Today's my dad's birthday. He would have been 56, but he died 11 years ago of melanoma. With Father's Day a few days away, it seemed only fitting to dedicate this post to him.
A Tribute to Dad, Michael Robert Coyne (6/9/52-5/4/97):
I spent last week at a writers' conference on a quaint college campus near Chicago. Being there, surrounded by stately buildings and lovers of words, brought you to my mind even more than usual. Your passion for learning and ability with language, both written and spoken, were a shining example to me.
Since you were so young when I was born, I remember attending your college graduation ceremony. You beamed with pride, and I thought that I'd never seen you so happy as you were wearing that square hat with string hanging off the side. I wasn't sure what it all meant, but your smile told me that piece of paper was important and somehow represented hope and progress. I remember, years later, when you took Amy and me to the campus on lazy summer days. We'd stroll along the sidewalks and admire the distinguished buildings and majestic oak trees, eventually meandering to the history museum where you gave us our own guided tour. You saw beauty in learning just for the sake of learning, and you taught us to love it too.
And what a way with words you had! I remember how you studied for hours and seemingly never forgot anything you read. Your razor-sharp wit allowed you to discuss virtually any subject, from politics to basketball, and your engaging style held us all captive as you recounted events from your own life or the world at large.
You worked hard to achieve your dreams, and becoming a teacher and coach was the pinnacle for you. History came alive when you taught. "Mr. Coyne" sounded so formal, so I just called you "Dad", to the delight of the other gum-popping, note-passing high school girls. Your incredible command of history and animated narratives made us laugh but, more importantly, they made us think. I learned to love America--in your classroom and in your home. You taught me that voting is a privilege, that having a voice is just as important as holding an office. (I also remember your disappointment when I was the only student in the senior Civics class who couldn't register to vote because I was still 17.) You taught and modeled that it's worth it to work toward an ideal, no matter the strength of the opposition. That's the beauty of democracy, you said.
You craved variety and were always searching for a new adventure. You loaded boxes for UPS, hiked the Grand Canyon and cheered the KU basketball team to their first National Championship. You lived to travel the world, ride horses and coach football. Literary classics captured your heart and Saturday Night Live made you laugh so hard you hiccuped. You could never pass up Mom's fried chicken or root beer floats. You hated peas and injustice and, as hard as you tried, you never understood math or your teenage daughters.
Your life read like a good novel. The scenes were always changing, from the Kansas plains to the jungles of Vietnam to an Eskimo village in Alaska. You were down-to-earth yet complicated, strong yet vulnerable, gentle yet distant. And there was plenty of conflict--with yourself and others. No one knows the hurts of another human heart, but I know yours were deep. Maybe that's where the novel takes an interesting turn. Your wrestling with God told a twisted, beautiful tale about a loving Father's willingness to pursue His beloved children and woo them with grace and truth toward sweet redemption.
That's your story, Dad. When I think about the ending, it seems tragic. The lessons you learned in war and family and life seem wasted because you died so young, before two of your own children were grown. Your grandchildren don't know you, except from looking at pictures of you on horseback or kissing the Blarney stone. But then I remember the elements of a good story I learned last week. Take the reader on a ride, then leave them with something to take away, something to think about. To the casual reader, the ending is senseless and heartbreaking. But look closer, it's the most amazing ending of all.
No more conflict or cancer and just one final change of scenery. The hero in the story returns to his true home, a safe place where he's welcomed with open arms. That's not tragic. After all, physical death isn't the end of the story. It's merely a new chapter in a never-ending tale of peace and oneness with God, the author and perfecter of all things good. That's "happily ever after" if I've ever heard it.
You packed a lot into 44 years, and I thank God for your life and the influence it had on me and many others. I still miss you every single day, but I know I'll see you soon.
Love,
Lisa
