Father's Day is over and I'm glad. I must admit that I started the day feeling a bit sorry for myself. I was missing Dad and my kids. Church wasn't any help. It was one of those horribly awkward services where instead of a sermon, you're asked to get into small clusters of half a dozen of your fellow congregants and pray about various things. I suppose it's designed to promote unity or some such thing, but for me it's just awkward and annoying. Prayer isn't something I like to do, on command, with strangers. So, that was the low point of my day.
Then we headed out to my in-laws for a Father's Day lasagna lunch. There was key lime pie for dessert. Things were looking up.
Pam had to head back to church soon after lunch for the beginning of VBS, so I would be alone for most of the rest of the day, not something I was looking forward to on such a melancholy day. I popped three Advil, turned the heating pad on "high" and laid down in my trusty recliner for a nap.
When I awoke, there were two messages on my phone, one from each of my kids issuing an invitation to join them for a "FaceTime" chat. First up was Patrick. He looked good, sounded good and happy. I watched him and his dog Oliver do some pretty cool tricks. His room looked about as clean as straight as I have ever seen a room that belonged to him. It appears that dog ownership has forced him to become a better housekeeper, since whatever you leave on the floor becomes potential dog food. We had a nice talk. I started to feel better. Next up was Kaitlin and Jon. There they were sitting on their sofa with little Jackson next to them chewing on some dog toy looking squeezably soft. They too looked happy. We talked about our upcoming family vacation in Hatteras. By the time this call was finished, I felt a lot better. I had no reason to feel sorry for myself. I needed to snap out of it. How could I complain? My Dad lived to be 89, and was loved and adored by everyone who knew him. I have been blessed with two kids who are smart as whips and busy building their lives, and who love their Father enough to Face Time him on Father's Day. Stop your whining, Dunnevant.
So, around 6 am I settled in front of my television to watch the U.S. Open. Four and a half hours later I watched Dustin Johnson three putt the tournament away, handing the second major of the year to young Jordan Spieth. It was heartbreaking. I have nothing against Spieth, in fact I love the kid. I just always hate to see any athlete fail so spectacularly. Johnson could have won the Open if he sank the first putt, would have guaranteed himself a spot in an 18 hole playoff against Spieth, which he probably would have won, by simply brushing in the second four foot putt. Sadly, he missed them both and in a matter of seconds went from the thrill of victory to the agony of humiliating defeat. Brutal.
That was my Father's Day. Started out poorly. I had to endure a bout of brooding discontent. But then my wonderful kids, along with their beautiful dogs, picked me up. Next year will be better.