The Magic Kingdom

Three decades later, his voice echoes in my heart:
Weary after a week of 14-hour days teaching algebra
But kind -- always so kind -- talking on the phone
With someone at the Walt Disney World Resort in Orlando, Florida.

"Good evening!" he says. Somehow the smile
On his sleep-deprived face spills over into his voice.
"Yes, I hope you can help me. I have a son with a dream,"
He continues, and squeezes my hand across the kitchen table.

He clicks his four-color pen to green and says,
"I need to know your rock-bottom admission price."
He writes numbers. His eyes grow wearier.
"I see. And do you offer any kind of family discount?"

The conversation goes on a few more minutes.
His smile remains, though diminished somehow,
And my heart begins to wonder if perhaps
My Mr. Fix-It may not come through this time.

"Well, thank you very much for your time,"
My father says. "You've certainly given me
A lot to think about." He stands with a muffled groan
(Sore from a day on his feet) and gently hangs up.

I am nine and have not known much disappointment,
But I'm also not stupid. My stomach tightens
Against my deepest fear: We can't go.
I ask anyway: "What did they say, Dad?"

My father sits beside me and shows me the neat column of figures.
Travel costs in blue, admission costs in green,
Food and lodging in black, and the grand total in red, underlined twice.
"Wow," I say. "That's a lot of money."

He puts an arm around my shoulder.
"Yes, it is. It would be as much money
As two cars like the one we're driving right now,
Or about two thousand gallons of milk."

He looks down, toward the paper, but stares past it,
As if his careful calculations weren't even there.
"I'm sorry, son. I think it just won't work out this time."
He looks more tired than I can ever remember seeing him.

In that moment, I glimpse the immensity
Of what this man has given me, how deeply he feels
The weight of my wishes and needs.
"It's OK, Dad," I say. "We can have a pretty good time right here."

Photo Credit

Some Thoughts on Heroes

Our culture tells us that a hero is someone who pulls a child from a burning building. Or perhaps someone who single-handedly foils a bank robbery. Or even someone who scores 50 points in a basketball game.

I don't think that these feats begin to scratch the surface of true heroism.

A hero is someone who consistently sacrifices his own ambitions, dreams, and sleep for  the good of others. A hero is someone who stays when it would be much easier to leave. A hero is someone who serves even when it is costly or unrewarding.

When a father chooses family time over Halo, that is heroism. When a mother chooses to bake cookies with her daughter to the neglect of her Pinterest boards, that is heroism. When I choose the well-being of my wife and sons over another hour at work, I like to think that is heroism, too.

I started writing this post on June 16, which was Father's Day. I guess that my mind turns naturally toward heroics on that day, since my father is one of the most heroic men I know. His whole life has been poured out in service to his wife, his children, his church, his students -- in short, anyone who needed help.

Dad is a kind, thoughtful, sympathetic man. He loves to do good work, to solve problems, and to give his family what they need. He is intelligent but not puffed up, skillful but not proud, and full of wisdom without giving an air of superiority.

I remember riding into town with Dad when I was an undergrad at the university where he taught. We would park a couple of blocks off campus and walk together down side streets toward his office. As we went along, I would talk about all of the exciting new ideas I was encountering in my classes. Dad always listened carefully, treating me as though my unoriginal thoughts mattered immensely.

I still remember one of our exchanges very vividly. I was talking excitedly about Zeno's paradox of Achilles and the tortoise, which Dad didn't have a lot of use for. After patiently hearing me out, he said, "Son, I can tell you love to think about these ideas, and that's great. Just remember this: People are always more important than ideas."

To say that people are more important than ideas is noble. To consistently live it, even when the people are ugly and ungrateful and have serious problems, is heroic.

I'm very thankful that this particular hero is my father. I can't imagine a better one.