15 minutes

You shall teach them diligently to your sons and shall talk of them when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way and when you lie down and when you rise up.

Deuteronomy 6:7

Dad, you once told me that one of your biggest regrets was that you could only give us kids 15 minutes of your attention, here or there, and that you wished you could’ve spent more quality time with us.

You worked five-and-a-half days a week your entire adult life, served different roles in the church, and ensured we grew up in a Christian home with Christian values and a moral compass. [You] took care of your parents in their last years; filled different roles in your community. And between the Army, National Guard, and Army Reserve, you completed 20 years of military service. You were a husband and father of three.

And yet, with all those responsibilities, you would regret the amount of time we had together – that somehow, you felt it wasn’t enough.

I very seldom disagree with you, but looking back now, this time I do.

You see, Dad, I think you were looking at time the wrong way – as a unit of measure: numbers on the face of a clock or blank squares on a calendar, from a nanosecond to a millennium.

When we look at time in those increments, we often lose sight of what time really is or the value it holds. As a unit of measure, once that second is gone, it is over. We can’t reach out and grab it; we can’t bring it back or reuse it.

But …

If we think of time as memorable events or special moments, 15 minutes is a lifetime.

It’s those 15 minutes that we can hold onto. The memories we share together determine the quality of time – not what the clock says or how many squares we’ve “X’d” on the calendar.  

Like the 15 minutes before sundown when you came to pick me up from the lake after a long day of fishing. Instead of saying, “Get in, let’s go,” you grabbed your fishing pole, and we stood side-by-side casting baits until after dark.

Or the time you got to the ballpark after work, just in time to see me hit the game-winning single. After the game, it took the coach about 15 minutes to gather a bunch of rowdy boys and herd them onto the bus. As you and I walked toward your truck, you listened to every detail of the game. I knew you wanted me to ride home with you, but you knew an over-excited, dusty, 13-year-old hero of the game wanted to ride home on the bus and celebrate with his friends.

You traveled all over Mississippi to watch me occasionally “get in there.” For a long 15 minutes, you waited outside the locker room with all the other parents, as proud as if I had scored the winning touchdown.

When Mom said supper would be ready “in about 15 minutes,” you climbed under an old beat-up truck next to a grease-covered, 17-year-old kid who knew nothing about repairing a vehicle. Instead of fixing it for me, you taught me how to fix it myself.

During a very anxious 15 minutes, you were a steady hand I desperately needed. One hand on my shoulder, the other lightly brushing my lapel, you said again what I had heard before: “I can’t tell you what to do, but I can offer you advice and give my opinion if you ask for it.” Then you gave my shoulder a little squeeze of approval as I walked to the altar to meet my best friend and love of my life.

You traveled to North Carolina to witness the most important achievement of my military career. After about 15 minutes of waiting in the hot sun, we were released for the day. I watched as you made your way through the crowd, shaking the hand of each graduate you passed, finally hugging the Army’s newest Green Beret.

When you could no longer manage the fishing boat by yourself, the cold March wind carried you away while I was parking the truck. Stripped down to my boxers, dry clothes rolled and held above my head, you watched as I waded into that ice-cold water and swam to the boat. When I arrived, with a smile and a chuckle, you calmly said, “What would a good fishing trip be without a little adventure?” That was a long, cold 15 minutes.

Being the middle child, I saw you spend 15 minutes with my brother and sister as well.

You, Mike, and me … a bath in Enid Lake and a lost bar of soap. You followed Mike for football, baseball, track, and basketball [games] – during one of which you were escorted out of the gym for disagreeing with the referees in defense of your son.
I saw you at Jennifer’s band concerts and piano recitals, the ill-advised vacation swim in the trout pond, and her first solo motorcycle ride that abruptly ended at a big hickory tree.

It is impossible to share all my memories of our time together in just 15 minutes. Many will just have to stay between the two of us. Some memories, I think, are best like that.

15 minutes …

That equals 900 seconds – time enough for life-changing events, fond memories of a past childhood, and special moments between a father and his children.

It’s good times and bad (like accidentally destroying Mom’s china cabinet). The smell of the chainsaw, fresh-cut firewood, and the sound of college football blasting from the radio on a Saturday afternoon. Dove-hunting in the September heat, touchdowns, tackles, and half-time performances on Friday nights. Base hits and strikeouts in a cow pasture turned ball diamond, music-filled auditoriums, and recital practice on an old, out-of-tune piano. Trips to the emergency room to repair broken bones, remove fishhooks, or retrieve a peanut from inside Jennifer’s nose.

It’s graduations and achievements, birthdays, and Christmas mornings. A nervous groom, a gentle squeeze, or a subdued “Her mother and I.” Advice and opinions, the difference between success and failure – and trying again.

It’s being there at the beginning of life for grandkids and great-grandkids, and being there at the end. (We miss you, Mom.) It’s a motorcycle, skinned knees, and an old hickory tree, adventurous fishing trips, a broken-down truck, and fishing past dark. A cart ride and a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch.

So, no guilt, Dad – no regrets. You did what you could; you gave what you had. For all these memories and so many more, I will be forever grateful. You will always be with me.

I remember sitting in your lap in front of the TV watching the Bob Hope USO Special. He ended all his shows singing “Thanks for the Memories.”

Well, thank you, Bob Hope, for another special memory with my dad.

And thank you, Dad … for 15 minutes. 

Editor’s Note: Jeff Gafford is the brother of Jennifer Nanney, The Stand project editor. This article was excerpted from a eulogy he delivered at their father’s funeral in July 2024. The Stand found it to be a fitting tribute for Father’s Day. The unabridged version is available at afa.net/thestand. Search for “15 minutes.”