The invitation for the Cavera family reunion came in the mail last week.  In early August, those of us who are able will gather in Grand Rapids at the house my father purchased for his family some fifty years ago.  Dad has lived alone in this two-story, attic plus basement house since my mother’s death more than twenty-five years ago.

Many parts of the house still reflect my mother’s artistic flair.  One bedroom ceiling, covered with maps from National Geographic stimulates the imagination of overnight visitors just as it did for my brothers and me years ago.  Guests are also surprised by a collage of old Sports Illustrated covers from the 60’s that paper the basement bathroom wall.  A vibrant Vince Lombardi and a young Joe Namath smile, there forever happily frozen in time.  I look forward to visiting what has become a part of our family heritage. 

The house has begun to show its age, but my brothers and I realize that it is also a symbol of our father and all that he means to us.  We have always depended upon Dad to be there for us.  Even when he disagreed with our choices, he never let us down.

Today, such stability is hard to come by.  Dad taught us the meaning of faith by the way he lived.  For as long as I can remember, he has attended Mass daily in the same church his parents helped found.  We know he goes there to pray for his five sons, their families, and the families of their grown children.  He seldom mentions this, but for all of us his constant prayers are a spring of pure water in our daily lives.

In addition to faith, Dad taught us the meaning of hospitality.  He has often opened the house to provide a warm welcome for family and friends needing a place to land in times of transition. Grandchildren, who were crossing uncertain bridges in their lives, knew they could find a much-needed haven at their Grandpa’s house.

In my grade school years, we spent summers at a small cottage on a lake.  A huge oak tree by the back door stood out as the most prominent feature of this retreat.  When two of us kids stretched arms around this oak, we barely touched our fingers.  Some years ago, I decided to take my own kids to see the cottage.  I didn’t know how to find it because a subdivision of expensive homes now encircles the lake.  My brother Dave told me to look for the oak tree, and he was right.

Today, it doesn’t matter where we lived.  While the house will always be a symbol to our family, Dad is the reality behind the symbol.  His faith and hospitality are worth far more than any building.  Families are blessed when they are sheltered by fathers with the perseverance to stand like oak trees.