A Spring of Joy

Finally, time to sit and write about the past two weeks, which have been crazy (pronounce that CUH-RAAAY-ZEEEEE) with a high pitched squeal and you’ll hear what’s been going through my head for a while. Kind of sad, isn’t it. Not much going on in there, huh?

We’ve had Brian’s parents and sister’s family visiting, Vacation Bible School this week, and Drew & Em’s wedding coming up in a couple days. Good times were had by all, and in the midst of trying to get accurate measurements for tuxes for two growing boys, driving them to and from VBS every day, visiting with the fam, and trying to detox sweet Audrey who walks around the house looking for Edison, I am tired. But everywhere I turn I think, I should write about this. (Does this mean I am becoming blog-obsessed?)

Sooo, the next few posts will probably be some sort of rambling for your entertainment, and for my relief from all that’s going on in my mind. Believe it or not, if I can get the CUH-RAAAY-ZEEEEE out, there will be something rolling around in there.

One of the highlights of Bri’s family visiting was watching our kids interact with Uncle Alan, Aunt Sam, and Edison, who you might remember walked in the Race For The Cure in my honor. Day three of their visit was pirate day, and there were some fierce ones, let me tell ya. Donning our best pirate gear, building a pirate ship in the boys’ room, coming up with pirate names, it was quite the adventure as we all sailed the Seven Seas in search of treasure.

Our pirate names, you ask? Oh, yes, each of us had a name… Asher, of course, was Captain Roger Steel, and Micah (who recently told us he wanted to no longer be called Bear, but then he changed his mind) was Iron Jack. Audrey, who really only wanted to shoot things (ah, the joys of big brothers) and look out the porthole (you can just see the top of her head in the above picture) was Hook-Handed Helen. But it didn’t stop there… we ALL had to have names. Aunt Sam, was something about Red Legs, but I can’t remember exactly what it was. Uncle Alan, Lieutenant-Colonel Right-Eyed Ryan, was the builder of the ship. And me? Well, who else could I be but Dirty Right-Eyed Rita?

Even sweet Edison got in on the action as Surgeon Ian The Infected. But I think he was sipping a bit too much of his milk, because he was quite unsteady on his feet to this unsightly result. Although, Edison is NEVER unsightly, even with his boo-boo’s. Poor little guy.

All in all, it was a bonny day full of “arghs” and “ahoy mateys” and “man the decks” and “land ho!” And, as always, I find when I enter the world of a child, my CUH-RAAAY-ZEEEEE lessens and my life becomes more simple. So, while the boys are away at VBS, I will go enter the world of my little land-lubber, Hook-Handed Helen, and hopefully learn some more as I view life through the eyes of a child.

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.

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.