A Father's Day Without My Dad

On my first Father’s Day without my dad, I feel a listless dread. Not so much tearful, but stunning pain on the inside. It’s hard to believe that I will never have another real Father’s Day, where I can look my dad in the eye and say, “I love you.”  It’s not fair of course.  But, I don’t really care about the fairness.  I just miss my dad. 

Today we doled out his clothes, rummaged through his drawers, and clicked through hangers full of striped polos, unworn golf shirts, and Kirkland branded button downs. Piles of shorts and shoes gathered on the floor and bed.  One pile for giveaways. One pile for the lucky sized sons-in-law. One pile to be cut up into quilts. 

It felt like bits of my dad scuttled up in the air, escaping even more as we unruffled his organized drawers. Ten of us in his room, his walk in closet, sifting through his socks, sitting on his bed, watching the piles grow.  For a guy who only wore a handful of shirts most of the time, his drawers were chock full.  Oh, dad. Why didn’t you tell us to stop buying you clothes for Christmas? We never knew what to get you...you never said what you needed. 

I took some shirts home with me, but my dad is not there.  He’s not anywhere.  He’s in my memories, but those ache, and I push them away most days. I cry a little on some days, a lot on others, and my 3 year old knows instantly what’s wrong, “You miss papa?” and pats my back. 

What my dad needed the most he didn’t get.  What he wanted the most was time with his family.  I hope he was in that room with us in spirit, laughing at our dysfunctional way of dealing with the pain- gathering his garbs.  But, emptying those drawers won’t empty the sting of today.  It won’t close the chapter of grief any faster.  In those piles still loom piles of hurt and “whys” to God.  Why God? Why did you have to take away our earthly replication of you? The one who took care of us, looked out for us, sacrificed for us, and loved us beyond himself.

He was and is a saint in my mind – having an "exceptional degree of holiness and likeness to God." That’s my dad.  He had no need or want for earthly items. Only time, the one thing he couldn’t have.  We miss you dad and love you.  I hope God’s taking very good care of you up there (and I hope you don't need any of your clothes back... ).  Happy Father's Day. 

A Eulogy for the Ages

Monday, April 20th, my 10 year old son stood up at my 60 year old father's funeral to speak about the qualities he admired about his Papa.  Though 50 years separated the two, in that moment, both were ageless.  I could see the spirit of my dad in my son.  He spoke with conviction, tenderly, slowly, not too loud, but loud enough to hear.  Each word was carefully chosen.  That was my dad to a tee.  You listened when he spoke.  Throughout that day, I watched a certain mantle fall on my son's shoulders, a need and want to carry on my dad's legacy and remember him the way he deserved to be remembered.

Earlier that week, my son sat snipping away on paper at the kitchen table, letting the scraps fall where they may, in his usual unhurried way.  "What are you making, Tyler?  A paper airplane?" "No, mom, it's a star for Papa. See?"  He held it up... That it was.  It could easily pass as a snowflake too.

 "That's nice honey.  He would have liked that." But, I didn't get it.  This wasn't a paper craft my son was making, an outlet for his feelings.  Not at all.  It was a carefully constructed symbol.

Though cut with scissors from ordinary paper, this star is no ordinary star.  Each shape, notch, and rivet represents an enduring quality.

He explained further.  "See? This curve around the edges means love.  These diamonds mean strength.  The fact that this diamond is bigger than this diamond means there is hope in strength."  On and on he went about the intricacies of this paper starlike snowflake. "This shape means harmony and love and faith and hope." On it he wrote, "The Star for Papa."

Using symbols and meanings from an age old art form (Pysanki Eggs that he learned in art class) my son helped make a new pain more bearable.  I cried with him and held that star, studying each cut.  "Really, it means all that?" I asked.  He nodded solemnly.

Just as solemnly, in front of family and friends, Tyler stated each characteristic about his Papa that he admired and wanted to be like.

