You Are My Hero

I wrote the following letter to my father in 1999 shortly before my now 7 year-old son was to be born. It's a little long, but it's something I need to put out there. If there's a way for me to sum up what it means to be a dad, this is it.

Dear Dad,

I’m writing you to let you know something I know I’ll choke up saying in person. A few months ago, we decided to name our new baby boy after you. The reason simply being that you are my hero.

From the earliest times I can
remember, you have always loved me. Even when I tried your patience countless times by leaving your tools to rust in the yard or deliberately disobeying you, you never stopped loving me. When I needed you the most, coming into adolescence, you were there just for me to talk to. You will never know how much those hours travelling in the car meant to me. As it turns out, I thought talking to you helped the miles go by quicker on our way to wherever we were headed. But I always ended up feeling better on the drive home, that all the huge problems I had weren’t quite as big as I thought. You sank thousands of miles into me because you loved me and didn’t want to lose me.

It’s not just the trips I remember, although I enjoyed those immensely. I remember you teaching me how to build a model rocket, how to bevel the fins just right to make it fly true...or at least keep it from taking off after us -- there’s something to be said for being the second son. I remember your telling me you build things “strong, almost to a fault,” and then having the patience to tell me, the walking dictionary, what that meant. The first time you told me that was when you were building the table for the HO railroad in grandma’s basement. It would take a fire or flood to ruin that table and even then, I think we could still use it. The second, and hopefully last time you told me that was shortly after a highway patrolman set flares out for us on I-70 down from Floyd Hill. You had to explain why the home-built trailer you had built nearly killed us, fish-tailing down the road with too much rock and not enough vehicle. I cannot pass that spot without marking the place where the tire blew and your fervent prayers were answered.

We also used that trailer to tow our dirt bikes up to the mountains. I can’t say which I enjoyed more: the time the Honda Trail 90 flipped over on me in the middle of an icy cold stream, or the time the brakes went out on me on the Tote Goat. The former scared me, the latter scared you. Here I am in the middle of a stream, fresh after nailing a rock and flipping sideways, wondering if getting swept downstream is worse than getting drowned by a bike with a searing hot tail pipe. The Tote Goat always had a mind of its own and when the belt finally slipped off its pulley at precisely the wrong time going down that hill, your only thoughts were of getting me to get off the bike before it plunged off the side of the hill. When I ditched it, I knew I’d averted a catastrophe, but I also had not listened to you in an emergency. To my knowledge, that was the only time I did.

I had the opportunity to listen to you on Longs Peak. Then again, I had no choice. Looking down between my legs at where my next foot plant would go was a new experience engraved in my brain by hypoxia and adrenaline. I’ll never forget how your clear words and instruction guided me down and your willingness to go below and before me, risking your own neck to possibly save mine. I never slept as hard as I did that morning at the hogan.

Well, maybe once or twice, but you somehow managed to get me out of bed and on my way, even if it meant prying me from my warm mattress. Somehow sleeping in wasn’t so much fun as it was active physical resistance to an irresistible force known as “dad.”

Speaking of irresistible forces, you were the first to get me turned on to logic and philosophy. You turned me on to chess and other games. You interested me in orienteering, survival skills and primitive camping. You interested me in skiing, no matter how painful the boots were or how cold it got. It got plenty cold ice fishing too. Has no one in Colorado heard of a fishing hutch? I’ll never forget the time I had something to do with every fish we caught out of Elevenmile, from then on becoming a bit of a good luck charm. I still remember the trips to Allen’s Basin, Crosho, and Yamcolo; more recently Ivanhoe, Catamount, and the Arkansas in the Gorge. Passed into lore are the words “Mount Princeton,” “Klynkies Cabins” and “Hey, I know a shortcut!” Realizing I should just say no to that last one took one or two midnight drives in the mountains. More foreboding are the words “Would I lead you astray?”

One of my earliest and pleasant memories is of you and I taking the Cumbres and Toltec Scenic Railroad. All those hot hours in the gondola car and I was still entranced with the steam engine and all things railroad. Letting me see the firebox filled me with terrible fascination. Through all of it, you embraced the Rio Grande with almost more abandon than I. Taking the RGZ to Glenwood and only later realizing the historic impact of that last run makes me kind of proud and it certainly remains one of my favorite trips with you.

You spent all that time with me to show me you love me.

But in the last 5 years, I’ve seen a marked change come over you. Your ability to express and show love has grown even more. Your desire to see us draw closer to God has been a passion in you. From the PK rallies to the books you’ve given to the simple advice and prayers you’ve poured out, you have fervently desired for us to know more of God and His Love. You’ve helped us find more freedom in Him than we’ve ever known. Even a few months ago, when Karen and I were desperately fighting the prince of darkness, you looked beyond my shame and sought to heal my wounds with God’s touch. Dad, you are my hero.

One translation of our son's first name is "passion.” I pray that God grants a double portion of that same desire that you have to Keegan, that he will have a passion to draw all men to Jesus. Should Jesus delay, I want the love you have been showing us to live on with us long after you are gone. Though you’ve never stood behind a pulpit, you have shown me what it is to be a man of God. You’ve shown me that it is bravery to be vulnerable and still be strong. You’ve demonstrated care and compassion while never wavering on the truth. Most importantly, you have shown me how to love my children, even when your own parents fell short in teaching you. Truly, you are a miracle. And dad, you’re my hero.

A few months ago, you praised me, and God’s work in me, in front of someone who is not only my highest boss, but a national figure. I still don’t fully realize how much that really meant to me. It touched me deeply to know how proud you were of me. It still does. And through that, you taught me another aspect of love: respect. Your respect of me has been a silent steel beam in our relationship. I now know I have nothing to prove to you, even though the enemy constantly made me feel I had to prove my capability and be as good as you were at something. And knowing that I have nothing to prove has shown me the unconditional love with which God looks on me. If there is one thing any man has to overcome in his nature, it is his inability to know, accept and give unconditional love. You have done that. Dad, what is left to be said except You Are My Hero.

Your son,

Steve Walden