For My Dad on Father's Day Weekend

When my dad retired in June of 1992 after over twenty years in the Navy, it was a big whompin' ceremonial deal.

My dad spent his last three years serving at the Pentagon. There's lots that he can't tell me about what he did during his time there, but suffice to say he had at least some face time with a group of guys called the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

The ceremony, held at our church in Northern Virginia, had plenty of high-ranking officials on the program offering speeches and celebration of many years of service.

But the biggest memory that anyone has of the retirement ceremony was something that happened that wasn't on the program.

About three-quarters of the way through the ceremony, a late-middle-aged gentlemen stood up and asked if he could come forward and say something. In a crowd packed with fully-regaled military officers and decked-out friends and family, he wasn't particularly official looking.

Everyone was a little nervous as he slowly moved to the podium.

He introduced himself; he was a janitor at the Pentagon. This did little to calm anyone's fears about what might be coming next.

"Me and the other janitors have been talking," he said, "and we're going to miss Commander Kirk." I think he then proceeded to present my dad with some kind of plaque or memento of some sort.

I had just graduated from high school a week or two earlier. At a pivotal point of my life, where I was about to step into a fuller sense of adulthood, I was taught a valuable lesson in what it means to really be a man.

My dad was a guy who rubbed shoulders with people of influence. But the janitors knew his name. And he knew theirs. That's the kind of man I want to be.

I hope some day that my own kids might be as proud of me as I was of my dad that day. Happy Father's day, dad, thanks for teaching me about the importance of not finding yourself too important.