For the longest time, I had been known among my friends for the ability to show very little emotion during situations that normally would evoke a wide range of feelings.

I was never big on crying. I always saw it as a sign of weakness.

My dad, on the other hand, has been a big crier. I remember seeing him in church time after time weeping before the Lord at the altar or in worship; crying nearly every time he had to discipline Jason or myself for something wrong we did; or when he was at a crossroads with something and didn’t know what to do.

In that area alone, my dad and I were polar opposites. I was ashamed of my own — and my dad’s — public displays of emotion, whereas Dad just simply didn’t care what others thought.

I finally understood a shred of why Dad wasn’t ashamed to express himself through a good cry on November 25, 2002 — the day before I was scheduled to ship out for Air Force basic training. I had just finished washing the dishes and had noticed Dad was in the bedroom talking to Mom for a very long time, and Mom came out of the room.

“I think it’d be good if you went in and gave your dad a hug,” she said.

I walked in and stopped at the door. I saw my dad, sitting on the bed toward the window, with his head in his hands shaking with sobs. I’d never seen an emotional display of that magnitude from him before, yet at the same time the reality of why he was so broken at that point was clearly evident.

He had to entrust his son to another Father.

I went over, hugged him and cried right alongside him. For the first time, I didn’t care — granted, it was in the privacy of our own home back in Rainier, Oregon — but I still didn’t care. He shared words of wisdom that I needed to hear, then he shared one final thing.

Hold onto Jesus, wherever you go.

Those words stuck in my mind like a lance. As I went to basic training and my world was turned upside down; as I graduated and went off to broadcast school in Maryland, I never forgot those words. As I moved to the Azores for my first duty location, then later moved onto Langley Air Force Base, Virginia, my dad sharing that instruction with me never faded.

In October 2005, I deployed to Baghdad, Iraq as a military broadcast correspondent. As fate — or was it the Lord? — would have it, my dad was working a project just three hours north of Langley AFB in Washington, D.C. My plane from Norfolk was scheduled to land in Baltimore in the evening, then I would fly onto Germany where there we prepared for deployment.

I would get to see my dad before I boarded that plane to Germany.

He drove up from D.C. — about a thirty-mile one-way trip — and we chatted for awhile. I was in my desert camo uniform, he was in clothes he had been working in all day at his construction project. We made small talk for about an hour as the line to check in for the flight inched forward.

Finally it came my turn to get my tickets and confirm my orders to Iraq. After that process was complete, it was time to tell the United States — and at that moment in time, my dad — goodbye.

It went down similar to the way it did right before I left for basic training. Only this situation was of the utmost urgency.

Dad and I hugged for as long as we could before I headed out to the International terminal, and he told me the exact same words he told me that night in November 2002.

Hold onto Jesus, son, wherever you go.

I saw him begin to cry as I waved goodbye and headed through the terminal. I shot one last glance over my shoulder and saw him walking away, raising his arm to wipe away tears that seemingly didn’t end. Of course I was teary-eyed for more than a few minutes afterward.

I did end up making it home in one piece, by the grace of God. If there ever was a time where I needed to hold onto Jesus, it was during the times when we hit roadside bombs. I held onto Him for dear life — and He didn’t let go of me.

There is a reason I write all of this. You see, my dad was in town from his job in Las Vegas until just yesterday morning, to spend time with Mom for the holidays. I was blessed with the opportunity to visit them both four times over the last two weeks. We had a blast playing numerous games of Scrabble and sharing good times with each other.

The time came for me to leave and once again, I saw that show of emotion from my dad. It never fails.

Only yesterday, I didn’t cry as well. Despite the times being rough for the Brewer family in which we all are geographically separated, I have a confidence that in the Lord’s time we will all be reunited. I have faith the Army will leave Jason alone, Dad will be able to spend more time with Mom and I will continue to be blessed here in Springfield for the foreseeable future.

I think Dad knew the same thing too, but it had to be tough for him. I cannot imagine being married to someone for 28 years and having to live two time zones away for an extended period of time.

As we said our goodbyes yesterday and I prepared to head in for work, Dad and Mom both shared an emotional moment. They stated how proud they were of me that I’ve made tremendous strides in my spiritual walk with Christ, that I visit my mom of my own free will and just the person I’ve become in general.

And even though Dad didn’t say it, I could hear it resonate in my mind as I drove down Highway 60 toward Springfield.

Hold onto Jesus, wherever you go.

At that moment, the grown man who had so often bottled up his emotions as a child began to cry as he drove down the highway. I really didn’t care what the person passing me on my right had to say about it.

Chris Brewer cried, and it was okay to do so.

In fact, it has been okay for me to do so for quite awhile.