-
What Gets Me
It’s the whispers that get me. Or maybe it’s the bouncing eyebrows. Or perhaps the twinkle in brown eyes.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, clinging to Digger Dog, as she curls up in between Bri and me under the warmth of heavy blankets.
“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
It’s the cries that get me. Or maybe it’s seeing the tears run down her face. Or perhaps it’s the frustration fizzling from my heart.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, clinging to strands of red curls she’s cut from her own head, responding to my pleas of forgiveness for losing patience with her.
“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
It’s the giggles that get me. Or maybe it’s the full blown belly laughs. Or perhaps the smothered screams as the tickle monster chases her through the house.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, flopping in exhaustion on my belly, but only as a pretense to start the game again.
“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
It’s the sparkles that get me. Or maybe it’s the excitement that fills her whole being. Or perhaps is the drama that is reminiscent of a much more famous Audrey.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, hugging me good-bye before she’s off to a winter wonderland of play with the boys.
“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
It’s the preening that gets me. Or maybe it’s the twirling to see how full her skirt can become. Or perhaps it’s the fancy footwork as she flits about the house in her “pwetty dwesses”.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, pulling me to the dance floor to hold her close and sway.
“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
It’s the imitating that gets me. Or maybe it’s the books and journals she already keeps on her bed. Or perhaps it’s the standing next to me in the kitchen with her Snow White apron on.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, telling me how she’s going to be a Mommy just like me when she grows up.
“I love you,” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
(yes, y’all that is her bed, and yes, y’all that is Elisabeth Elliot’s Let Me Be A Woman that she likes me to read to her, and yes, y’all that is her flowered journal.)Some days it’s the sadness that gets me. Or maybe it’s the desperation for her to remember everything, to make memories last with her. Or perhaps it’s the fear that I won’t get through all this, that she’ll have to live life without me.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, brushing my tears away with tiny fingers brushed pink and blue with chipped polish.
“I love you.” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
It’s the love that gets me. Or maybe it’s the love. Or perhaps it’s the love.
But mostly, I think it’s the feel of her molding into me, falling asleep curled under warm blankets with me and her big bear on the couch, sighing softly before she drifts away to dreamland.
“I love you.” she murmurs, automatically, and my heart is warmed.
Definitely, it’s the love.
-
Help Me, Jesus!
The comment showed up in the early morning, perhaps 7:00 a.m., in response to my previous post, Still, and I sat and cried. Here’s what it said:
The I in this reading is Jesus.
“I AM ABOVE ALL THINGS: your problems, your pain, and the swirling events in this ever-changing world. When you behold My Face, you rise above circumstances and rest with Me in heavenly realms. This is the way of Peace, living in the Light of My Presence. I guarantee that you will always have problems in this life, but they must not become your focus. When you feel yourself sinking in the sea of circumstances, say “Help me, Jesus!” and I will draw you back to Me. If you have to say that thousands of times daily, don’t be discouraged. I know your weakness, and I meet you in that very place.” Sarah Young.
I have had to say “Help me, Jesus” already a few times today and I know it will not be the last time.
Thank you for this rich post.
I love you!
It is from my mom.
My mom.
Who still doesn’t know if her daughter has cancer remaining.
Who still has a best friend that has suffered far more than I ever have, and Mom has never given up on her.
Who still adores her husband like she did on that day she said, “I do.” Even more so.
Who still goes outside and builds snowmen, and wrestles, and goes to ball games with grandchildren.
Who still drives countless miles to care for us whenever we need her (and even when we think we don’t).
Who still cooks the most fabulous Italian food ever.
Who still loves to laugh mostly at herself.
Who still lives every day in complete dependence on Jesus.
Who still plays tennis and bowling Wii with Ash and won’t stop until she wins.
Who still spends hours braiding red curls, reading good books, curling up with coffee.
Who still admits her need and weakness.
Who still sits and cries with me, over me.
Who still needs your prayers, too, because all of this is harder on her than she will ever let me know.
Who still calls me every day to check in and misses my voice when we don’t connect.
Who still cries, “Help me, Jesus!” even if it’s a thousand times a day.
Who still never complains about her calling, her children, her tasks, her life.
Who still is the most amazing example to me of what a mother is to be. Someone who loves deeply and lives gratefully.
