A Father's Identity

As I transition out of being a basketball coach, what I am perhaps most afraid of is the loss of that as an identity. When I think about how other people see me, I know that "Coach Dykstra" is a big part of the image they see. I've always liked that. It's what people feel comfortable talking to me about. I like being known for that work; people who know nothing else about me have known when they see me in the grocery store or at church or in a restaurant that I'm the guy on the sidelines. There are blessings and curses that come with that; regardless, it's skin in which I've become quite comfortable. As I lose that aspect of my occupation, at least for now, I feel I'm losing my identity, or that part of it any way. I'm unsure of what other people will see now when they see me, and in some ways I fear that by extension I will struggle with how to see myself.

This is immaturity, I know. I am not a job. My identity must be and is much more than that. But emotions are rarely logical, and throughout the entire process of wondering where this spring would take me, I've allowed myself to become intimidated by this reality. It displays a weakness in my character: I've let my identity come from how others see me.

Today I realize that to grow, to face this weakness, I need look no further than my father.

I understand now that I never saw Dad in relation to a job or occupation. And I never really thought about how other people saw him or defined his identity either. It didn't matter. He was (and is) my father. The end. I knew he worked, but what I saw there was a man providing for his family, not a man defined by how.

He was the one who played catch with me before his church softball games, or watched Walker, Texas Ranger with me on Saturday nights. He's the one who was always okay with a surprise attack from me, jumping on his unsuspecting back and attempting to wrestle him into submission (though I never could). He's the one who asked more from me than I wanted to give sometimes, and he's the one who showed me how to do a job even when you're tired. We worked together and played together, listening to Jim Zabel call Hawkeye football games on the radio during Saturday farm work and Paul Harvey on noontime drives. He loved me and cared for me and worked hard for me. And he does all of that now too. That is the identity he's spent a life creating.

He, like most other men, has undergone changes in "profession" throughout his lifetime. The type of farming and the size of farming. Factory work, construction work, maintenance work, wood work. The source of his paycheck has changed. It is common. But I am still a young man, unaccustomed to the realities of long-term living. I know better in my head, but my heart and my pride have not yet caught up. I'm scared to redefine what I do, because I've placed so much of my identity on that.

When I look at my father, though, I know this is foolishness. His identity is locked in elsewhere. His children see him as a Christian man, a hard worker, and their father. And that has been a rock-solid identity for over three decades.

I'm sure that part of my identity to my children in the past has been as a coach. After all, I haven't been home for Father's Day the last several years because I've been coaching. Today, instead, we went to church together, took a Father's Day picnic, and played on a playground. I read them books. They treated me to M&M's, peach rings, and grilling equipment.

Today, I am one step closer to having them see me in the same light that I see my father. I am one step closer to defining myself in that way as well. And that is an identity I am becoming more and more comfortable with every day.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Thanks for a legacy of hard work, Christian living, and being my father.