Dad

My dad was a spiritual giant. He thoroughly immersed himself in scripture, devoted himself to prayer, and treated every task and job as a ministry. I don't think there is a single person that he met that was left with any doubt regarding his faith and devotion to Christ. He was a deacon, Sunday School teacher, Bible study leader, prayer warrior, mentor and Biblical scholar. 

But to me, he was just dad. He was the best man I ever met. He was thoroughly trustworthy and never once told me a lie. He set a standard for manhood that no man on earth, with the exception of my brothers, has ever met. He laughed and smiled and joked. If there was ice cream in the freezer, it was a guarantee that he would have ice cream after dinner, and the way he packed as much ice cream as possible into a cup was a feat of food engineering. No air, no space was allowed into that cup. Ice cream filled every crevice and sometimes nuts and chocolate syrup and even raisins went on top. There were evenings when he ate that ice cream wearing a fedora and sunglasses, just because it was fun. He always cleaned his plate, scraping it with a fork, while we sat and cringed at the sound of metal against porcelain. He exemplified work ethic. Everything he did, he did with enthusiasm and immersion. It was not worth doing, if not done well. (Colossians 3:17)
He surfed, and crafted surf boards. He played tennis, and strung racquets. He made toys out of wood for my kids, tops that spun and catapults that hurled little tiny bean bags. We needed a computer- he researched and taught himself what he needed to know to build one. If something broke, he could fix it. He did things of great magnitude, building houses, clearing land, driving tractors, learning Russian to minister to Russian children, but he also was a master of delicacy and art. I will keep forever the hand drawn cards with illustrations and cartoons that he sent me, the bowls and vases he turned on his lathe, with delicate lettering burned into the bottom- dates, names, a message, a scripture. He wrote music and played guitar, crafted a ukulele and learned to play it. There were nights that he would throw on a garish wig and costume and goof around, just for fun, just to make us laugh. Every year, his Principles of Technology class at the high school would do a project- construct a model of a car out of balsa wood with a hole in the back for a CO2 cartridge, then race them to see who's car was the most aerodynamic. Every year, he would bring home a wooden form me for and my brothers, so we could make one, too. They were masterpieces. He taught us how to draw a design for the car, how to sand it down, gradually increasing the sandpaper grit, until it was smooth, like butter. When the cars were done and painted, looking like a professional tiny racer, they were strung on a string, the cartridge was fired, and they would fly. My dad gave us the gift of his time. He was not too busy to paint wooden model cars with his kids, help me perfect a cartwheel, play baseball in the backyard, have an ice cream date, build a snowman or go sledding. When we went to the beach, he would launch us into the waves again and again, and I only realize now, as a parent, how exhausting that was. At the time, all I saw was how much fun he was having with us. There were weekly Saturday breakfasts at Mrs. Wenger's. My brothers and I alternated weeks, taking turns so that we all got an equal opportunity for Saturday breakfast out with Dad. He was silly, funny, serious, brilliant, inspiring, faithful, honest- and always there for me. When my daughter was an infant and wouldn't stop screaming, he would take her outside and walk around the yard, in the grass, near the trees, and talk to her and she would grow quiet, listening to the rise and fall of his voice. He was a master story teller. On long car rides, we would often ask, "Tell us a story, Dad." He told stories to my brothers and myself and then told stories to his grandchildren, often about two rather naughty protagonists named Billy and Jimmy. Billy and Jimmy got into a lot of trouble. One of the more memorable tales was told to a certain child of mine that had a habit of eating boogers. Unfortunately, Billy or Jimmy, I cannot recall which, also had this habit, turned into a giant booger and died. After hearing the story, the child in question never ate a booger again, for fear that one day they might turn into a giant booger and perish. There was the year that my mother bought my dad turtleneck long sleeved shirts and my dad dutifully tried them on, clearly hating every second that his neck was entrapped in the softly suffocating fabric. She exclaimed, "David, you look so handsome!" He then proceeded to pose like a JC Penney model, while we laughed until we hurt, and there are photos to prove it. The turtlenecks were returned to the store. 

