Ramblin’ Road: My dad had my back in days gone by

Happy Father’s Day.

I had a rather pleasant surprise this week.

I was walking DK Friday morning when a woman stepped out from behind her trailer and said, “Hello Phyllis. How are you doing?”

I did a double take. I knew I sort of knew her. She had a familiar face and kind of looked like one of my elementary school teachers. It took me about two seconds to place the face. She was a college roommate from my freshman year. And she IS an elementary school teacher.

It was really nice to be able to sit for a few moments and catch up – with the promise of getting together again before she and her husband leave.

When I got back to my trailer, our conversation brought back a lot of memories and I will confess not all of them were good memories.

Or maybe they were.

Ever have to contend with someone who felt their beliefs are the right ones and the rest of the world needs saving? That would describe one of our roommates that semester.

One of the campus Christian organizations was handing out New Testament Bibles on campus that fall. On the day of the distribution all five of us (yes, five women in one suite) came back to the dorm with copies in hand. This roommate (let me be clear… it was NOT the woman I spoke with at the campground) took it upon herself to seek out Bible verses that she felt pertained to our lives and would highlight them in our new Bibles.

“For the wages of sin is death,” “Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy,” etc. A couple of the girls highlighted verses in retaliation, “Hypocrite. First get rid of the log from your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye…” Others retaliated with posters “Live and let live,” etc. … I’m sure you get the gist of it all.

It continued most of the semester until the week of finals it escalated into a poster ripping, Bible tearing screaming match. I was down the hall doing laundry when it started. The entire first floor heard it. It was not pretty.

I did what every young woman of 18 would do. I called home in tears.

“Just come get me. I’m not staying in this hell-hole another minute.”

I remember my father first telling me it was not lady-like to swear and then telling me to me to hang in there and everything would be all right.

Two-and-a-half hours later there was a knock on our dorm room door and there stood my father.

He took me to Big Boy for an ice cream sundae and then turned around and drove two-and-a-half hours back home. I don’t even remember if we talked about the blowup. He was simply there. For me.

Thanks Daddy. I miss you.