Many of you know that I have some pretty special friends here in Hillsboro. Really, Hollie has become my best friend and she and her husband are some pretty special stuff. In fact, every time I try to compliment them, in my head or on paper… it always comes out as a joke, because I just can’t think about them without a laugh. That doesn’t mean that they can’t be serious though. I want to share just a little bit of my best friends by publishing Roy’s tribute to his mother here on our blog.
I got my beard from my Mom
Like many little boys (at least the ones I grew up with), I absolutely idolized my Dad. We worked together, played together, laughed together, and dreamed together. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. And I thought I had a pretty good chance. After all, we thought the same, acted the same, and of course, looked the same. My Dad is covered in freckles. So when I got old enough to notice, I noticed that I too had freckles. Freckles on my face. And freckles on my arms. And freckles on my back and my legs and the back of my hands. I loved my freckles. Because my freckles meant I was just like my Dad.
Like many little boys (at least the ones I grew up with), I didn’t think quite so highly of my Mom. In fact, in my limited perspective my Mom’s sole reason for existing was to meet my needs. She cooked for me, washed my clothes for me, and picked up after me. She drove me to my friend’s house, and to the movies, and to soccer practice. And when I got sick she was supposed to drop everything she was doing and stroke my forehead and feed me orange sherbet and tell me I was going to be ok. And as a Mom she did a pretty good job. Actually, she did a great job. And in my childish little mind the world was in perfect order.
It wasn’t until I got married and began to discover the depth and complexity of my wife that I realized the deficiency of my previous world view. My wife is an outstanding leader and a submissive helpmeet. She is an organized planner and a silly preschool teacher. She is a stalwart advocate in a hospital and a tender female in the face of change. She is an amazing wife and a wonderful mother and an incredible friend. And I began to see that there was more to my Mom, much more, than I had ever considered.
As I reflected on who my Mom is, I really was blown away by the strengths that I began to recognize. Her creative resourcefulness and determined persistence. Her practical brilliance and humble intelligence. Her passion to enjoy life and conviction to challenge the status quo. And her strong boldness to march right into a situation and seize success. I thought back to the night when she burst into an old travel trailer full of drunks under a bridge to drag my uncle back home. And the time she was arrested at an abortion demonstration for taking a stand for what she felt was right. And when she biked through an African jungle in the dark and went white-water rafting down the crocodile-laden Zambezi River. No, she is no ordinary chef, maid, and chauffeur. She is a woman of tremendous character and intrinsic grit. A woman who knows what she believes and is willing to take on the whole world to get it done.
One of my own characteristics of individuality, my own way of telling the world that I can do whatever I want to do, is my big red beard. It grows incredibly fast and incredibly long and it has come to be a tangible expression of my identity. It is a unique attribute of me, and it has come to represent more than just ruddy facial hair. I grow it just to be obnoxious, just to make a statement, just to challenge people’s assumptions. It’s my way of telling the corporate world that I’m smart enough to get respected, even if I look like a tramp. It’s my way of telling the skeptics that I’m real enough in my conservative faith, even if I look like a hippy. It’s my way of telling strangers that I’m comfortable enough with who I am, even if they judge me on first impressions. I have come to embrace my red beard as a symbol that I can take the world on and still come out on top.
And you know what? The other day I saw a picture of my Mom’s Dad when he was younger. He was sitting atop a covered wagon on an old pioneer trail above two giant Clydesdales. He was wearing an old cowboy hat, thick flannel, and a pair of old leather boots. He had a glint in his eye and a smirk in his grin like he was ready to take on the world. Like he was ready to conquer things the old-fashioned way: with grit and determination and inner strength. He was smiling back at me with a huge red beard… and that’s when I realized, that I get my “beard†from my Mom…
man, I can’t tell which is Roy in either of those pictures!