I remember a conversation I had with my father when I was very young, as he was fixing a broken television on the floor of our home in Lennon, Michigan. My dad sat Indian-style with his tools in his hands, and didn’t seem to mind that I was hanging on his back with my arms around his shoulders. I loved to sit and watch him as he caused things that didn’t work to come back to life. He had a knack for this that just amazed me as a child, and still does today. I was always mystified at my Dad’s ability to not just fix things, but to make things and do things. He was my superhero, and I always wanted to be like him.

While examining the inside of his ear, I asked him a question framed in the language of a 7 year old boy, “Daddy, how are you going to make that thing work?” “Well,” he replied “first I need to figure out what’s wrong with it. Then, I just have to fix the problem and put it back together.”

Words to live by, there. See, my Dad had a way of putting things back together.

Earlier that day, I sat in the principal’s office at Deik Elemementary, barely staring over a large wooden desk at an aging man with a wooden paddle in his hand. I don’t remember any words spoken in that room, only the feeling of pain I had as I walked back to my classroom down a dimly lit hallway. Alone, and defeated. Wiping tears on my shirt so no one would see me crying. But more than the pain I felt from that wooden paddle, was a fear of my parents knowing that I had messed up. I could handle bruises and cuts, fistfights and bicycle spills. But what hurt me more than anything was the thought of messing up.

“Dad, I wish I could fix televisions.”

“Of course you can fix televisions.” He said.

“I wish I could fix lots of things.”

“Jamie,” he used my childhood nickname, “sit down over here and hang on to this soldering iron for me.” I let go of his neck, and plopped down next to him.

“I want you to listen to me. There is not a thing in this world that you can’t do. Do you understand? You can do anything. You can fix things, and build things, and invent things. You can do anything.” I handed him the soldering iron. “I love you, kiddo.”

“I love you too, Daddy.”

In a few minutes, my Dad asked me to plug in the television.

A sound came from the small speaker as the tube began to glow and show a fuzzy black and white picture. I was amazed again. I was amazed that in a half-hour’s time, my Dad used a soldering iron, voltmeter and some well placed words to fix a broken seven year old boy. He really could do anything.

And you know what? So can I.