I Wanna See You Be Brave...

I relate a lot of songs to Dad. To anyone who knew him, this wouldn't seem strange. He was always playing music, singing, and usually dancing around the kitchen while he cleaned it. Seriously, ask my sister, she was the one who busted him singing "This shit is bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s." while scrubbing the stove one day. He was never without an iPod - especially if you were trying to talk to him about something you wanted him to do that he wasn't keen on doing. Suddenly, he would have both earbuds in and the conversation was over. There were months that he was overmedicated, after his surgery, and verbally he would be checked out. Mom would set his iPod up for him, and you'd catch a quick glimpse of him mouthing the words to a song - singing along, even when he couldn't talk to us. Music has always been a big part of my Dad's life. Even if he couldn't carry a tune. Thanks for passing that one along to me, Dad. All my road trip partners - past and future - thank you. 

I can remember before Dad's last surgery, him showing up at my house on a weekend. I was expecting him, and had left the door unlocked. I heard him knock and yelled "Come in." He must have knocked three times, causing me to repeatmy "Come in, dude!" cycle, before I flung the door open - annoyed. There was my Dad. On my front porch. Earbuds in his ears. Singing: "Miss Independent, Miss Self-sufficient, Miss Keep-your-distance, Miss Unafraid, Miss Outta-my-way, Miss Don't-let-a-man-interfere, no." ...yes, that's right. My father couldn't hear me telling him to come in because he was jamming out to Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent." I know that I'm not the only daughter to have a special relationship with their father. But I am pretty sure I am the only one who witnessed things like that. (Consider yourself lucky.) 

So, on a long drive last weekend, when I heard Sara Bareilles singing "Brave", it shouldn't have shocked me that it made tears start to stream down my face, because music was a way I bonded with my Dad. We sang in the car, we shared CDs, he took away my Beatles "Let it Be" album when I was a teenager because he said that I was the only person who could make someone else sick of The Beatles by playing it too frequently. But it still shocked me, that it hit me that hard. My initial response, when I feel suddenly sad about Dad is to turn the station, or avoid it. This time I didn't - I turned it up, I let the tears fall, and I listened carefully. 

My father never told me I was beautiful. He told me I was amazing. He told me I was intelligent. He told me I was strong. He told me that I could do anything I wanted to do. He told me to stand up for myself. He told me to never let anyone underestimate me. 

He didn't always say it in words as beautiful as Sara's, of course. Sometimes, when he was setting a broken nose in a dusty room attached to a softball field after a collision with a catcher, it came out in the form of "Here, put this washcloth in your mouth." For the record, if my father ever said this to you? I'm sorry. Because it usually meant he was going to hurt you and make you scream. All in the name of making you feel better. I had my nose set, cuts cleaned that he butterfly stitched back together, and dislocated body parts put back into place with a washcloth in my mouth. Before you cry child abuse, I would have much rather had my Dad superglue my wounds back together (this happened) and get back on a softball field than had to sit out a game and go to the hospital. It was my choice. And hey, I have less scars, and more stories than most people I know. So I think it's okay. These moments were always followed by a "I didn't feel a thing," and a snort from him. Yes, he did think he was funny. But he'd usually add in a "way to go" and "Thanks for not bleeding on me, TOO much." 

When I first went away to college I studied computer programming. I had little knowledge of it when I went into the program, which was full of mostly males (and all males by the time the courses ended) who were very educated on computer languages, and I felt out of my element. I wasn't used to being so lost in a classroom setting and I told him I wanted out, that I didn't think I could do it. 

Dad: You can do anything you want to do.
Me: Except learn how to code in C++. That's not happening.
Dad: Yes, you can do that. 
Me: You have no idea.
Dad: I know that we have raised you to do anything and everything you wanted to do. This is just one small step in your education and your life. And you can do this.
Me: I don't know.
Dad: Stop whining. Don't be a baby. 

See? The words weren't always as beautiful as Sara's. But they were always there. Both of my parents instilled in me a belief in myself and my hard work. There is no price tag that you can put on someone telling you that you can do anything you want to do. 

There is a void as large as the Grand Canyon when I think of all the things my Dad won't get to see me do. But in the last three months or so, I have learned that there's a new voice in my life - one that says: You can be amazing. You can do this. It also sometimes tells me "put on your big girl panties and deal with it." But it is always there. I know that's his voice, reminding me that life isn't always easy. But, in Sara's (slightly more eloquent) words: Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down by the enemy, fallen for the fear and done some disappearing. Bow down to the mighty, don't run, stop holding your tongue. ...show me how big your brave is.

Earlier this week I had to do a few things I wasn't ready to. Things that I knew would be hard. And that I would have been more than happy to forget and never think about again. But then I let myself flash back to Sunday, while I was driving in my car and listening to this song. And then all I could hear was my Dad saying: I just wanna see you be brave. So, I put on my big girl panties. Let your words be anything but empty. Why don't you tell them the truth? Say what you wanna say. And let the words fall out. And I did just that. And that little voice was right, it wasn't so bad. 

Sometimes, I feel like the last few months have been a constant "here, put this washcloth in your mouth" moment. And Dad's snorting somewhere saying "I didn't feel a thing, D-bug." I hope you didn't. But I hope I always have the chance to show you how big my brave is. And thank you for giving me that, too.