My mom and dad had a marriage that was perfectly imperfect. They laughed, got on each other's nerves and half drove each other crazy, disagreed, and always came back together at the end of the day. He was my mother's best friend, her confidant, her person, her prayer partner. When he worked at the high school, he called her, to the best of my memory, every day when he took his lunch break. It was dependable, like clockwork. On payday, he would call and say, "The eagle has landed." They took care of each other. She kept him humble. He was her rock. There was never any question as to the fidelity of their relationship. It was one of the utterly true and reliable things in my life as a child and an adult. They loved each other in a way that was refined and excellent, through their human faults, lifting each other up always. My father showed so much respect for my mother, and she for him. They spoke highly of each other in the other's absence. My mom always said that she would go first, that there was no way my dad would be allowed to leave this earth without her. She often said that he was the most handsome man, and I agreed. My handsome, strong, dependable dad. He was everything that a man should be, flaws and humanity notwithstanding. 

The memory that stands out most prominently to me takes me back to my late teenage years, when my parents and I were going through a very rocky period. Relationships were strained to the point of breaking and tensions were high. My dad and I were facing off, standing outside in the driveway, about 8 feet apart. We were having a very intense conversation, about what exactly, I cannot recall. I do remember the way I felt. I was angry, hateful, hurt, and stubborn. I was non responsive. Finally, he held  out his arms, like an earthly representation of Jesus on the cross, and said, "I love you, Joni." Then he stood, waiting for me to come to him. I stood rooted there and didn't move. I waited. His arms stayed outstretched, steady. I waited a long time. Finally, he wavered, dropped his arms. His head dropped. At that moment, my heart broke a little bit and I went to him, accepted the hug he offered. He was always there. No matter what, I have never doubted that my father loved me. He truly did exemplify Jesus to me and is the standard of manhood that I will forever hold as ideal. 

If I have any regrets, it is that we did not have more time. We didn't have enough coffee dates. I didn't get to make him enough cookies. I didn't get to hug him goodbye. I hope he knew how much I loved him, how special I knew he was.

a gentle grief

 My dad died yesterday. 

It is finally done. For over two years, he has battled the cancer in his body, with my mom at his side. I remember that phone call, when he said, "I have something to tell you. You need to sit down." I foolishly thought that he was going to tell me that he was planning a visit, that I could finally take him to see all the places on the island that made me think of him. I could show him the Bonsai Pipeline and he could tell me surfing stories. I could take him on hikes and share the magic that I've found at summits and peaks. He and my mom would love on my kids and I would cook for them both. Instead, he said, "I have colon cancer." The world dropped away and I remember, my whole body went cold. I heard Death laugh. When he told me the diagnosis, so many things raced through my mind. I saw suffering and pain. I saw the end. I did not see hope. My dad was healthy and strong. His dad, my grandpa, lived until his late 90s, building ramps for the disabled, driving his tractor, tending his gardens. My grandma, his mother, is still alive, even now. My dad came from good stock. There was no reason to expect that he wouldn't be around to see my children's children. The diagnosis did not make sense. 

Over the past two years, I have both yearned for and dreaded phone calls. He tried everything humanly possible to rid his body of the cancer that spread to rectum, metastasized to his skin. Chemo, supplements, dietary restrictions, clean eating, essential oils, DMSO, CBD. He deteriorated and wasn't able to bike anymore. He still maintained the house, the expansive gardens, still worked in his shop, making beautiful and useful things. He began to experience subcutaneous bleeding and horrific swelling in his extremities. Getting around became difficult, but not impossible. He had good days and bad days, and I heard hope, but I didn't feel hope, only fear. 

Then, three weeks ago, things changed. He couldn't breathe. He started blacking out. Congestive heart failure. This was the inevitable. Death failed to take him with the cancer, but his appointment still stood and must be kept. For the past three weeks, I have lived in a state of hyper vigilance that I have not experienced since Sam was an infant, and I listened for every sound, every murmur. I know that feeling, when Death is close and lurking and, as a human, you cannot be stronger or smarter, but you are vigilant. Waiting. Constantly wired and buzzing, alert for the next development. Every phone call, every text, sent me diving for my phone. I checked my email every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes or less, depending on the time of day. I constantly did the math, "It's five hours later where they are, what time is it? What are they doing?" For two weeks, I have gotten out of bed in the morning with what feels like a alcohol free hangover, my head heavy and my stomach a little sick, overwhelmed by dread. 