When I was a little girl I remember staring at her in complete awe, thinking she must be just about the most beautiful woman on the face of the earth.
I was right.
Will you please remember to pray for my parents, too?
-
Wednesday Worship: Whate’er My God Ordains Is Right
I don’t remember exactly how old I was when he died. I know I was a teenager. He was the husband of one of my mom’s close friends. My brother and I played at his house often with his two children. He was a man well known and loved in our small town community. He coached baseball and basketball to hundreds of kids every season and was loved by every one.
I remember the phone call to our house for Mom to come. He had come home after a long day at the ball field and fallen asleep on the couch. Then his wife called 911 when she couldn’t wake him up. Then she sat on the couch with his head in her lap waiting. And while she waited for the ambulance to arrive, she watched her husband breathe his last breath.
I remember how she clung desperately to faith in Christ. Faith that she had clung to for years married to a man that she loved but that did not share her faith with her. And she clung when that man died empty, alone, and without Jesus.
I remember his funeral. They didn’t have enough room in the funeral home for everyone who came.
And I remember the hymn she picked for Miriam, my vocal teacher, to sing. I remember the echo of Miriam’s voice in it’s haunting beauty. I will never forget how it sounded.
“Whate’er My God ordains is right…”
I remember questioning how it was possible, this woman who had lost so much, who had been left with children to care for on her own, this woman who now had to go out and find work rather than continue to be a stay-at-home mom, this woman who knew she wouldn’t share eternity with her husband… how is it possible to have such faith?
Now I know, y’all.
I know because in all the chaotic “stillness” of life, having Jesus is everything. I had already had that hymn memorized as a small child, and ever since that day, I have loved that hymn even more.
In his book, Counterfeit Gods, Tim Keller writes:
“In our lives there are always some things that we invest in to get a level of joy and fulfillment that only God can give. The most painful times in our lives are times in which our Isaacs, our idols, are being threatened or removed… like Abraham, you could take a walk up into the mountains. You could say, ‘I see that you may be calling me to live my life without something I never thought I could live without. But if I have you, I have the only wealth, health, love, honor, and security I really need and cannot lose.’ As many have learned and later taught, you don’t realize Jesus is all you need until Jesus is all you have.”
Which is why, when it seems like all is taken away, clinging to faith means I can say with the hymn writer:
“And so to Him I leave it all.”
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
His holy will abideth;
I will be still whate’er He doth;
And follow where He guideth;
He is my God; though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall:
Wherefore to Him I leave it all.Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He never will deceive me;
He leads me by the proper path:
I know He will not leave me.
I take, content, what He hath sent;
His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait His day.Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He is my Friend and Father;
He suffers naught to do me harm,
Though many storms may gather,
Now I may know both joy and woe,
Some day I shall see clearly
That He hath loved me dearly.Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Though now this cup, in drinking,
May bitter seem to my faint heart,
I take it, all unshrinking.
My God is true; each morn anew
Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow shall depart.Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Here shall my stand be taken;
Though sorrow, need, or death be mine,
Yet I am not forsaken.
My Father’s care is round me there;
He holds me that I shall not fall:
And so to Him I leave it all.Words: Samuel Rodigast, 1676; translated from German to English by Catherine Winkworth, 1863, and others. Rodigast wrote this hymn to cheer his friend Gastorius, who had become seriously ill. Gastorius not only recovered, but went on to write the tune for Rodigast’s words.
“Will not the Judge of all the earth do right?” Genesis 18:25
-
Another God Sighting…
… for those of you who have been praying, we sold our woodstove today for our asking price.
Now Bri is rubbing his hands gleefully as he plans to replace it with one that will work for us. And I am rubbing my hands gleefully in anticipation of the warmth (and to create friction because my fingers are so numb). Now if only I can get up enough nerve to go near it… apparently watching a near neighbor’s house burn in a chimney fire as a kid has left a lot of fear; however, this no meds thing has me so frozen that I don’t think it’ll take me too long.
Thank you for praying. God chose to say, “Yes.”
Yes, I cried, and I really, really wanted to get up and dance, but I was too tired.
