One of the problems of writing in such a regular, weekly manner is that sometimes I feel that on a particular week, I have to talk about something, like a mass shooting, or a big life event. Those of you that follow my writing know that recently, I wrote about how much my mother really means to me, although to those that know me, nothing in the article should have come as a surprise. And love never is a surprise, although sometimes it may feel like one. Sometimes we act in ways that seem contrary to any sense of affection, but it is merely an overwhelming sense of affection that ends of masking those feelings. I am usually not one for outward displays of affection, as I would rather pour my heart and soul out into one of these articles. And so to that extent, I would like to take the time to thank the single man that has been both an incredible role model and a inspiring mentor to me my entire life: my father.

I want to start this article by apologizing, however, because I feel like I did him a bit of a disservice a few years ago. I was giving a coming-of-age speech to my local church congregation, and in the speech, I had thanked my mother. When it came to my father, I had said “I would also like to give thanks to someone who normally doesn’t get as much attention, and perhaps that’s the way he likes it,” or something to that effect. The problem was that I meant to make a bigger deal out of thanking him, rather than making him the unintentional butt of my joke. Granted, I am sure you have moved past that day, Dad, I just wanted to make sure that you knew from me I had no intention of giving you the short end of the stick in that speech, and I think I owe you a better thank you because of it.

There are not enough words to explain the gratitude that I wish to express toward you, but I will try my best. I wouldn’t be as determined and focused when I am doing the things that I crave if it were not for you. When I write, I feel connected to myself and the world around me. I have a sense of purpose when I write my poetry, and when I add more to my novel, I am able to vent and imbue this character with all of the passion and emotion I wish was seen more in modern literature. You are not a natural leader, but you demand respect, and I have seen it first-hand in many of your classes, and I having been trying to lead by example when leading my branch of Odyssey.

I am not sure I can exactly grant you the credit for helping me to become a creative person all by yourself, as our entire family is filled with creative people, but I am going to give you the majority of the credit anyway. You stomached all of my cringe-worthy recorder concerts and early trumpet ones, and you were there for me when I made Jazz Band in eighth grade, and had my back after what felt like the worst audition in the world going into freshman year of high school. Now I am a section leader for three different musical ensembles at Clark University, and a member of a small jazz group on the side.

Again, you are naturally shy, and would rather be a follower than a leader any day, and I am the same way, sometimes to a fault. But I have also been dabbling with leading, as well, thanks to your encouragement, and I have never gone back. That one day in Hayesville, NC, was probably one of the highlights of my entire childhood, hands down. I not only spoke in front of a crowd of people, I led the meeting itself, and no one in my group got in the way of it. That being said, it was the same day that I had spent three hours smelling about 500 gallons of paint, as well, but let’s just say that it was me finding the courage to lead and not any residual high.

You have been rather transparent lately, whether you know it or not. I only recently heard from you that pretty much from the day you heard I was going to grace the earth, you seemed to spiral into a state of depression, and for all these years, you have been on medication for it, unbeknownst to me. Being recently diagnosed with some degree of depression myself, we have another layer on which we are able to bond, too. But that being said, we handle our depression differently. You express your feelings through your artwork, while I often choose to zone out and watch hour after hour of YouTube videos.

We have been going through a rough patch recently. I’ve been struggling to find work, and sometimes the way you react to my search is jarring to me, and sets me off. But I have almost never spoken back to you, and the one time I did, I couldn’t handle it. Do you know why? I know that you remember the event, it through you for a loop, too.

It was because I saw you crying, too. I have almost never seen you cry, and it destroyed me. The only other time I saw you cry was about a decade ago, in Ireland. I remember the night well, because when we were leaving the driveway of the castle we were staying in (to anyone on the outside reading, the Lynches do not own a castle), we saw four rabbits dart to the sides of the wooded drive. It was raining, not that that’s a surprise in the British Isles, and we had just gone into town to get some take-out pizza. We were crossing the street, and Owen (my younger brother) had ran out ahead of us because a car had let us go. We stopped Owen before he went too far, though, because the car on the other side of the street had no intention of stopping, or that we were crossing. When we were sat at the long wooden table, you had made a cute little toast saying how happy you were that both of your boys were safe, and that your youngest hadn’t been harmed. You couldn’t finish your sentence though, because you were choking down tears.

I know that you weren’t as mad at me at the time as you were disappointed, I assume (and correct me if my perception is wrong, I feel that it may be). However, when I went into your office that day, I was violently shaking. I couldn’t catch my breath, I couldn’t make a sound. And you were immobilized. You genuinely had no idea how to respond. I could see the glint of a tear on your cheek, though, and I knew that you were trying to figure out how.

While he is largely seen as a living joke nowadays, I have to quote a few lines from Rick Astley’s new song, "Keep Singing," as they have touched me in a way that few songs have before. The soul-filled pop ballad start with the words When I was a boy,/ I saw my daddy crying at the steering wheel,/ and oh, it made me feel so scared. I’m not trying to say that when you show emotion, I get scared, of course, but it truly is humbling to see your father in tears, as you have felt with your own, and Mom has felt with hers. And it’s troubling, to say the least. Not that a father has to live up to that contrived sense of manliness and masculinity, but that to some extent, we feel that we have to be the people we want our children to become. And if you want me to become a funny, well-loved, passionate, creative, go-getting, emotionally strong and mature nerdy man, then I am almost there, and I cannot thank you enough for being the best model a son could ask for.

I don’t say it often enough, which stems from my natural timidness, of course, but it by no means implies that it is not true. I love you, Dad, and I would be nothing without you. You may disagree with that sentiment, and Mom and Jeanmarie usually do, and whether or not it is true is irrelevant. I would not be the very person I am today, the person I love and nurture each and every morning, afternoon, and night, no matter how tough things get or how much I have to suffer and compromise, if it were not for you and your tireless, thankless, and endless work as the incredible and amazing father figure that you have always been.

And before anyone tells me, yes, I know that it is not Father’s Day anymore, but the sentiment should could for something, shouldn't it?