It wasn't just the suffering that my dad was experiencing, it was the knowledge that my mother was suffering alongside him, dying for love of him, trying everything to help and make him better. From the beginning, I prayed for mercy, that my dad would not be cursed with the fate of Job. I've read that story so many times, and I saw it being relived in my father, but without the hope of earthly restoration and a happy ending. My prayer was a plea, "Please. Please don't make him suffer. He is the best man I've ever known and he doesn't deserve this. Mercy. Grant him mercy." But then, it went on too long and I saw that it was too late for my prayer to be granted. The suffering had gone too deep. We passed the point of mercy and grace. His spirit stayed strong, his mind held steady. But his body was giving up, fighting against life. He started having seizures. My brother stepped in and became my mom's rock, lifting and assisting my dad because she could not. Hospice was called in. My morning headaches increased. The hyper vigilance intensified. It was coming. Come soon, but also, don't come- spare us. Let us keep him. Take him, make the suffering stop. Leave him alone, we don't want him to go. This state of the in-between. My dad told my mom that he felt like he was, "in the middle." His mind and spirit were here but his body was failing rapidly. 

I have been mourning this for two years. I have been angry, but primarily heartbroken. The phone calls with my mom, where she is so positive but the news is so bad. I am an empath. This is a blessing and a curse. The physical pain I would feel when I hung up from a phone call, taking on their pain and stress, but unable to effect anything, I can't even begin to adequately explain. This strain has stretched me thin, until I feel transparent, pulled apart by the hurt that they felt and that I feel. I've had to push it down, these past several weeks, just to keep myself moving and functioning. The loss of my grandmother last weekend broke me. I wasn't expecting to have to let her go, lose her presence on this earth. I wasn't prepared. I was already stretched so thin, I snapped under the additional strain. 

This week has been a conscious nightmare. The seizures increased in frequency, breathing became labored and painful, skin began to turn grey. Through it all, my dad never lost his dignity, never lost who he was. Through it all, my mom was there, and that hurt me. She carried so much and she is so small. My tiny mother, with this enormous burden that no human is equipped to bear. She is truly a warrior, bound by humility and borne up by her faith. 

On Saturday morning, I had planned a 20 mile run. I intended to run a route that would keep me in a service area the whole time, so that I wouldn't miss any phone calls or updates. I woke up feeling so heavy, like my body had lead running through my veins instead of blood. I had a tension headache that was worse than any I've ever experienced. I had decided the day before to shut down my social media and turn off my notifications. Everything seemed too loud, too noisy. I got up and took the dog for a walk. Usually my morning headache alleviates during these walks. Being outside in the fresh air, surrounded by all the green typically clears my mind and eases the pressure. But this morning, the pressure increased. I was irritated with cars and trucks that drove by in my quiet neighborhood, because their motors were obnoxiously loud, too much noise. I got home, and got ready to head out to run, laid out my clothes and stood looking at them. My legs said yes but my head felt detached from my body. So I lay down for just a minute, closed my eyes. Then my phone rang. My mom told me, "We think he's gone."

I called my other brother, told him to call her. My mom, myself, and my two brothers were together, joined over thousands of miles via cell phones and landlines. We waited, as she tried to contact hospice. We stayed with her. He was gone, finally free. 

At some point, through the tears, I realized- my headache was gone. It has not returned.  

I have mourned this for two years. I mourned the pain, the suffering, the impending loss. I mourned what this was doing to my mom. I mourned not being there to share this burden. 

Now I am free to mourn the loss of who my dad was. This is a pure grief, and it is mostly gentle. I mourn that my mom is alone, that she has lost her best friend, her confidant, her partner. 

