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.