Dream Walking with Dad

Dad clicked closed the footrest on his recliner and glanced up at me. “You ready?”

“Yep.” I finished dragging the dishrag across the dining room table. “Just let me grab a jacket.”

To Dad and I walks were like parties are to children. Any occasion could prompt a walk. Whether we’d just polished off a Thanksgiving feast, unwrapped Christmas gifts, or it was simply Saturday, the circumstance called for a stroll.

At the road, Dad would take the outside edge to protect me from traffic. Arms swinging, we’d soon hit our stride.

Trips to see my paternal grandparents, league bowlers, usually included a visit to a bowling alley. Though antsy, Dad would watch their first game, then he’d look over at me. “You ready?”

After more than twenty years in law enforcement, Dad realized his dream of full-time ministry. Following his ordination, we walked.

Sometimes Dad and I explored model homes, kicked tires on used cars, and usually stopped to savor a frozen yogurt cone. Many walks took us through RV sales lots. Climbing into the motorhomes and travel trailers, Dad dreamed aloud about trips he and Mom would take.

During those times we spent traveling on our feet, Dad and I formed bonds of friendship and mutual understanding. We laughed, discussed possibilities, and shared our dreams. And I was sure we could solve any problem–ours or someone else’s–while we pounded the pavement exploring new territory.

A particular Thanksgiving weekend walk remains vivid in my memory. As we strolled his Phoenix neighborhood, Dad told me about his dream to have a portable locksmith business when he retired (yep, out of the back of one of those RVs). That was the same day I told him about my dream to be a writer.

A few months later, Dad asked, “Whatever happened with your writing? Are you doing anything with it yet?”

“Not much,” I answered. “Think I should?”

“Well, I don’t know that you’ll become rich or famous writing, but I think God has given you something important to say.”

I believed him. And some of what I have to say has been in print for twenty-five years now. Dad was right. I’m not rich or famous. But I am well off in memories and in the legacy Dad lavished upon me.

One of our last long walks took place in the White Mountains of eastern Arizona. In 1990, Dad was doing pulpit supply for a small church in Nutrioso. Bob and I and our two daughters went along for the weekend, lodging with a couple from the church. Saturday, Dad and I headed down the dirt road beside the house, toward a creek.

Mid-step, a deserted, dilapidated cabin caught my eye and the fiction writer’s what if? question took root deep inside me. What if it was Gram’s cabin? What if something dreadful happened there and the heroine hadn’t returned to the scene for fourteen years…until she faced losing Gram.

What came next? Twenty years of preparation while I dreamed of being a published novelist. In 2009, that dream came true.

Dad put feet on fatherhood and taught me to dream. He gave me permission to daydream. Even encouraged it.

I'll be forever grateful!