-
Still
“It is here, where we happen to be at this moment and not in another place or another time, that we may learn to love Him – here where it seems He is not at work, where His will seems obscure or frightening, where He is not doing what we expected Him to do, where He is most absent. Here and nowhere else is the appointed place. If faith does not go to work here, it will not go to work at all.” –Elisabeth Elliot
Recently, our friend, Rick posted on his facebook status “Rick still has a kid with cancer…”
I broke down when I read that. Of course, I break down every time I read Rick and Jessie’s blog, and whenever I talk about Andrew or pray for their family, and whenever I get off the phone after an hour long conversation with Jessie.
The thing about Facebook is that you can read into his words (that’s one of the huge downsides I’ve found on FB, but that’s another post for another time). Some people might take it as a “Wow. This is crazy…” or “I still can’t believe it…” or “it’s not over, even though things are calmer…” or as a plea to not forget them or as just a statement of overwhelming fact or something else entirely. I don’t know fully what was wrapped up in Rick’s status, but I do know this.
Rick and Jessie still have a son with cancer.
Still…
And I know how all of “still” feels. It’s been 2 1/2 years for us, and I still don’t know if we’re done. I still face needles next week and the panic attacks that come before them and scans and waiting. I’m still in pain, a lot of pain, y’all. I’m still in limbo. I’m still lonely and I still long for physical companionship as I walk this road. Bri and I still haven’t been in real community for 2 1/2 years in our church. And as much as people “do” for us, I still often feel very forgotten by people I thought would never forget. I’m still scared. I’m still clinging.
But it’s not just little Andrew or me…
It’s everyone around me.
Still a single mother.
Still lost a baby.
Still is a widower.
Still lost their parent.
Still has a spouse or child deployed.
Still longs for marriage.
Still has an addiction.
Still can’t get pregnant.
Still was abused.
Still is an orphan.
Still lives in Haiti.
Still has no diagnosis for years of pain.
Still has no job.
We still live in a fallen world.
But I also know my God says to me, “Be still and know that I am God.”
Do you know what peace covers me when I read those words or when I hear Him speaking them into my wounded heart?
I’m not talking about the “be still” part… I mean the I AM GOD part.
And I still believe.
God is still on His throne.
He still grieves with me.
He still sent His son.
He still forgives me every time I fall.
He still loves me.
He still smiles when He thinks of me
He still holds me.
He still has me inscribed in the palm of His hands.
He still is unchanging and eternal.
He still remembers every heartache, every fear, every pain.
He. still. wins.
He is still here.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Still.
-
December Snow
I finally finished this video from our huge snow right before Christmas… a laughter-filled showcase of playing in the wintry weather. Enjoy!
December Snow from b on Vimeo.
-
What do I Need?
(As you read this, please take the time to blow away the chaff of my scattered mind and find the grain of my heart.)
Over the past few days I’ve had several people ask, “What do you need?” I’ve thought a lot about the answer to that question, and the practical, black and white, type-A in me wants to make my list of things.
Well, let’s see… I’ll need help with childcare and carpool… meals… cleaning… anything else?
Oh, yes, well, I need to get things done. But how do I get them done when I have absolutely no energy left? I told Bri today I had moved from being “okay” to now feeling just “tolerable”, and I know before I get to the scan it will be “miserable”. Not much to look forward to. So how do I get stuff done before I get to the miserable part?
Practical.
I’m tired of being practical. I’m tired of being a slave to my “to-do list”. I’m tired of trying to distinguish my needs from my wants.
What do I need? Wow. Loaded question.
I need people in my life who aren’t afraid of my neediness. I need to hear those knocks on my door and open them to see people to hug me and cry with me. I need to see those emails in my inbox from friends who are authentic and are struggling with all this, too. I need to know friends aren’t tired of me and I need to know they aren’t going to tell me how to deal with this (trust me, I’ve had just about all the advice I can take… what foods to eat, what exercise to get or not get, what doctors to see, when to laugh or not laugh, etc.). I need to hear voices on the phone or answering machine telling me they’re praying. I need to grieve. I am tired of loss.
I need to know that my friends are taking care of themselves. That they are getting check-ups and looking for lumps and eating healthy so they can be here for others and not have to go through what I’m going through, because I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
I need to feel B’s arms around me every night telling me he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere. That he’s not giving up on me, even though my “warranty has run out” (Not long after we got married and all my health problems showed up, Bri jokingly asked my parents, “Does she come with a warranty?”).
