“Unexpected.” That’s the word that keeps popping up in the speech and writings of Dad, Grandma Betty and myself. Nothing about this whole experience of finding my father has been predictable.

For me what was most unexpected was the ease and enthusiasm with which my father embraced his new role. And what really amazed me is that he is good at it! I don’t mean dumb stuff like “Eat your peas.” I mean that in real and important ways he knows how to be a Good Father. He has explained that he has helped to raise other people’s children (incidentally, they were all girls), has spent his career working with children, and used to coach women’s soccer. So, as he told me, it is as if he has been preparing for this job all his life.

For example, our first day together he immediately began showing me physical affection, not in a weird way, but in a typical fatherly way: pulling my ears, rubbing my head, squeezing my hand. Now, anyone can tell you that I will never win the Kissiest, Huggiest Person Award; in fact, I am usually uncomfortable with affection from anyone but my husband. I was resolved, however, that I would not ruin this day over anything, so I spent the afternoon squirming under his touch and reminded myself these were my issues, not his. Still, it was all I could do not to blurt out, “Will you please STOP TOUCHING ME?!”

I asked him recently if he could tell I was uncomfortable that day. He said he could, but he did it anyway. The funny thing is, by Day Three I found that it was I who could not keep my hands off of him. His affection had rubbed off on me, and immediately when I got home from that trip I began passing that on to other people. I doubt he had given conscious thought to the effect this would have on me; it was a lesson he had taught me instinctively.

While at my grandparents’ house in Santa Maria, I opened a book called Advice to Fathers on How to Raise a Daughter and started reading some of it to Dad. We got to a page that said something like, “Teach her that failure is part of success. Teach her not to give up.”

“What did that say?” Dad asked me. I thought he hadn’t heard me.

“‘Failure is part of success. Teach her not to give up.”

“What was that again?” he said, smiling.

I started again, “It says, ‘Failure-’” and then I got the point.

Did he know that my sisters and I joke that our family motto is “When life gets tough, just lay down and die”? How did he know to teach me not to give up?

Which brings me to the Picnic.

Giving Me Back What I Gave Up

On my last post I failed to mentioned that the most glaringly obvious genetic inheritance I received is not the unique angle of my big toe but the musical connection. Did it surprise anyone who knows me that my father is a musician and songwriter? What should not have surprised me was the fact that so was his mother, and that her father was a musician, and so on and so forth. Who knows how far back this goes? Adam and Eve?

A while back I ran into John Devino, the friend who owns the recording studio.

“Rosie Funk!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you! I want to record an album with you.”

“Sorry, John,” I told him. “I closed that chapter on my life.”

He was disappointed. “If you change your mind, give me a call,” he said and handed me his card.

As you are already aware, my father has forced me to reopen that chapter, or at least to start a new chapter on music, this time with a different theme. And this last weekend I began writing it in earnest.

When Greg Lee (also known as “Brudda Greg”), asked me to sing at the congregation picnic on June 28th with my Dad, I immediately agreed and just as quickly regretted doing so. I made the mistake, however, of telling Dad about it. There was no turning back after that. When I talked about backing out of it, he would just say, “Hey, it’s up to you,” but with a deliberate look that said, “Failure is part of success. Don’t give up.” I knew that I would be letting him down if I didn’t try, and the thought of disappointing him was unbearable to me.

So we worked on our song “Empty Room”, recorded it and practiced it. We also practiced Michael Buble’s “Home”, which theme is also ongoing in our story, and another song Dad wrote called “When The Morning is Born from The Night” to which he added a verse about me.

Singing in front of him is becoming easier all the time. He makes it OK for me to screw up, and, as he pointed out, doesn’t laugh at my mistakes the way I laugh at his (I need to work on that). People don’t mind if you make mistakes, he reassures me. It makes the experience more human. He also pointed out that my congregation, who have been my family for the last fifteen years, couldn’t be a more forgiving audience.

“Even if we completely mess up,” he assured me, “It’s going to be great.”

He was right. We performed all three songs with a mininum of mistakes, and while I did not do so with any amount of confidence, I felt I had broken throught the barrier. I felt that I could do it again, but the next time better. I owe that all to him.

Food Issues

One of the first things my father discovered that we have in common is hypoglycemia. I have been in denial about that for years, although Cameron can tell you that he is always careful to feed me when I get cranky so that he doesn’t get his eyes scratched out. I admit that is not normal behavior, not to mention downright unlady-like, but I have never given it much thought.

Dad has very gently but firmly cautioned me against the dangers of abusing my body by not feeding myself properly or not feeding myself at all. He told me something like ‘coffee is the Devil’-I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening because I was too busy singing, “La la la, I’m not listening,” with my fingers in my ears. At first, anyway. But eventually I started to hear him, not so much because what he was saying made sense but because I started to realize why he was saying it.

“I’m telling you this because I love you,” he said with tears in his eyes. “And I need you to take care of yourself.”

I was stunned. I have often taught my Bible students the principle of cherishing the bodies Jehovah God gave us and therefore not abusing them with drugs, cigarettes and overindulgence in alcohol, but it had never occurred to me that I was abusing my body by not nourishing it properly. And it also never occurred to me that that would hurt anyone but me. If my father would be hurt because I failed to take care of my health, what about my Heavenly Father?

I promised to turn over a new leaf, and Dad took me to the health food store and showed me what to buy. The next morning I gave up coffee. He cooked breakfast for me, a nine-grain hot cereal with seeds and dried fruit and nuts and bolts and whatever else he could cram in. I ate until the gagging point, but I was determined to change my evil ways, baby. This is an issue of a father’s love, and I would be a fool to reject it.

Becoming a Father, Again

When my sister Lilly heard the news about my Dad, she reacted with a laughing “Great! Now Rosie’s got a cool new dad, and we got nothin’!” (Their dad died in 1993.) Then she asked me, “Do you think he’d be willing to take on three more kids?”

“You shared your Dad with me,” I told her, “How could I not share mine with you?”

Now that we have done the Meet-and-Greet with all three of my siblings, Dad has had time to consider the fact that I am in reality a packaged deal. After this last weekend when he got to spend time with Jonny and Lil, he told me, “I’ve been thinking: I feel that I owe your father a debt of gratitude for having raised you as one of his own. The least I could do for him is to be there for his kids.”

I was dumbfounded. I knew Bob Reid was an extraordinary person, but the magnitude of his tenderness is, well, unexpected.

I’m excited for my siblings to have a chance to benefit from my having found my Dad. A good father is a powerful thing to have in your life. Everyone should have one. I highly recommend it.

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