We always knew Dad had a
book in him, we just figured one of us would have to write it. Dad has been taking notes on God and life and family for the past twenty-eight years, first, filling up stacks of lined yellow legal pads and four-by-six index cards, then in his iPhone, now in this book.
This is a bigger deal than you can possibly know for two reasons.
First, Dad never learned to type with his hands
in the correct typing position, so this whole manuscript was pecked out with two index fingers and a whole lot of heart.
But this is also a big deal because, aside from his impressive two-finger typing skills, Dad wasn’t a believer for most of our childhood. He didn’t even go to church for show or duty. Instead, he stayed home every Sunday morning, drank beer, and listened to Bruce Springsteen
records.
We still remember the morning he re-enacted the concert version of Born in the USA for us in the living room, a rare Sunday when Mom went to church without us girls. He dimmed the lights, cranked the stereo, and lip-synced the whole thing, complete with white t-shirt and red hat in his back pocket.