I need to take time to breathe. To look for the joy in each day. I need to make gratitude part of my daily “to-do list”.
I need “perfective” (that’s perspective in Bear language).
I need to stop putting disclaimers on my blog and not worry about appearing like I have it all together, because I don’t. I sin in my struggle. I place expectations on myself and others that aren’t healthy.
I need to hear truth. I am weary from preaching it to myself over and over and over, but I am afraid I will forget the truth in the mire of all of this, my mangled life. So I keep preaching.
My friend, Monica, wrote to me once…
I imagine finding out you have cancer is something like that day. You are living life, planning what’s for dinner that night, what you’ll do next week or next year, and then without warning it hits you from behind and mangles your life. When the dust settles from the surgery and the treatment and the months of life you have lost you take inventory. Am I totaled? What’s the blue book value of this crazy life, and do I have any equity left once the loan is paid? Can I get a new life? And you wonder why this happened. Deep down inside you feel this might be a result of a lopsided checks and balances sheet where God and sin are concerned regardless of what you know in your head about Christ’s saving love.
She describes the struggle perfectly. I need to hear that it’s not God punishing me for my lack of faith. It’s not God up there banging His head against the wall thinking, “She’s just not getting it, so let’s give her MORE cancer.” God doesn’t work like that, although I want to put Him in a box and think He does. No, God is grieving with me. And I need to know that. To be reminded of that. That He is with me, even when I don’t feel His presence.
Fear is there. While this isn’t as ugly or scary as my breast cancer, it is scary and ugly nonetheless. In two and a half weeks I find out if I still have cancer in my thyroid, and we could have to decide whether to risk a second treatment which could cause leukemia or to risk surgery which could damage my vocal cords. And when I think about either of those options, I think to myself…
“I need to sing with Brian again. I can’t not sing with Brian ever again.”
Elizabeth Berg wrote a novel called Talk Before Sleep. It is a very raw, very real, very graphic, very heartbreaking look at the loss and pain of cancer and a friendship that is strengthened through it. She writes through the eyes of the friend…
“Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday. It scares me, the way tomorrow keeps coming. I look in the paper for a good comic strip to bring Ruth. All of them today would only hurt her feelings. Try this sometime: read the comics as through time were awfully short. You will be hard-pressed to find anything funny. You will understand irony. You will put down the paper and look at the way the sun happens to be lighting the sky and you will be thinking one word: please.”
Please.
Please?
There are days where I need to hear I have tomorrow. But then I remember the words of Elisabeth Elliot that it is today for which I am responsible. That God still holds tomorrow in His hands. All my tomorrows. And that I will spend eternity in Heaven with Him and there will be no tomorrow… just forever.
What do I need?
I need more of Jesus every day… because, well, He has already given me all that I need… all the rest, they’re just added bonuses, kisses of His love, perspective, hope.
-
Sunday Selections: Winter in the Soul
“Thou hast made summer and winter.”
–Psalm 74:17“My soul begin this wintry month with thy God. The cold snows and the piercing winds all remind thee that He keeps His covenant with day and night, and tend to assure thee that He will also keep that glorious covenant which He has made with thee in the person of Christ Jesus. He who is true to His Word in the revolutions of the seasons of this poor sin-polluted world, will not prove unfaithful in His dealings with His own well-beloved Son.
Winter in the soul is by no means a comfortable season, and if it be upon thee just now it will be very painful to thee: but there is this comfort, namely, that the Lord makes it. He sends the sharp blasts of adversity to nip the buds of expectation: He scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes over the once verdant meadows of our joy: He casteth forth His ice like morsels freezing the streams of our delight. He does it all, He is the great Winter King, and rules in the realms of frost, and therefore thou canst not murmur. Losses, crosses, heaviness, sickness, poverty, and a thousand other ills, are of the Lord’s sending, and come to us with wise design. Frosts kill noxious insects, and put a bound to raging diseases; they break up the clods, and sweeten the soul. O that such good results would always follow our winters of affliction!
