My father walked in angry and weary. Lifting up his pant leg he showed his young children the gauze wrapped ankle covered in blood. As a mailman, dogs often stood between him and delivering mail.

Dad was the oldest of four children. His parents were of German descent and ran a tight ship. Kansas was home, and his mom died when he was only fourteen. When he could, he joined the Marine Corps and was assigned to Camp Pendleton in Los Angeles, where he later met my mother.

Ten years into their marriage, he would wake up paralyzed just fourteen days after his thirty-first birthday.

I was a girl of eight, and the oldest of five children. That morning I stood by my mother as the ambulance took my father away. It would be months before he came home.

The daily pain and paralysis was the endless cross my father carried. While he was Marine tough and not a stranger to hardship, this would be the challenge of his life.

His familiar whistle would immediately summon one of his kids to his room. As young children we learned to maneuver a wheelchair, shovel snow and remain quiet when he slept.

I cannot fully understand what it was like as a father and young husband having so much taken away in an instant? This I know, it required heroic courage.

It was tumultuous at times while he worked through it all. My mother tended to be on the receiving end of the bulk of his irritability and frustration. Yet, it was there that their marriage was tested and refined by fire. So what ultimately sustained him and got him through each day?

His Catholic faith.

Like any of us, he had a choice when faced with tragedy; run away or towards God. I have memories of him lying in bed, tears silently rolling down his cheeks, rosary in hand as he prayed.

Courage was the virtue most displayed by my father. Courage to trust God by getting up everyday, living out his marriage and fatherhood knowing he may never walk again.

He wasn’t a saint yet, but God was slowly forming him into one. Day by day, challenge by challenge, prayer by prayer; as he offered up his suffering. “Never waste suffering,” he would say.

This Father’s Day, I’d like to say thank you to all the dad’s and spiritual fathers who display faith in action. Through your strong example, you unknowingly lead others to God. Your willingness to live honestly and with integrity, points to truth. And to those fathers who need to gently remind their adult children to return to the Sacraments, I pray you are given courage and great love to persistently pray until they do.

What my father taught me through his faithful witness was this:

With God, you can withstand devastating storms. Without Him, you drown.

Life will throw you curve balls, trust that God can hit any pitch.

Go to Mary to find Grace in abundance. She is your Mother and wants to help.

You are tougher than you think. God knows your thresholds. He is making you a saint.

You can’t out-give God. Be generous.

Dad, I miss you. Thank you for being tough, but also loving us enough to speak truth even when we didn’t want to hear it. Your courage has given me strength through my own challenges. You didn’t raise slackers, and your grand kids have wonderful memories of you. Thanks for waiting up that late night and not giving me what I deserved for my sassy disobedience.

Please keep praying for us all, especially the little wandering sheep .

I love you.

Happy Father’s Day!