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It’s summer, which means my dad and I will soon be making a pilgrimage to the Cimarron River in northeast New Mexico. It’s one of our favorite fly-fishing spots: peaceful, productive and conveniently located within a half-day’s drive of Amarillo.

Fly-fishing is a solitary endeavor, so when Dad and I fish together, we don’t really fish together. We split up. We park the car, grab our gear and take off in different directions. He’ll trudge upstream. I’ll chase the flow downstream. We’ll plan to meet back at the truck an hour or two later, at which time we’ll report on our successes, bemoan our failures and drive to a new spot.

Usually that’s what happens. But there have been a few times when Dad has failed to show for our streamside check-ins in a timely fashion. He has excuses. He forgot to look at his watch, maybe. He was trying to extract his line from a tree. He was working a particularly good fishing hole. These are forgivable offenses, but nevertheless the result is that I’m standing there, alone, at the truck. Waiting. Wondering.

What if he stumbled on the slippery river rocks, knocked his head on a tree branch and landed in an unconscious heap on the riverbank? What if Dad broke his leg? What if he had a heart attack? What if he accidentally hooked a mountain lion on his back cast, or stumbled upon a mama bear and her cubs?

My overactive imagination is no comfort in situations like this.

I’m at that weird stage of adulthood when responsibilities have shifted—lately I feel responsible for my dad, rather than the other way around—and the longest minutes of my life are the ones spent wondering where he is. I keep my eyes locked on the trail. I’m watching for a glimpse of his unmistakable limping gait or the silhouette of his Australian bush hat against the sunlit mountains behind him. When he does show up—and of course, he always shows up—the relief is powerful, real and welcome.

And then it’s gone. The relief doesn’t last long. It dissipates like water droplets shaken from a fly line, and we go on about our business. But the missing-dad tension remains. The weight of my father’s absence always overstays its welcome.

I’m not sure why. Because the best parts of my childhood are the times when my father was present—and there were plenty of those times. Like any kid, my siblings and I were always asking Dad to play with us. He couldn’t always do it, like when a bad back sidelined him from the trampoline. He needed to mow the yard and change the oil and had actual grown-up reasons why he couldn’t play catch or ride his bike with us.

Sometimes Dad had to say “no.” But my memories are mostly punctuated by all the times he said “yes.” I remember when he’d come barreling around the corner only to dive, full-speed, onto the trampoline, sending us kids bouncing across the tarp. I remember when he’d chase us around the house, when he’d help me tenderize a new baseball glove and when he’d sit down to play Nintendo, just because we asked.

As a kid, nothing meant more than when Dad showed up to play. As an adult, nothing worries me more than his absence.

This is the way it’s supposed to be.

With my own kids, I’ve decided that I want to be the kind of Dad who says “yes” as often as possible, because that’s how memories are built. Yes when Owen asks me to play a basketball game of H-O-R-S-E in our driveway, even though it takes longer because he likes to spell out S-T-A-R-W-A-R-S. Yes when Ellie wants us to text each other from six feet away on the couch, because it’s fun to type secret messages to Dad using Mom’s phone. Yes when they want me to jump on the trampoline with them, read a book with them, complete a level with them—because I remember how much I loved it when Dad did those things with me. I remember, and so will they.

I say yes now, as often as possible, because life is too short. There will come a day when the weight of my absence will be more intense to them than the comfort of my presence. It might occur during their first week of college, or after they get married, or during a fishing trip. I won’t be there. They’ll notice. They’ll worry. When this day comes, I hope they will contrast the intensity of that feeling with the comfort and joy of their childhood. I hope they’ll look back and remember all the times I showed up.

Because showing up is the best thing a dad can ever do.

by Jason Boyett

Jason Boyett is a professional writer and graphic designer in Amarillo whose latest book, O Me of Little Faith (Zondervan), released in April. He blogs about faith and culture at jasonboyett.com.