How we prize the fire just now! How pleasant is its cheerful glow! Let us in the same manner prize our Lord, who is the constant source of warmth and comfort in every time of trouble. Let us draw nigh to Him, and in Him find joy and peace in believing. Let us wrap ourselves in the warm garments of His promises, and go forth to labours which befit the season, for it were ill to be as the sluggard who will not plough by reason of the cold; for he shall beg in summer and have nothing.”
(From C. H. Spurgeon’s Morning & Evening, December 1, Morning)
-
One of the Bestest Days: Part Two
Yesterday I wrote about my Daddy and Pappy’s birthday. As promised, here is the post about my Pap who is now 86 years old and has been happily married to my grandmother since they were 18–you do the math!
Oh, how I love this man!
He always smiled. He had that rare talent of making me laugh whenever he smiled at me. He could read books and make me think I was actually there. As I sat in his lap listening to him read Rackety Boom, I could imagine the clackety-clack of the old blue truck and smell the fumes of smoke it coughed. He would draw me up on his lap encircling me in his arms with his massive hug. I would sit on his knee, content with his warmth and the spicy aroma of his after shave, and I never wanted to leave. He was strength. He was security. He was invincible. he was my Pap.
Growing up, my brother and I would spend one week each summer at my grandparents’ house in Pennsylvania. We would awaken late in the morning to the sound of lawnmowers and the muggy, sticky feel of August heat. Bleary-eyed, but fully of energy, we would bound down the stairs despite repeated warnings of, “Don’t run in the house!” As we raced to the kitchen, our sock feet sliding across their blue-green speckled linoleum floor, there Pap would be. He always waited until we were up before he would hook up the old portable dishwasher to the sink. It was time for our “train ride”.
The chugging sound of the dishwasher was our engine. Mike and I would sit in the “dining car” drinking cocoa our of our favorite plastic mugs. Pap was the engineer, and he would also fill the role of tour guide, describing the passing scenery with a zest that made me glance out the window just to be sure we weren’t really moving. After breakfast, we would run off to the next game and wait with anticipation while Pap cleaned up the kitchen mess.
Every year, during the week we spent at Pap and Nan’s, they would take us to an amusement park near their home town. Pap never rode the roller coasters because of a heart condition, but he’d ride with me on the other rides. I’d sit by his side screaming in terrified delight, knowing I was always safe under his protective arm.
My grandparents would often come to visit us at our home in the Valley, too, and they never missed a January celebration of Pap’s birthday (which incidentally is the same as daddy’s), but I had no concept of him aging. We’d go out into the biting cold and build snowmen, always making sure the head was round like Pap’s. We’d lay in the snow and make snow angels, and I could never figure out how his came out so perfect. Then we’d traipse back into the warmth of the house, our cheeks red and eyes bright. I’d curl up in Pap’s lap in exhaustion and snuggle to get warm. I loved the security of his arms.
It was around Memorial Day when I was 11 years old that things changed. Pap and Nan were visiting for a long weekend, and Pap mentioned a numbness in his arm, never complaining as I crawled into his lap or asked him to play with me. On Sunday night, when my family arrived home from church, my grandmother met us at the door, her lips pressed together with worry. Pap wasn’t well. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I could feel it in the air. Something was wrong.
Daddy took Pap to the emergency room, and I sobbed in my mother’s arms. “What’s going to happen to Pap?” My question hung in the air. I wouldn’t watch Pap leave. I couldn’t face the reality that pap was going to the hospital. He was strong. He was invincible. Nothing could happen to my Pap.
Pap had a stroke. Nan drove him home, and he was hospitalized for a long time. Mom and I went up later to help Nan and visit with Pap. I don’t remember how long we stayed with Nan, but I do remember going to visit him in the hospital. The medicinal odors scared me–Pap didn’t belong in a place like this. I remember walking through the door to his room and seeing him try to smile, the left side of his face paralyed. Although it was lop-sided, it was still a smile.
I watched him struggle through his therapy, and saw the defeat in his eyes–the desperation to be the way he used to be. I would help him, sitting on the floor for hours and massaging his arm and leg to increase circulation. I’d sit on his good leg and make faces at him so he could copy me and work his facial muscles. He’d get discouraged and snap at me, but I understood his frustration. I can remember him crying, realizing I’d never seen Pap cry before.