That star is taped to our window.  In the toughest, most misunderstood situations, a simple symbol can bring comfort. When the sun shines through it, I see each shape a little better, and it feels like my dad is reminding me to be like him - strong, hopeful and faithful - qualities that last through the ages.

Raised Gardens, Fallen Hopes

If you were going to pick any tree in a vast forest to personify my father it would be the tallest, sturdiest, most faithful tree you could find.  His roots go deep.  His shade is wide.  He covers many. 

Now cancer has its horrible grip on our beloved tree - the one we all depend on - and we don't know what to do.  He's a very special tree you see.  He doesn't bend in the wind, but remains strong, steadfast, unshakable, unmovable.  We love this tree.   So much.

This past week, my family underwent yet another pet project in one of their favorite pastimes - home improvement.  They constructed raised gardens.  Much time and care went into the design of these raised gardens.  My dad called me the day before his scheduled surgery to remove his tumor to tell me about them.  "You really should see it," he said, "It's very different looking" and proceeded to tell me about the team of non-English speaking landscapers who were diligently leveling the ground, spreading mulch, and erecting the handmade cedar walls under his watchful and discerning eye.  These clever contraptions actually raise the soil level to make a backbreaking job more enjoyable, with the added benefit of giving plants more room to take root and grow in plush, tilled soil. 

This project epitomizes my dad.  Take something good, like a garden in the sun drenched spot close to the house perimeter, and make it better...  by giving it a better chance of getting clipped and pruned by our soon- to- be- hard- at- work mother.   It accomplishes two of his favorite goals.  Make something that is good, better, through intuitive design.  And put our mom to work! (lol)  Plus it would be his last gallant grasp at industrious activity before his eight weeks of bedridden recovery.  So, he was thinking ahead.

The following day after those raised gardens were set in place, our hopes for a fast and full recovery fell.    We were told our dad's surgery was canceled due to his tumor's growth.      

Our beloved tree remains unshaken.  The center of our garden.  The tree with a root structure that keeps all of the rest of us from eroding and washing away.   As hard as the wind blows and the storm rages, our beloved tree does not bow.  But, our hopes have fallen.  We need a team of Mexicans working overtime to level our fears, build up our optimism, and raise our hope.  

Please pray for my dad as he fights this storm.  We raise him in prayers, faith, love and God's grace.  He is the wind beneath our wings when we need to fly.  The unwavering branch when we need something to hold onto.  And the constant true north in our lives.

Buried Treasure

Today, my sons and I viewed a dinosaur exhibit at the Science Center - Dinosaurs in Motion - an unusual display of recycled metal hammered into mechanical art of life size creatures.  Running from exhibit to exhibit, my 9 year-old was the effervescent teacher and I, the student, as he rattled off from memory the crucial details of these fantastical beings.  I learned each one's scientific name, prehistoric era, length, height, and food preference.  He even pointed out the difference between an herbivore's teeth and a carnivores'.  I was beyond thrilled as you can imagine.  His eyes lit up as he reached a new display, and my eyes lit up as I watched his eyes light up.  We enjoy 2 hours of pulling levers and pushing dials to make these rustic dinosaurs come to life.  With each yank of a pulley, a metal claw or jaw or spike came to life and gave new meaning to recycled cans.

To commemorate our fond memories at the gift shop, Tyler opted for a small replica of his favorite dinosaur - the Velociraptor - packed in a solid square of sand with a small hammer, pick and brush.  He was elated.  Cloud nine.  "Mom, when I get home, I am going to start right away digging out this dinosaur to prepare for my career as a paleontologist."  "That's great son."  "I can't wait to get home, Mom. This is the best present ever.  When I'm done with this one, I want to get the Tyrannosaurus Rex or the Diplodocus.  I can do them all, Mom.  This is great practice.  I am so excited. I really am a chatterbox when I'm excited." 

