Who Would Do a Thing Like That?

Why I love my father-in-law

Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash

I thought I’d sleep better in the fresh air—in fact I briefly did—until the sound of a distant blaring car horn woke me up at 12:23 am through the open window.

It was gun-point cold in the room and I didn’t want to move from my bed, but it wasn't going to get any warmer. So I made my way toward the source of the brisk wind against the will of every naked cell in my body. The frigid air almost drove me right back under the heavy blankets instead of taking the few extra steps that would restore peace and warmth.

It took me a minute to orient as the car horn pierced the thin November air; first from a distance, then bearing down the picturesque street my father-in-law lives on. The car raced by the stiffly cold flags and the red, white, and blue campaign signs in neighboring yards—and then sounded off into the night like a fading flock of honking geese until silence returned to the sleepy boulevard.

My pre-dawn brain queried the possibilities. Was it New Year’s, had someone just won a Super Bowl, or . . . ah yes . . . the election.

I’d happily and intentionally made it through the entirety of election day and gone to bed without once exposing myself to any news media in the small Arizona town where my father-in-law lives—home to passionately opposing camps of political preference.

I knew the honking driver was happy because of the persistent, irregular bursts of sound that said, “I’m just celebrating”—as opposed to the long, uninterrupted kind of horn blast that means “I hate you, get out of my way.”

It was a funny feeling—knowing that half the country was now thrilled, the other half in some measure of despair—without knowing the actual election results. It didn’t matter who won, either way, the same essential divide of jubilation and alarm would descend on this town.

Whoever it was that came out on top, there’d be more honking to come, which is why I got up to close the window. Diving for the covers I returned for more sleep, refusing to let my mind seduce me into checking my phone to discover who the new president of the United States would be.

In a way—we all had lost this election.

The smell of my father-in-law’s coffee filled the house before I rose again in the light of day and made my way downstairs.

When I reached the kitchen, he was standing there with his long gray hair tied back in its usual pony tail, and he offered the same gentle smile he always has at the ready each morning when I visit.

This is why I love my father-in-law.

Because even after seeing his face and eyes, I still didn’t know the election results.

At age 89 he has entrusted his well-being to something other than political outcomes—the way he puts it—”to love and kindness above all else.” You never wonder whose side he’s on, because it’s always clear he’s on yours.

Despite having his own clear preferences and heartfelt beliefs about the right direction of his own life and the country he lives in, he’ll have a three-hour conversation with a homeless man outside the door of a coffee shop who has chosen a very different path, or listen patiently to a distressed friend who votes a different way, or speak up when I’ve hurt his feelings because our connection is important to him.

I love my father-in-law because his first thought upon waking the morning after an election was to visit both of his close neighbors and congratulate them on their win.

Who would do a thing like that?

Perhaps someone who is living with the remorse of putting only himself, his own preferences, and his own need for the world to be a certain way first—which my father-in-law declares is the enduring pain he bears from his past.

It’s not easy to move toward others when they don’t look like a source of sanctuary, when they may pose a threat to your comfort. But my father-in-law is the kind of man who will walk naked toward the cold open window of an opposing view and brave the stiff wind of differences to restore warmth and peace.

He’s been through a lot in 89 years. Whatever remorse lives inside of him, he’s clearly using it to fuel another way of being in the world. He seems to be carrying the tender pain of regret as an ally—one that helps him to remember that his fears, his beliefs, his personal wishes, and his way of thinking ought never to be weaponized as a way to separate himself from others.

Now the happiness of his neighbors is enough to put a smile on his face.

I’ll vote for that.