Clothes make the man, hmm? Well, in our house, the woman makes the clothing donation decisions, even for the man. A few months back, I was wandering through the closet, searching for a few of my husband's most beloved (read: trashed) shirts that I had decided were going to go the way of the goldfish. (You know how you always suspected your Mom flushed little Goldie down the toilet when you were at school? Well, sometimes a particular shirt can drive a wife to similarly desperate measures: not the toilet, but definitely the Goodwill bag.)
I didn't marry my husband for his fashion sense, and it's a good thing. His closet is packed with checkered and plaid shirts, almost every one a traditional button up. He can't bear to part with anything (hence the furtive daylight donation raid), so every shirt he has ever worn was in there. I was working my way from the back of the closet to the front, when I came across his church choir polo.
When we met, Dave was a member of three choirs: two handbell choirs, and a praise band. It's how we got together: a mutual musician friend set us up on a blind date. I thought about tossing that shirt—we've long since been members of a church nearer home—when I remembered how excited he was when we were expecting our first child. I don't know if a week went by without him sharing the joys and perils of my pregnancy with the entire tenor section. Those choir members baked casseroles, visited the house during the darkly joyful colic days, and rocked the growing baby during rehearsals when I was away. I left the shirt where it was and moved on.
The next shirt was the one he had worn at our son's baptism. It had a mysterious stain on the front pocket, and I should have thrown it out, but I remembered Dave holding the baby through the service, rocking him just enough to keep him quiet. When spit-up threatened to stain the 100-year old christening gown Dave's parents had brought over from Scotland especially for the day, he sacrificed his own shirt without a second thought.
Determined to find some clothing without any emotional connections, I grabbed what looked like a terrible khaki-brown short-sleeve nightmare, wedged in between two jackets. I was certain this was one of the shirts Dave had owned before we met: I used to tease him about dressing like the UPS man. Left to his own devices, he would put on matching khaki trousers and shirt, and still expect me to go out in public with him. This was a shirt I would chuck with glee! But when I had it in my hands, I realized it wasn't an old shirt at all. It was one of his newer ones, in fact. On the breast pocket was the patch he had ironed on a few months before: Den Leader. I laughed, remembering how distraught he had been when he had agreed to help out as assistant den leader, only to find himself the top dog a week later when the leader had to step down. No one in the den knew how completely terrified he was at being expected to lead that rowdy group of third graders. “Oh, Lord!” he said, looking up from studying the handbook. “This is the year they learn to use pocket knives!” He was petrified, but he never thought of throwing in the towel. Why not? Because our son needed someone — needed him. And if there was ever a father in the world who has always been there when he was needed, it is my husband. Stained, checkered shirts and all.
He came home from work a little early that day, and walked in on me in the closet (probably his packrat sixth sense was warning him that I was going through his collection of fashion mistakes). He was slightly curious as to why I was hugging his den leader shirt, but the boys raced in, climbed up his legs, and it was time for dinner, homework, and a game of Monopoly. I can't even remember what he was wearing that day, but it doesn't matter. The clothes of a truly exceptional Daddy are always in style.
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