I will write about my dad. I will write about how he was funny and brilliant, how he researched everything, almost to an irritating degree. (I just want a CD player boom box, Dad. Do we HAVE to learn how they are made before we buy one?) I will write about how he made swing-sets and tree houses, coached soccer and tennis, played baseball with my brothers, took me to play tennis and bought us ice cream afterwards. I will write about his love for God and how he touched the lives of every single person he met, how his life itself was a ministry, even up until his final day. I will write about the sculptures he made out of wood, turning hard blocks into soft butter with his lathe, turning and turning and shaping, until something hard and rough became something soft, smooth, and beautiful. The whole house that he tore down to the bones and studs, meticulously re-crafted, over 30 years, remodeling and customizing, until it was exactly right for him and my mom. I will write about his dad jokes and tickle fights and how he wouldn't let anyone else put the lights on the Christmas tree. We would drink hot chocolate out of the Christmas mugs and wait, while he assembled the tree and strung the lights, listening to Christmas music, impatient to hang the ornaments. I will write about these things.

But not today. 

I am sad. I am sad that he is gone. I am sad that my mom is without him. He leaves a empty space that no one can fill. I am sad that my kids will grow up without him. I am sad for myself, that I am here, far away, mourning this alone. The shock of that hits me frequently, and will continue to do so. This mourning is a peaceful mourning, free of agony, free of dread. I truly believe that he is in Heaven, that he is in a place of joy and reward. This is not a cold and broken hallelujah anymore. This is a warm sadness, a grief that acknowledges great loss, but it is no longer malevolent. 

I miss him. I love him always. I do not wish him back, to the suffering that his life had become. Death is swallowed up in victory. Death only has power when we are alive. So in the end, my dad won. Death caught him, but my dad broke free. There is release. There is relief. There is joy. And always, there is love. 

the quiet place

 This is the quiet place. 

Where there is nothing but space and air and no passage of time, where Peace and Grief battle. Peace stands, silent and patient, while Grief rages and fights and throws punches. Grief is not a fair fighter. He hits low, high, he scratches and claws. Peace waits. It is a gentle, understanding, biding of time. Grief will grow tired. His arms will fall. Then Peace will hold out his arms and the two will meet and become one until all that is left is Peace. 

This is the quiet place. 

We never want people that we love to go. We always want them, selfishly, to stay. 

Glynn Pettus. She will not be forgotten. She loved me when I felt unloved. She wrote letters to me every week when I was in college and sent me money for my ice cream fund, so that I could walk over to Hardees and get a scoop of moose tracks. She gave the best hugs. No one left her house hungry. She was sharp and smart and sarcastic. She said words like, "fanny," and "fiddlesticks." She was an expert at making people feel welcomed and wanted. Her life was layered and well lived. She shopped too much and gave too much and drove my Grandaddy a little bit crazy. Her grip on reality started to slip when he began his descent into dementia, and I want to believe that now they are together and she'll never again have to ask, "Where's Edward?"

She was beautiful, skin like a rose petal and always scented with Oil of Olay. Her hands were spotted and aged from years of dish water, cotton picking, and endless washing from hours spent in the kitchen. The best way to clean a kitchen floor was on your hands and knees and she had the most extensive collection of Precious Moments that I have ever seen. She loved beautiful things. 

The things she said, in that sweet southern drawl, "Lord have mercy!" That gentle chuckle, followed by, "Well, honey..." or, "Bless your heart." She had the gift of southern gentility, the ability to convey that you are an absolute idiot but also utterly loved. 

She was a lady. I have been called a, "nice lady." I am not a nice lady. My grandmother was the very definition of a lady. She commanded respect and carried herself with dignity and she was adored. I adored her. 

I have pieces of her, her cookbooks filled with her slanted scrawl. She was so self conscious about her handwriting, but I loved reading it. I have the cards she sent, the letters she wrote. 

I hate that she is gone, but I love that she was here. I have missed her for a long time, since she started losing herself to Alzheimer's. The cord is finally cut, and it was time. 

To those that took the time to read this, thank you. Take a moment for me, say her name, make her real.