nature, from the recording studio to the kitchen. My dad is a wellspring of humor, able to build comedy from anything and pour it into any environment. You may have heard my dad play the piano in church or at an event, but you probably don’t know he improvised his way through his audition for UVic’s music program (he was accepted). More than a collection of impressive accomplishments, though, my dad is the most forgiving person I’ve ever met. He does his best to make even strangers feel seen and included. He speaks well of people, even when they’ve been unkind to him.
My dad is an exceptional person, and it’s been my privilege to have him as a parent. In honor of Father’s Day, here are some of the lessons he’s taught me:
The difference between AM and FM musicians.

When I was in high school, I went through a major musical theatre phase. I still enjoy musicals, but for awhile, I sang Phantom of the Opera pieces so often, I think there are still pieces of shattered mirrors in my old bedroom. My dad grew up in the ’70s. He hit the road with his band, rocking a mullet, earrings, and high-top sneakers. They likely tuned their van radio to Pink Floyd, Supertramp, Zeppelin, or Rush. I remember one particularly operatic morning, when my dad had had enough. He stopped me and said, “Meghan, one day you’re going to realize Andrew Lloyd Webber is an AM musician.” He explained that Phantom of the Opera’s famed theme bears suspicious similarity to Pink Floyd’s “Echoes.” I didn’t really at the time, but now I do know the difference between radio waves.
How to grocery shop.
If you’ve checked out my blog series on How to Eat Well On A Tiny Budget, you’ve probably already read my anecdote about when my dad shared the untold secrets of frugal grocery shopping. Needless to say, dad’s ability to stretch money a mile has made it hard for me to let even a dollar go unchecked.
There’s a place for art in science, and science in art.

I can’t remember a time when my life wasn’t backed by a soundtrack of original compositions. I’m also pretty confident my dad has yet to meet a math equation he can’t solve. I didn’t inherit my dad’s exact music-bending abilities, but I did glean some important skills – how to compose using math and strategy, for instance. I also learned how beautiful and inspiring physics, astronomy, and systems science can be.
How to fit an elephant into a shoebox.
I love Tetris. Apparently so does my dad, because no matter how many boxes, bags, suitcases, crates, tents, and backpacks our family of eight scrounged up, my dad could always make them fit in our GMC suburban (and still leave enough room for people to sit). I did not appreciate this skill nearly enough as a child. I’m a mere Padawan when it comes to spatial recognition; my dad is the Jedi master.
Laughter heals.

To this day, it’s hard for me to hold on to anger once someone makes me laugh. My dad has the uncanny ability to balance truth, pain, and grief with levity. I deeply appreciate humor as a bonding agent, buffer, and salve. I also firmly believe humor is a reflection of God’s character.
How best to fold a ticket to win a draw.
When I was a kid, Kodak cameras had a group of mascots called “Kolorkins”. One day, we visited Lens and Shutter so my dad could visit his old colleagues. At the cash register, there was a drop box for a contest to win a giant Kizmo (the blue Kolorkin). I scrawled out my name and phone number, but my dad stopped me before I dropped it in the box. He took the slip of paper and folded it into a series of peaks and valleys, explaining the shape would give my paper the highest likelihood of being selected. Sure enough, I won. The giant blue stuffed creature didn’t quite fit my bedroom’s vibe, though, so we eventually donated it to my elementary school’s kindergarten class.
“Weird” is often a synonym for “brilliant”.

Goofy, punny, and loquacious, I’ve heard people describe my dad as “weird”. As an adult, I now realize that’s often what people say when they can’t keep up. I was so hurt when a group of kids called me weird in sixth grade, but now I can’t help but take the remark as a compliment (even when it’s not intended as one).
How to appreciate a fine scotch.
I don’t meet many other women under thirty who know the difference between a Glenfiddich and a Glenlivet, or how to recognize separate notes in the nose, palate, and finish. It’s admittedly fun to buy into a scotch-tasting night with my husband and hold my own as the only girl in the room.
Collaboration works best when we check our egos at the door.

Throughout my youth, my dad, brothers, and I played music together as a family band. We actually did pretty well, playing our fair share of weddings and local festivals. The problem was, each of us wanted to be the star. We all wanted our voices heard, our opinions validated, and our instruments in the spotlight. Hours upon hours of practice time with my dad taught me that big heads have no place in a healthy band.
How to play cribbage.
Just this morning, Mike was taking inventory of something, and counted, “Two, four, six, eight–” and I cut him off with, “and a pair is ten.” At first, I played crib with my dad as an act of compassion. My dad would set up the board on the big wooden coffee table in my parents’ sun-soaked living room, and he would absolutely not go easy on me. Dad skunked me nearly every time. We eventually played enough that it actually became fun, and I’ve since taught Mike how to play with me.
People remember kindness.

I went through a really superficial phase as a teenager. I’d eat up compliments about my beauty and charm like nothing else. I worked with my dad for a few years (he was in sales, I was in the Kid Zone), and I remember one day he pulled me aside. He said, “Meg, I know it’s nice to hear that you’re beautiful, and smart, and fun. But you know what I used to hear people say about you all the time? Meghan is so kind. When people said that, I felt so proud of you.” In my dad’s gentle way, he pulled me back to upright priorities. Beauty is fleeting, but kindness is memorable.
There’s power in a gentle spirit.

My dad has a remarkable trait that I only recently noticed. He never talks about himself or brags about his accomplishments or capabilities (other people do that for him – I wouldn’t know half of the amazing things he’s done without my mom’s intel). Dad never pushes himself to the front. He may sometimes showboat on the piano, but God has gifted my dad with humility. Make no mistake: he’s skilled, he’s capable, and he’s probably the smartest person in the room. But he’d never claim that, and he would set it all aside for another persons sake.
Everyone is valuable.
Growing up, we’d often be the last family leaving church as the doors were locked behind us. We’d groan and roll our eyes, but this was largely because my dad makes a point to stop and talk to everyone. He calls each person by name, asks about their family, listens to their stories, and makes them laugh. My dad sees every single person as someone worth his time.
God’s transformation power.
I can’t pretend my dad is perfect. He’s not. He has his fair share of flaws (and he’s acutely aware of most of them). But if you knew my dad thirty, twenty, or even ten years ago, you have seen the way he’s grown and changed. It’s not my place to share my dad’s story, but here’s what I can share: our God has the power to renew minds, to grow spiritual fruits like goodness and self-control, to put sin to death, to make dry bones come alive, and to transform us from glory to glory. I know it because I’ve seen it, not least of all in my dad.

So beautiful, warms my heart! Thank you, love you both!
Awww uncle David! This warms my heart.
Beautifully and warmly written! All so true!💕 Thanks for sharing Meghan!