Being a fan of sci-fi in movies and series, I’ve of course
watched Battlestar Galactica. The late ‘70s iteration was an eye popper
for eight-year-old me, but apart from the iconic theme song, it didn’t age well.
The 2004 run was different. Following the standard trope of a small
contingent of humanity pushed to the edge of extinction, it was the drama of the
personal interactions and the well scored soundtrack that made it one of my
favorites.
There were two characters, Admiral William Adama and Captain Lee “Apollo”
Adama, who depicted a father and son within the same military chain of command.
In one episode, the Admiral was forced to send the captain on a mission that
was both highly critical to mission success, yet extremely hazardous. Before his
son’s departure, despite a rocky history between the two, father and son shared
a moment, recognizing this may be the last time they would ever speak. At the
end of this interlude, the Admiral gifted his lighter, once belonging to his
own father, to his son. It was a family heirloom, serving as both a lucky
talisman and an unambiguous declaration of a father’s faith in his son. Against
the backdrop of Bear McCreary’s poignant soundtrack, it was a stunningly
eloquent scene.
I’ve heard it said our father’s first gift to us is our name,
and it’s a lifelong point of honor to keep it unblemished. I literally carry
Dad’s name within my own, and the debt I owe him is unpayable. When I was a foolish,
know-it-all teenager, we weren’t always on the best of terms. While the life
lessons he imparted to me are immeasurably treasured, I can’t help but rebuke
myself for this period of my life when I could have spent time with him but
didn’t.
That teenage lunkhead eventually found his bearings and I realized,
once again, the quiet, dignified wisdom and strength of Dad’s character. A few
years later, I asked Dad to be my Best Man when Andrea and I were married. For
the portion of the reception reserved for the Best Man’s speech, unbeknownst to
him, I had my own.
In a rare, unscripted moment for me, I publicly recognized
him for being the finest role model for manhood I would spend the rest of my
life aspiring to emulate. Dad was never overly demonstrative with his emotions,
but Mom later said he wept openly. She was smiling as she told me, “I’m proud
of you, son. You gave him his place.”
Regrettably, there just weren’t enough conversations between
the two of us before his death. While I’m thankful for the many things of himself
that were imparted to me, there are still times when I’ve desperately wanted
his advice or perspective. During these moments, I’ll reach into my pocket and
take out his lighter. Turning it over in my hands, I’m reminded, regardless of
the task or trial ahead of me, of the unambiguous faith Dad had in me. And I
smile.
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