It was a long hard road. And the years since then have been even harder. More strokes, heart attacks, and last year, a triple bypass at 83 years old. Pap has never had life the way it “used to be” But some things remain the same. He still gets up every morning and sit with his big black Bible talking with his Jesus. He still loves his flowers and crossword puzzles. He still smiles a lot. And though I’ve left behind the story times and the train rides, I still crawl up on his lap, and he holds me with his good arm. He’s not as strong as he was before. He’s endured more than I begin to imagine. Together we’ve learned that life is tenuous and anything can happen at any moment.
No, he’s not invincible. But he’s my Pap and I cherish his love.
That will never change.
(Original post written in June, 2008)
-
One of the Bestest Days God Made
Today is one of my most bestest, favoritest days in the whole world!
It’s a day of celebration of not one, but two of the best gifts I have ever been given.
My daddy and my pappy (mom’s daddy) were both born on this day, and y’all, there aren’t enough words in my vocabulary to tell you how much I love them both.
You want to know my favorite memory of them both?
Every morning they sit with coffee and their Bible and they just love their Jesus. (I honestly can’t remember a morning when I was with them that they didn’t have their Bible in their hands.)
That, my friends, is the best legacy I have….
Because I can’t sit here and write about how much I love them both without sobbing, here’s a reposting of a tribute to my Daddy (I’ll post one about Pappy tomorrow):
The day after I was diagnosed with breast cancer, there was a knock at our front door. I opened it to see the beloved face of my father, eyes full of tears. “I just had to see you.” he said, throat knotted with emotion. And I threw myself into the arms that have held me so many times before as I cried. My daddy.
A few weeks ago I sat next to my husband during Sunday School. Tim told us to turn to the person next to us and tell them about someone we knew that embodied humility. Who was the first person to come to your mind? I shared my thoughts with Brian, then asked him who he had thought of. He smiled and bluntly said, “Your dad.” My eyes filled with tears as I thought about the respect he shared with me. My daddy.
Two years ago I watched him hold his only granddaughter in his arms. Four years ago it was his fifth grandson. Six years ago it was his fourth, and my first child. Each time he gazed in wonder moved to tears. He revels in his grandchildren, never complaining when they ask him to play. Building snowmen, reading books tirelessly, splashing in the ocean, pushing them in the swing. My daddy, a grandaddy.
Every year we go to the beach with my family, and every year he cares for my Pap, his father-in-law, as if Pap was his own father. Every year he takes the boys out crab-hunting with flashlights on the cool evening sand. Every year he buys donuts one morning as a treat, because, well, that’s his favorite. We splash in the pool, ride waves in the ocean, go for walks on the sandy beaches, we play games, we laugh, we love. Every year I watch him sit on the balcony with his Bible and his coffee, drinking in the ocean’s beauty along with the beauty of His Lord. My daddy.
Years ago he stood beside me, never more handsome, in a tux. The dazzle of my white gown found competition with the glitter of tears in his eyes. We stood in the foyer, strains of music washing over us as we waited. His strong hand clasped over mine, a whispered, “I love you.” And I melted, “Don’t say that now!” I laughed through my tears. He gave me away. One of the hardest things he’s done in his life. My daddy.
We sat on the daybed in my room. Bare walls, empty frames, closet filled with boxes rather than clothes. “I miss you so much.” I cried. He cried with me. “I miss you, too.” College had taken me through my own steps of independence, and he pushed me out the door, knowing I had to grow up, but agonizing with my every step. My daddy.
He was always my biggest cheerleader. I could write pages of memories… singing harmonies with him at the piano, playing games around our kitchen table, watching The Muppet Show every Saturday night while eating pizza, laughing together at my mother’s antics, game nights, reading books together, etc. He was diligent around the home, working tirelessly on home repairs and yardwork, a good steward of the gifts he was given. A quiet man, he never showed the effects of a dysfunctional family life as a child, and I remember my surprise when he shared just how difficult his childhood was. My daddy.
He is admired by his peers, respected; his wisdom sought after. He is someone that I can go to for advice still. And I do. We have sat together night after night during their stays here recently, sharing our hearts and struggles. We sit close, my head on his shoulder. It’s a familiar pose. My daddy.
As a child, he was always my hero.
My daddy.
Some things never change.
(originally posted June 14th, 2008)
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
A Spring of Joy 