B.A.D. to the Bone

So yesterday's post was really long. And I talked a lot about my dad. Today's post won't be as long. But I will talk about my dad. Lest any of you think I don't, I do know that today is St. Patrick's Day. I know that I should be wearing green. I know that there's a parade not far from my office. I know that my sons will be drinking green beer today ... tsssk, tsssk, boys. I know what today is. And I know what today would have been ... my dad's 93rd birthday.

Daddy was born March 17, 1918, in Gordon, Georgia, a little bitty town just south of Macon. And I do mean little bitty. Most of the town consisted of, at least back when I was a kid, my dad's family. He was born the 8th of 14 children to Alice Johnson Dennard and William Chandler Dennard. Fourteen children ... I can't even imagine what life would be like with 14 children. Dad was given the name Benton Atticus Dennard, an unusual name for sure. Most people called him B.A., except for Mom who always called him Atticus.

My dad had an ever-present sense of humor and a killer smile. To this day, when I go back to my hometown of Chattanooga, people invariably talk about the constant twinkle in Daddy's eye and the good nature of his heart. When Dad would introduce himself to someone he had just met, he would often say, "Well, hello there. My name is B.A. Dennard, and that means my initials are B.A.D., so if you want, you can just say, 'Hey, Mr. B.A.D.,' and I'll answer you. Yep, I'm B.A.D. to the bone all right, B.A.D. to the bone."

Now's here the thing ... the lesson ... the truth ... my dad really was a good guy ... nice, friendly, generous, loving, compassionate, honest ... all the things that make us label a person "good." And while Daddy was joking when he made fun of his initials, he also used that description of himself as B.A.D. hundreds of times when he talked about his faith and his relationship with Jesus Christ. I can close my eyes and hear him saying to a person who was hurting or wounded or broken, a person in need of a savior ... "You know, my momma and daddy didn't give me those initials for nothing. My name's a constant reminder of the way there's not one of us that's good in and of ourselves. It's only the blood of Jesus that can make us good or clean at all."

There are lots of days when I miss my dad, days when the memories of him and his love and his example cause my tears to fall like rain. Especially on St. Patrick's Day, my mind is filled with thoughts of him ... his smile, his warmth, his gentle heart. And each time I see or hear the words today, "The luck of the Irish," I will think ... I am the lucky one ... because Mr. B.A.D. to the bone was my dad.

The lucky one, indeed.