For those who knew my dad, I am occasionally asked, and sometimes criticized, for calling him my hero.

The reality was dad was broken most of his life.

He was a strong and abusive alcoholic while I was growing up. Though he found sobriety after spending a year in jail during my teenage years, without the bottle to cope with life he was quickly devoured by depression. This darkness ruled his life for the next twenty years, to the point he had active plans for ending his life. Dad’s journey of coping with life without alcohol took all his energy, a lifetime of weekly AA and ARP programs, and years of professional counseling.

This was an incredibly hard time. For many people. Family. Friends. Neighbors. Members of his church.

But mostly for family.

And I haven’t always realized just how hard that struggle may be.

All of this begs the question why my dad is my hero.

The answer is pretty simple.

He kept getting back up.

Sometimes on his own. Often with help. Rarely with hope. At least at first. Hope seemed non-existent for most of his life. Yet, he kept going. Walking the ditch banks of his fields, moving the life-giving water into the ditch banks and fields of life.

Somewhere on his arduous journey, Dad found his peace, and he helped me find my peace. And my Dad and I found a way to be best friends again.

Dad’s journey of getting back up has been a great example for me and a huge source of strength on my own journey of getting back up. And his persuasive example continues to be a gentle voice of encouraging hope.

Today is my dad’s 85th birthday. He passed away ten years ago, just a few weeks after his 75th birthday.

I miss him.

My dad. My forever hero.

PHOTOS