One archeologist makeshift tent in the yard and a couple of hours of digging later, this resolute boy starts to see some bones.  It's a tough job.  He has to carefully scrape, pick, dig, and brush off the sand to extract his treasure.  Too hard, and the delicate bones will break.  Too soft and the sand doesn't budge.  It's tightly compacted around each stray piece.  Tyler is engrossed.  His mission is to extract the individual bones in order to construct a complete and whole product. 

Later that evening, I had my own hours of digging at a dinner date with my longtime mentor and friend.  The main topic of discussion.  Buried treasure.  While I didn't have a tent in the backyard, I did have a pick and shovel and some determination (like mother, like son).  In hunt for purpose and making a difference in this life, I have found a bone here and there - scraped the surface.  But, it's difficult.  Tougher than I thought.  And much tougher than the instructions on the box say.  You have to store the good advice to remember in the bad times.  You have to believe that you will find your way out even when you fall in a dark hole that may or may not be near your dinosaur bones. 

I think many of us are searching for our "finding" in some pretty packed earth.  Some of us are searching in the wrong spot.  Some of us have missing pieces or may have misplaced our tools, and some have just given up.  But, my son's tenacity and belief that he could get this thing out sparked something in me.  His excitement and fervor spoke volumes to me.  That sometimes all we need is a will and a way.  A will that we can do it.  The confidence that we know the right way and the reaffirmation that we have been given the right tools.  We've had them all along.  We have been "equipped for works of service" and can attain the whole measure of who we are supposed to be.  Life's storms are inevitable.  Tossing us back and forth by waves.  But, finding our way back to solid ground and picking up our tools is the important part.  We have to keep digging and scraping our way to the truth.  There is no clean or easy way to do it really.  It's about reaching our fullness in who we were designed to be.  Fullness in spirit.  Fullness in life.  And whether it takes a pick or a shovel or a darn backhoe, I'm going to find it!     

The Bombers Go All the Way!

Last night was the final game of fall ball for my son’s baseball team, “the Bombers.”  Dressed in cherry red and navy blue uniforms with cursive letters on the front of their jerseys, this scrappy group of misfits looked fresh out of the post World War 2 era.  We were playing our last game against the formidable team, dubbed the Pirates “A” team.  They were an elite team of polished players who poached good players from other teams and held tryouts to man their roster with only the best, relegating the rest to the “B” team. 

Dressed in all white, the Pirates looked pristine prancing out to their positions.  Their coach chewed tobacco on the 3^rd base line and yelled orders as each player solemnly walked to the plate. 

The Pirates’ dugout was serious and quiet, as the team patiently listened to coach’s strategy and laid out their game plan.  Our dugout, on the other hand, was mass chaos, as our coaches focused on getting the players to actually stay in the dugout rather than running off to go potty or doodling in the dirt.    

As the parents, we just hoped it wasn’t a blowout.  “Watch the ball!  Stay ready!  Bend your knees!,” we yelled anxiously from the sidelines.   

The Pirates were undefeated and had a reputation for man handling their competition.  They were “in it to win it” and we were pretty much in it to…. well, just to be in it.  They lacked the uniqueness of our team though.  We had Joey – a cross eyed, small kid with a crackly high voice, who was too young to be on our team, but we needed players and let him on anyway.  Joey was the one who had to go potty every 30 seconds. 

Mick was tall and lanky but slow as an elephant and about as disinterested as one too.  Cory was a couple years too young and came up to some of the pirates belts in height.  But, we kept him on because he was going to be good and his dad coached the team.  

We were a determined bunch.  By some happenstance, Joey always managed to get on base, and we had Luca.  Yes, Luca Zarky - our best player.  Bigger, taller, and could hit the *** out of the ball.  We all cheered when Luca came on base and silently prayed that he would wallop one out to center field far enough so little Joey could get around the bases.  Try as he might, Joey, ran with his chest first and head and legs behind him, pumping his little arms and skidding his feet with each step.  We all just held our breath.  “Safe” was the call…. Whew. 

Oh dear, I sighed, it was going to be one of those game where you watched with one eye closed and a silent prayer on your lips. 

