My father will be turning 50 on December 27th. I thought this might be a good forum for publicly expressing my appreciation for the man who sired me, raised me, supported me, and continues to teach me. I love you, Dad.
You never know what your child's first memory of you will be. My first memory of my father is his coming to my rescue. We were living in Washington state where Dad was stationed as a very young man in the army. His very reason for joining the military at the age of 18 is a reflection of the values that were instilled in him by his parents. He passed those same values along to me, and I aim to pass them down to my children. He and my mother were teenagers living above the library with a baby (yours truly) in Fairmount, Indiana. He worked at a gas station in south Marion. They were having trouble making ends meet and, in the devastated economic landscape of the early 80s, there weren't a lot of promising employment opportunities for a kid with few marketable skills. It seemed our little family was destined for the welfare rolls. But the young head of the household reasoned that if the government was going to be feeding his family, he should try to earn it. That's how we ended up in Washington and, later, West Germany.
It was at a church we attended in Washington (near Tacoma if not in Tacoma) that I found my head wedged between two twisting iron porch rails. I had followed another boy with an evidently much smaller head and had become entrapped. Naturally, I assumed that I would never be free and began to panic and scream until my father swooped in and yanked me out. (He then proceeded to tease me about it for several years afterward, but that's a small price to pay for my liberation.) It's been almost 30 years since that happened and my dad has come to my rescue countless times since. There was the time that I broke my wrist at work. My employer insisted that I return to work after leaving the ER and sign a statement about how the incident occurred. The problem with this was that I had been heavily sedated in order for them to set my wrist. To say I was loopy would be an understatement. So Dad drove me back to work, all the way listening to me tell him the story over and over because I didn't remember that I had already told him, and then wrote down the events for me when we got there. At least, I think that's what happened. It's still a bit foggy.
Between working to provide for me and my siblings, teaching Sunday school class, ministering to inmates at the county jail, and taking care of my home's maintenance far more often then he should have to (he failed to pass the handyman gene down to me), he has also passed along many aphorisms that I have found very helpful as I daily strive to become a better man. In regards to finances, for example, he pointed out to me that "it's not what you make, but what you keep". It really doesn't do much good to acquire a nice house and nice cars if you're just going to have to turn around and give them to the bank. As a young man admiring the seemingly impressive wealth of others, this (now obvious) truth had a profound effect on my thinking.
I've been all over the world with my dad. From Mt. Rushmore to the castles of Germany, to the mountain villages of Honduras, and back up to Niagra Falls. We've seen the Smoky Mountains and the Atlantic Ocean. We've gazed upon the the Washington Memorial and we have watched the Cubs lose at Wrigley Field. But as much fun as we had and as many memories as were made on those travels, my favorite trips were our commutes to and from our job when he worked with me at the popcorn factory. We would talk and our conversations would cover many subjects. Religion, philosophy, politics, individual sovereignty, economics, and the policies of our employer were all frequently discussed. We have continued those conversations while hunting for mushrooms, shooting our .22s, and, most often, sitting in his home. I really enjoy how it helps me to develop my thoughts further. I agree with almost everything he says. But even when I disagree, I still respect the opinions that he holds and give serious considerations to his arguments when I'm employing my inner dialogue in the never ending task of searching for ultimate truth.
Amazingly, this man who sacrificed so much in order to feed, clothe, and shelter me, this man who continues to help me keep my own home from falling to pieces, this man who my children adore, this man who has literally come to my rescue more times than I can even recall, this man who even helps to feed my cravings for intellectual stimulation has called me his hero. This seems absurd. I cannot even begin to believe I deserve such praise from the man I revere so highly. But I admire that his generosity with encouragement is equal to his generosity of time and effort and all other resources at his disposal.
In the coming week, Mark Anthony McKnight will turn 50 years old. He has spent half of a century on this planet. The world has unquestionably been that much of a better place due to his presence. Here's to a half century more! Happy birthday, Dad!
