Stronger...but not harder

December 13, almost 12 months since your passing.

One year ago today I wrote about the end being near, and the doctor giving us our first indication that you might night make it. It was cold, bitter cold outside and inside.  We were in a daze, and the darkness was so thick, it was choking, all we could do was drop to our knees and plead for help, for mercy.

It came.

Not in the way we hoped for, but relief nonetheless.

No more struggles, no more fears, no more sleepless nights waiting for the hospital to call.

Relief.

Sounds so selfish.

Relief, like it was a task, a job.  That is not true.

Long ago in another life, before I saw death, I wrote about the task before us, how we stand behind the generation before us on this conveyor belt of life, and as the one before us nears their end, we are there with them - number two, supporting, holding, caring, giving grace and helping maintain integrity.

We did it.

We made it.

We have struggled with empty spaces this year.  Your birthday, Father's Day, Memorial Day, Veteran's Day, and now Christmas is coming.

But it is different.

Last year, I felt like I could not appreciate the holidays, the joy of Christmas, I almost felt guilty - having a good time as you were fighting to survive.  I knew I could not do anything for you, but I wanted to be there, in case you "woke up" - I wanted you to know I was still with you, that I was strong - like you needed.

I guess you knew what you were doing when we were younger, and you refused to coddle us.  You told me what a hard cold world it is, and how I needed to know what I believe and stand for it, even if it meant losing everything.  I watched you stand like that at times and the precipice was so close, I wondered if you would fall - but you did not.  When you did all you could do, you stood, and a divine comfort, a peace that passes understanding was always there, and you were always okay.

Always.

I watched a presentation at our church yesterday, perhaps the best I have ever seen.  It was the same old story - a Christian remake of "The Christmas Carol."

One thing stood out - when Tiny Tim passed away in the visit of the Ghost of the Future - Angels gently picked up his broken, tired body and like precious cargo, a newborn, they carried him into eternity.

Like a newborn.

Wow.

I felt like I was watching that moment in January, but this time I saw it differently.  I saw you carried by the angels, like a newborn, the most precious cargo, to meet your family.

It felt like broken places began to heal, the mortar of anger was washed away, and the stony places in my heart were softened.

And I am stronger.

I will always miss you, my father, my "Daddy." This year has been a great year of learning, and I think I understand...I finally understand.

We all make mistakes, some that can never be undone.  But we must never stop striving to be the best person we can be, to love - even when it is hard, and to forgive.  Only through forgiveness can we grow, and be forgiven. Only when we forgive, are we strong.

Stronger...but not harder.

Holding fast to what we believe, what we hope, what we know...yet remaining flexible enough to never condemn the questions of the broken, the cries of the hurting, or the mistakes of the fallen.

We all need a hero, someone that is not a comic book character - but someone shaped like a regular guy that feels pain, bleeds, and makes mistakes...and never gives up.

Thanks for the year of learning - I am on the right path...

Stronger...but not harder.

You can rest in peace Dad, it's going to be okay.

Peace, finally

It is December, nearly a year after you passed away.

Sometimes I still get choked up when I remember you are really gone.

But it does not happen as often.

Sometimes I talk to "you", like you are able to hear me, and it makes me feel better.

I know you are not here, and my limited theological training leads me to believe that you are probably unable to hear me, after all - Heaven is a place of joy and beauty, why would you have the opportunity to be saddened by life here "below?"

Since the last time I wrote, things have changed.

I am taking better care of myself, eating better, and exercising - I joined a fitness center and I am making every effort to undo the years of foolish living. I am determined to be healthier than I have been, and yes - healthier than you.

I guess the biggest change is inside.

I am sleeping better, no angry dreams where I am helpless, trying to save you.  No more waking up with a heaviness in my spirit. No more guilt that I should have done more.

I chose to forgive, and as much as I wanted to be the hand of God extended in wrath, I knew that would never end. There are no actions strong enough to settle the storm of revenge. Nothing will bring peace when it is done in anger. There is no pain I can inflict on another that will take my own away.

Revenge is a horribly dark chasm, and it gets darker and deeper and never ends.

The only freedom is in forgiveness.

I did not do anything "magic". I just made a choice, and I forgave.

It's funny, I really felt like you were proud of me, prouder than when I graduated college, prouder than when I got the great job.  This was something eternal.

The bad dreams went away.

My anger subsided.

And my fear of appearing weak was simply that - a fear.

Strength is not displayed all the time, but is held in reserve until it is needed.

I forgave...and as a result, I was forgiven.

Set free...

Really free.

I started a journey long ago, as an angry young man, without direction or focus.  Along the way, in my own "Pilgrim's Progress," I have changed.  Sometimes losing things that meant more than they should, and sometimes gaining things I could not comprehend the value of.

I feel like I am standing on a mountain, one of the many peaks you took us to when we were boys in Europe, and as I look out at the beauty around us, it is good.

Thanks Dad, you left enough markers and I found my way home.

I made it.

Thankful

It is quiet.

One of those moments when everyone is asleep but me, and I have been running in the dark for so long, the light hurts my eyes, so I shut them.

