This picture is everything to me.

It’s a picture of my dad and my children’s dad sitting together at a table during my dad’s most recent trip to Arkansas. It was actually the last trip for a work contract that brought him here regularly, and since it was only a one-day trip, he suggested he not stay the weekend. I told him that coming to Arkansas and not visiting me would be crazy.

A couple of months earlier, my dad mentioned that he was beginning to feel like a burden when he came to visit. I love him dearly, but sometimes I think he lives in a completely different universe than I do.

I told him that we might be busy when he comes. The kids have activities, Robert and I have projects, and life keeps moving. But none of that changes how much his visits mean to me.

I told him, “Dad, even if we’re busy, just having you here means the world to me. You don’t even have to be in the house. When you stay in the guest house, and we can share a few meals, have a few conversations, and go about our days. Just knowing you’re here brings me comfort.”

I don’t know that he fully understood what I meant, but it’s true.

There is something comforting about knowing my dad is nearby, even when we’re doing nothing special at all.

To understand why these visits mean so much to me, you need a little backstory.

At Thanksgiving in 2022, my daughter hugged my dad and asked about a spot on his back. I asked him to show it to me, and the moment I saw it, my stomach dropped. I went into the kitchen where Robert was cooking and leaned against the sink and went to the floor. It reminded me of the melanoma brochures I had seen in dermatology offices.

I said, “Dad, I think you have melanoma.” I documented the spot with a picture and moved on.

You have to understand that my dad is like every other dad. He’s super brave. Always worried about everybody else. Telling me to go to the doctor when I have a fever for a few days straight, but he doesn’t worry about himself… at all.

Then, in November of 2023, we learned he had metastatic melanoma.

His doctor said remission would not be the goal. The melanoma had spread so much that his oncologist said he couldn’t believe my dad was still able to walk. Not only that, but he had a patient, same age/disease/same metastasis as my dad who only lived 6 months.

Ouch.

The thought of losing my dad felt unbearable.

But as usual, my dad was the strong one. He said he wasn’t scared. He said that he had made peace with a good life that he already had if this was the end. To this day, I am blown away by my dad‘s strength. If he truly was scared, he never showed it. And he was an example for me on who I want to be for my kids. I remember him even telling me one time, I will feel sorry for you if something happens, but I’ve lived in my life so don’t feel sorry for me.

That was a gut punch.

The treatment was difficult. It made him extremely sensitive to sunlight, which felt especially unfair for someone who loves golf, loves his dogs, and loves being outdoors. I remember wondering how much of the life he loved would be taken from him, even if the treatment worked. Because if he had to stay on that treatment to survive and he was breaking out in hives from ANY sun exposure, would he give up?

Then something remarkable happened.

My dad went into full remission.

Not only that, but he received a work contract that brought him to Arkansas every other month. Suddenly, I was seeing him more often than I ever had during my adult life.

During that season, there was a song that became deeply meaningful to me.

Sunshine by NEEDTOBREATHE

“Tell ’em you feel alright, we’re living in sunshine”

Those words stayed with me because they captured exactly what I wanted for my dad. More than survival, I wanted him to feel well. I wanted him to enjoy life again. I wanted him outside, doing the things he loved.

So you can imagine what it felt like when, during this last visit, my dad randomly said, “You know, I usually come to Arkansas around Thanksgiving when the trees are bare and everything feels gray. Being here in the sunshine when everything is green is amazing.”

It took my breath away. I thought, this is why we keep him around. It’s the simple things for him.

But in that moment, I realized it wasn’t that I was no longer hoping for those things. It was that I had only been able to imagine them. My dad had been in remission for two years, but my dad never came to Arkansas in the summer, so since his remission, I hadn’t actually seen him enjoying the sunshine like this. Standing there, watching him take it all in, I realized I was seeing something I had only hoped would be possible.

This visit was full of ordinary moments that didn’t feel ordinary to me.

My dad and I ate breakfast in the front yard.

He helped us move our garden fence.

He helped Robert run electricity through our backyard. That was a blessing in itself because my dad is a licensed contractor, and the work they accomplished together would have cost us thousands of dollars to hire out.

But what stood out to me most wasn’t what he did. It was who he is.

At breakfast one morning, I jokingly told him that I better hurry up and finish eating because Robert doesn’t do much in the yard unless he can do it from a riding lawn mower. Someone has to weed eat, I joked.

Most dads might have used that as an opportunity to join in.

Not mine.

Without missing a beat, he laughed and said, “That’s exactly what my wife would be doing too, and if she wasn’t fast enough, I’d probably complain about that.”

My dad has always protected me, but what I appreciate now is that he protects my marriage too.

A day after he left, Robert shocked himself while working on the electrical project my dad had tried to give him directions on. He was frustrated, discouraged, and ready to quit. I was buried in transcript work and couldn’t give him much attention.

Then my dad called out of nowhere to check on him.

When they hung up, Robert said, “Your dad renewed my motivation. I’m going to try again tomorrow.”

That is who my dad is.

He shows up.

He encourages.

He helps.

He strengthens the people he loves.

The older I get, the more I realize how much of who I am came from him. My love of being outdoors, my willingness to tackle projects, and my belief that family shows up for each other all have roots in the man who raised me.

In 2023, I thought I might be losing my dad.

Instead, I got breakfasts in the front yard, projects in the backyard, extra visits, more conversations, and a perfect spring weekend where I got to watch him stand in the sunshine and enjoy it.

Happy Father’s Day to the man who was the best daddy to a little girl and is still the best dad to a grown woman.