"Eta moy Papa". (This is my dad)
I have been saying that a lot lately. Sometimes I say it with pride and exclamation, sometimes as a question. I am learning Russian and although this is a simple enough statement, getting the Russian intonation correct is not. It can be the difference between asking a sincere question or making an offensive statement. "Eta vash Papa" or "Eta vash Papa?" This is your dad and the latter I was told was like asking, "really, this guy, this strange guy is your dad?" Why wasn't there an intonation class offered by our pastor during our premarital counseling? That would have saved us from some really big arguments. I was going to write this kick off blog about intonations and the need to be understood. How the difference between asking a question and making a statement rests simply on which word your pitch rises with. Instead, I have become distracted by the phrase "eta moy Papa". It has me thinking about my dad.
Last spring while we were preparing to return to Russia, by chance we ended up in Phoenix visiting Christine's sister at the same time my folks were in town to hold services. We went to hear my dad preach several times and even had the honor of seeing him dedicate Brooklyn. We had a great time with them, knowing that it could be the last time we saw each other for a year or more. To cap it all off, we made plans to hike Squaw Peak on our last day.
The mountain sits in the middle of Phoenix, giving its hot and tired hikers a panoramic view of the entire valley. It has been a family tradition to hike to the top for as long as I can remember. Madison and I would meet Dad and Mom at the base at 6:00am. It's only 1.2 miles to the top, however you gain over 1,200 feet of elevation in that short distance for a total of 2,608 feet. It's a mild hike until you throw in some Phoenix temperatures. The night before the hike, Madison came down with the flu. I was up with her all through the night, finally falling asleep around 4:00am, just hours before I was supposed to meet my folks. I call Mom on her cell and tell her that I won't be able to make it, I am just too tired to take on the Peak. However, laying there in bed, I can't sleep. What if this is the last time I will ever be in Phoenix to hike Squaw Peak with my parents. What if they aren't around in 5 or 10 years? What if I'm not around after this next trip back to Russia? We spent this last Christmas with my folks and one morning my dad woke me up early and asked if I wanted to go eat breakfast with him and wait while he got a haircut. Breakfast sounded alright, but waiting while he got a haircut didn't rate too high. Then I thought, "What if he dies in a few months? I will always wish I would have gone with him." I told him this over our Egg McSomethings. I said, "Look, at best we probably have another 20 breakfasts together. You are 65. We live in Russia and we see each other, if we are lucky, once a year. That's not a lot of breakfasts together left in this world." He told me that he wasn't going to eat breakfast with me anymore. So, here I am, hiking up Squaw Peak with my parents, sharing Costco trailmix from a worn out ziploc, waiting for frozen bottles of Ozark Spring water to thaw so we can drip a few drops down the back of our parched throats before moving on another hundred yards. I could be 12; it could be 1985. Instead I'm 31 and it's 2005. These people are my best friends. I tell them to sell their bus and do something with less stress, but Mom points out, if they did that, what would they do? It's true, they are doing the two things they love the most. Ministry and traveling. Dad doesn't golf or fish; Mom doesn't stamp or collect anything. They need to be ministering to people, and almost as equally, they need to be headed someplace, anyplace. They don't need to be ministered to; they get ministered to on Cannon Beach or at the Grand Canyon. We sit down on another stone bench with a vista more memorable than the person who's name is on the plaque located squarely under my bottom who donated it to the State of Arizona's Bureau of Parks and Wildlife. We talk about old family friends and whether or not their kids are screwed up or walking with God. They don't talk about people, never have. If they share about someone or something that is actually serious, I never get a name, even if I guess. Your secrets are safe. No more time for breaks, Mom says her legs will "lock up" if she sits down again for a rest, so we trek ahead to the end. On top there is a small, round, bronze plaque. You have arrived at the summit when you see it, but for some reason you don't believe it until you have touched it. There is no way to resist touching it at least twice. Once for yourself and once to make sure those you hiked with see you touch it. The last time before this time that I hiked the peak was 2002. I took my nephew Austin up; he was 10. I told him that at the top there was a restaurant where we could get burgers and shakes. It kept him motivated and he always tells the story when I am around. The time before that hike was January 1995. I took my bride of 4 days to the top. We scratched our names with a chalky rock onto the side of the mountain and took funny pictures as if we were falling off the ledges. That was our honeymoon, driving from Dallas, Texas to Sandpoint, Idaho and hitting the sites on the way. Mom listens with her perfect attention as I ramble about all these memories. She is a great conversationalist, always asking questions and truly enjoying the answers, unlike my dad, myself and my brother who believe the sound of our own voices spoke at least part of the world into existence. We wait for dad to find his way over to us and the bronze plaque that must be touched. We also talk about his heart "thing". It "races, gets out of whack; it's the coffee...". Whatever it is, it stresses Mom and I out, Dad pretends that it doesn't worry him and says something about some "stupid doctor". Oh, don't get your stethoscope in a bunch! We love all you doctors, but for every one of you that we do love and respect, we know 3 stupid ones (yes, we've counted). The walk down is much faster, for me at least. I make a game of jumping from rock to rock and wait on them when I see something cool to take a picture of. With the end in site, I run ahead to the car. This time so I can get some good video footage of them finishing the hike, already envisioning what it will look like edited on my Mac with good music and the right transitions, imagining a day when we will all be watching it together, making new memories and recollecting the old ones. I love these people and it's not because I am some great son. It's because they are really great parents. I can only hope and pray that my girls will see us the same way. Or wait, I guess I can do more than hope and pray, I can copy my parents. I can follow them. I can look ahead to the people on the path in front of me - moy Papa ee mya Mama.