For My Dad on His 80th Birthday

A few years ago, I took a trip to Miami with a big group of friends. I'd decided I was going to do it on the cheap, so a few of us got together and split a rental house. I think there were six of us somehow sharing four bedrooms — I volunteered for the couch. Everyone else was going down on Thursday, but I decided to wait until Friday afternoon and so was the last to arrive. If you’ve ever flown into Miami, then you know that there are two airports. Miami International is one, but if you fly into the smaller airport, it’s considerably cheaper. If you change planes in Raleigh, it’s cheaper, still. Then if you find a discount shuttle, you can save car rental and cab fare. That was my plan. Unfortunately, the smaller Miami airport is Ft. Lauderdale. I flew into Palm Beach.

I didn’t realize my mistake until I’d landed and been told that there was no shuttle and that a taxi was $150. For an instant, I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach, then I laughed at my own poor planning, got a rental car and a map and drove the 70 miles South to Miami.

I could’ve had a meltdown. I could’ve beat myself up. But, ultimately, those things would’ve hurt me — no one else. And, just like Dad, I didn’t get angry. I didn’t curse or cry or lose my senses. It’s in these moments that I realize I am my father’s son.
On the surface, we aren’t that much alike. I am a performer (and a singer at that). I live far away from home. But with every passing year, I realize how much more like Dad I am.

When my reaction to a crisis is to laugh instead of cry. When my choice of ministry is to do what’s right instead of preach about it. When my response to unemployment is to dig in and — as Dad says — “never put down my tools.”

I remember once, as a kid, riding into town with Dad (I usually tagged along on his Saturday errands, which generally included a stop at an office supply store for me), and he was remembering his father: “I know he was human,” he said, “and therefore imperfect. But if he had a flaw, I couldn’t tell you what it was.”

I know just how he feels.

I know that the life I have chosen for myself is not what either of my parents envisioned, but what a testament to both of them that I have the freedom to live it, without ever feeling guilty or inadequate or like I am somehow letting them down.
I am so grateful.
— James Benton Donegan
July 17, 2010