With half our kids big and uncoordinated, and the other half small and zippy, we looked like easy Pickens for the Pirates.  They would raid our ship, claim our booty and be off in the sunset before we could say, “Strike three.”  Yikes.  All the parents knew the odds weren’t in our favor.  But, our kids could have cared less.  Through our weekly practices, they had grown in camaraderie.  They liked to talk to each other out in the field and cheer each other on when we were hitting. 

Then something happened.    

It was like something clicked.  We caught ground balls, threw to first and GOT OUTS.   Tyler played 3^rd base, threw to Luca on 1^st and got out after out.  This was a big play that we had been working on in practice.  Another force out came when Tyler scooped up a ground ball, ran and slid into 3^rd, just barely beating the runner.   I couldn’t believe it.  Our defense actually looked better than the opposing teams.’  Our practices were paying off.  They had worked on the little things, like catching, throwing accurately, picking up ground balls, running in a straight line to the bases and not twirling in the outfield.  And it was working. 

Halfway through the game, we were winning 9 to 3, and I could see the other teams’ coaches start to get nervous… and angry.  The next inning, they got 4 runs, but our boys continued onward, like nothing had happened.  We got to the plate and scored three more, winning the game 12 to 10. 

At the end of the game, we commemorated the season with personalized trophies and team photos and our coach congratulated our little team on a winning season! 

Last season, we were easily one of the worst teams in the league and now we had beaten the undefeated Pirates.

I looked at their happy faces in the cold, brisk evening, and each face gleamed in the full harvest moon.  Our beloved Bombers couldn’t have been happier.  They knew they had accomplished something big and had a blast doing it. 

That night, going to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking of our team’s accomplishment.  In a way, my son’s little league is like the big league of life we adults find ourselves playing.  We may have a losing season, but if we work on our weaknesses, stay focused on having fun and making friends, we create a winning atmosphere.  We have to keep plugging along, practicing the basics, waiting for that “something” to click.  I think that “click” has a lot to do with staying positive and working on improving the “small things.” 

Our team didn’t go to the batting cages once.  We practiced the team skills of working together, throwing and catching, and fielding.  In life, sometimes it’s not about the big “at bat” of a job interview or a big presentation at work that wins the game.  It’s the little things like praying with your son before bed, watching his favorite show, “Call of the Wildman,” with him and encouraging his current interest in the book, Moby Dick, that make the difference.  (Yes, Moby Dick..... a tall tale for next time….)     

Rocks of All Ages

It's Friday night, and we're headed to our much anticipated Friday night dinner.  Time to unwind from the week.  In the car, my husband comments that he didn't get much sleep last night.  "I did.  I slept like a rock.  I was so tired."  Tyler pipes up, "Me too."  My husband laments, "Yeah, spring is coming, and I don't know what I'm going to do with you two snoring machines."  I spout off suggestions - Breathe Right strips, antihistamines, nose surgery?  "Yeah, maybe I need surgery too" chirps the backseat.  He takes a long sniff.  I hand back a Kleenex.  "But, dad, I can sleep with mom.  Her snoring doesn't bother me."  Sniff again.   "Yeah, because you two sleep like a couple of rocks." 

Sniff.  The backseat is quiet for a few moments... thinking.  "Yeah, except rocks don't snore."    

The boy has a point. 

Seating in the booth at our favorite Mexican establishment, we discuss names for Tyler's soon to be born baby brother.   

Tyler, as always, is an active participant in the conversation.  We are thinking Trey or Luke for first names.  For the middle name we want a family name and something with meaning.  My husband asks Tyler, "Do you know who your middle name is after?"  He shakes his head.   

"In the Bible, there was a young fourteen year old boy whose name was David from the country Israel.  He was thin and scrawny, but very clever.  One day there was a large man more than 8 feet tall who kept taunting the Israelites.  Do you know what taunting means?" 

Tyler shakes his head.  He is kneeling in the booth, half sitting, half standing, elbows on the table.       

