For me, Frank Arthur Peters is a man that brings to mind flashes of hearty laughter at the dinner table, his classic “no no” response, the aviator sunglasses and slung-over camera, the quick quick walk …

It brings to mind intense conversations between him and I — when his earnestness takes over and his worry about me:
1) making sure I paid my credit cards off, 2) follow the Lord, 3) whether or not I know how to change a tire or my oil, or 4) if I’m beating him in ping pong.

It’s the same earnestness I see from the pulpit — especially when he’s preaching in bahasa Indonesia.

And in between these moments of earnestness, I see who I would imagine my dad was as a boy in college: all arms and jokes and sports and adventure. Even his proposal to my mom was a bit of a prank, pretending he dropped the ring in the creek over the bridge railing. My dad lives for a good joke, often repeating it if he thinks we didn’t hear.

For the four of us children, after he led family devotions, playing games with Dad was what we looked forward to in the evening. He always had time for us — even after he had already been at the river with us for our 5 o’clock swim.

Sketches that fill out the portrait of who I see my dad as:

In 2016 — Christmas time, when he took me to play pickle ball with the other retirees in Albany, OR: I thought I’d be able to school these guys. No. This group was competitive. So was my dad. Sweatband around his head. If he would curse, it may be in these moments. I really was no match for this group and I’m sure I brought his game down when we played doubles.

In the mid-90s, when we were on the longest, hottest road trip across Java, Indonesia and we stopped for gas. I was crammed in the back, watching my dad repack the luggage and I was just hammering him with whining. He burst out with a “just shut up for a moment.”

Which stunned me. Like a slap in the face. We were never allowed to say that. To hear my dad say that.

But the fact that I remember that … just says so much about him. Because it’s the only time I remember him saying anything mean to me. And he apologized right after.

In 1991, walking in to my older brother, Jeremy’s hospital room. Tubes and machines seemed to surround his bed. To my 5th grade mind, he was the inanimate object. The machines and tubes were the live beings that clicked, whirred, beeped. He barely moved.

And to the side of his bed sat my dad. Crying — with love and without shame. For the first time in my 10 years that I could remember. My dad crying.

Once in 2011, dad gave me a book: The Writer’s Guidebook. One of the presents that meant the most to me. With the gift of that book, I found a reprieve from a worry that somehow my dad was disappointed in me that I wasn’t a missionary like him. Instead it was a gracious way of encouraging me to follow my passions.

Just a month or so ago, he called me up telling me he read a story I wrote a long time ago and he cried. I laughed — a little embarrassed — but I actually loved it deep down.

More brushstrokes:

▪ Dad butterfly stroking across the Kayan River in Borneo — its swift current pulling him several 100 meters further downstream than where he started.
▪ Holding me on his lap when I was little — on our old rattan rocking chair.
▪ Reading us something he just could not get through, blowing his nose with his handkerchief.
▪ Playing volleyball with his whole heart — he really had no mercy on anyone.
▪ Standing up at the pulpit in his batik shirt, preaching.
▪ Saying over and over again, “here, take a picture of me, just here.” He tours cities like he’ll never visit them again.
▪ Capping giant Pepsi bottles, with his own homemade root beer.
▪ Trying the traditional Dayak dance, his students shrieking with laughter.
▪ On his motorbike, loaded down with suitcases, roaring down the grass airstrip, trying to beat the Cessna 185 before it landed.

Running, riding, moving, moving, moving — always moving. But in the morning, you can find him with his cup of coffee, outside, with his Bible, by the flowers he planted.

He’s lived these 75 years with an intensity that most would find exhausting, helping his extended family members, worrying about the state of the world (and his daughters), every road trip he takes becoming an adventure.

When I hear that someone is 75 years old, the image that comes to mind isn’t my dad. But when you ask me to tell you about someone who has lived a full life, full of love and people who love him. That’s him — through and through.

Happy 75 years Papa — I love you!