"He was making fun of the Israelites because they were so scared.  He was like a bully.  This giant's name was Goliath.  He had a very large sword and a whole army behind him.   No one from Israel wanted to fight him.  Except David.  David took out his slingshot, found some rocks and faced the giant.  Goliath laughed at how small David was.  David was not scared.  He swung his slingshot with his first rock and hit Goliath right in the forehead.  The giant fell down dead.  And this teenage kid used the big man's own sword to cut off his head.  Do you know why David was so special?" 

Tyler shakes his head.

"He was the great, great, great, great grandfather of Jesus." 

His eyes light up like bulbs in a pinball machine.  

"If David had not been so brave, Jesus might not have been born!  Isn't that amazing?" 

He nods his head.  We can tell the story has definitely had an impact on him. 

"We should definitely not name the new baby Goliath!" 

Yep, the boy has a point. 

Whether it's the sleeping habits of rocks or the rocks in his predecessors' weapon, this little boy certainly knows how to slingshot through to the truth.  

He's funny, yes, but also insightful.  I hope and pray he finds his own rocks to use in life...the stones of truth that you collect along the path of life, and the Rock of our Salvation.  I hope he continues to live up to his name and create his own legacy that generations of his children's children will speak highly of.   

A Little Slice of Heaven

Profound statements often come out of my seven year old's mouth when he's bathing.  He starts floating in the water on his back... his hair spanning out from his head, where the ideas start knocking around like the last 30 seconds of a bag of popcorn in the microwave. 

"Mom, I don't want you to die." 

"Mommy's not going to die for a long time... you don't have to worry about that," I respond, trying to brush past the subject.  How am I going to explain dying and age to a boy who has yet to lose all his teeth. 

"Am I going to die Mom?"  He does not let the subject go.  "Not for an even longer time than mommy bud."  "Besides we're all going to be together in heaven... so you don't have to worry about dying." 

Pop...pop...pop.  The barrage of questions starts filling my son's head.  "Will we have a house like this in heaven?  I like this house... I want everything the same as it is here... Can I be hockey player in heaven?  Is there ice in heaven?  What age are we in heaven?  Is Santa Claus in heaven?  Will our fish be in heaven?" 

I am in no way qualified to answer these questions and frankly do not know the answers to half of them... but, I muddle through... "We don't get old in heaven...heaven is better than here... because it's perfect and you can get everything you want.  And I'm not sure about the fish."

He stares back at me with bubbles on his head... doubtful.  "But, I like everything the way it is here.  I don't want anything to change."  More tears...they are streaming down the bubbles.  

"I don't want you and daddy to die mom.  Is grandmum going to die too?"  I weigh my answer.  He pretty much thinks grandmum is invincible, so I don't want to touch that with a ten foot pole.  Who knows... maybe she will live forever.  

Bath time is a little late this evening, and he's in no frame of mind to excavate the mysteries of the afterlife.  The mysteries are becoming more apparent to me as well... I haven't thought this deeply about death ever...Do I lie to make him feel better?  How do you tell a tired, dripping wet and confused first grader how we're all going to die and live happily ever after in a place called heaven?  More tears. 

"What is making you think about this bud?"  He shrugs..."I just love my life so much," he sniffles.  He doesn't want to lose the people, things, and routines he loves so much.  It's his little slice of heaven.  And he wants no part of the actual whole pie that he knows nothing about.  No way... no how... He likes his bedtime routine, his fish, his letters to Santa that he is still sending him via the Iphone app, and his baths.  Heaven is no comparison.  I try to relay what I think I know about heaven.  "There are streets of gold, mansions, angels."  "God is there.  You get to really be with God!"  Nope... he's just fine with him living in his heart.   

But, he dries off, wipes his tears and changes the subject, leaving me more confused than him.  He got all his questions off his chest and goes back to living in the moment.  I wonder about that slice of heaven.  He's living for today, not a better tomorrow.  I think I'll take a slice.