I have no pain, but I miss the beauty created for our enjoyment, and the moments of peace are as elusive as they were a year ago.

It is time to change.

Stop living in the winter, and come out into the spring.

It is time to forgive.

I have been angry.

I blamed your passing...your death...on her selfishness. If she had only taken an interest earlier, if she had just acted like a wife instead of a tenant, obligated to a landlord...

If ... If ... If...

Neverending.

Regret has tentacles that choke the life out of every joyful moment. Invisible fetters of anger that strip us of our dreams and leave us wandering naked and ashamed in the tombs of what could have been...like madmen confined to a never ending nightmare...hoping for someone, anyone, to rescue us.

That someone isn't coming.

So we are doomed, unless we know the secret.

Forgiving.

In my own wisdom, forgiveness seems weak, it is the thing I hate.  So many people think to forgive is to act like it never happened, to put yourself in a place to be hurt, again and again.

That is not true.

To forgive means you lay down the sword, you relinquish the "right" to punish someone, you no longer seek to be the hand that administers justice.  To forgive is to no longer carry the anger, and you move on.

This is hard to do.

But if I don't forgive, bitterness will take root and it will poison everything.

It is easier to stay angry, especially when you feel someone contributed to the death of a loved one.

I really believe that.

I believe her lack of attention to your condition, and calling us only after you got to the point that your liver was failing, contributed to your early demise. Could she have convinced you to see a better doctor?  A doctor that would start treatment earlier?

I did.

But it was too late.

Perhaps I am looking to blame someone, rather than simply accept the fact you are gone.

All I know, is I need to be set free also, so I know only one way...I must forgive.

This is a new thing for me, don't get too excited.  I am only forgiving her for her actions (or lack of actions), I am not some hero. I am just doing what is best for me.

So how do I make this fit the Title (Thankful)?

I started this on Thanksgiving Night.

I am Thankful you taught me how to think things through, and to forgive.

I know you would be more proud of me to be a man of peace than to be a warrior. I know you would want me to forgive, after all, you did it many times.

And for that - I am Thankful.

So I lay down the sword of anger, and I forgive her.

Now lets move on.

Peace

It really feels like a long time has passed since we said goodbye, but it has been only 9 months. Perhaps there is no coincidence the gestational time for a human is 9 months, we spend time preparing, hoping, dreaming.

The past 9 months have been different.

We have spent time repairing, removing, selling, and trying to find new dreams.

Sometimes I still dream of you, you are ill, and I am frustrated, I know you are dying but I can't stop it.  In my dream I am angry as I believe your wife chose to ignore your ailment, and it was too late by the time we (your sons) became aware. In my dream I am as helpless as I am when I am awake.

I want to blame someone.

These things don't just happen.

People don't die before we are ready to let go, there are still too many words unspoken, too many dreams never heard.

There is no one to blame.

When I stopped chasing the shadows on the grassy knoll and learned to say goodbye, I began to heal.

Unlike the fantasies we see on television or the movies, death is not honorable. It is rarely peaceful.  It is usually a wretched, horrible time at the end of a tear stained path.  The only peace we have at the moment is the fight is finally over.

And our hope.

We hope to see you again, we hope everything we grew up believing is real, and we hope so strongly that we live in those hopes, and our faith in the hereafter, in a God we cannot see but believe lives in our hearts becomes the reality, the substance of the things we hope for.

We have faith.

Sometimes I really miss you.  I can only assume that is healthy, and I am so glad I had the opportunity to spend time with you at the end and show you the man I became.  I am so far from perfect, but I am not the young man that heard his father say, "You are running full speed with no target in sight."

I have learned to control my speed, to "use my power for good, and not evil."

I am learning the value of Peace.

I remember one occasion, near the end, when you told me the most important thing was to have peace. I was in a fighting mood and that was the last thing I wanted to hear.

But I understand now, and I think perhaps you knew your time was short.

Peace is important.

I have learned something, peace is not the absence of conflict.  Peace is the inner calm when the storm rages the hardest.

There is a peace that passes understanding, it cannot be bought nor sold.  It is indescribable. and can only be experienced.  This peace enables us to bury the dead, and tend to the living.  This is the peace that allows us to continue living when our hearts are breaking and we have no faith, only hope.

This is the peace I have when I am awakened at 3 am, and I can lay down once again and go back to sleep.

A peace that passes understanding.

The feeling of being in the most calm place ever created, at sunset, watching the moon become more present as the fire of the day sinks slowly into a sea of forgetfulness.  It is the feeling that all is well, although storms rage inside.

I heard a story one time, and the hero said "Peace, be still" when men were fearing for their lives.
The peace came to the men before the storm was calmed.

This is where I have been the last 9 months, fighting the gales of indecisiveness, as the waves of hopelessness tried to bury us alive, but someone said "Peace, be still."

Before the storm was gone, I learned to stand with peace.  I could not explain it, but in my heart I was calm.

9 months later, it has been a time of rebirth.

You helped prepare me for this journey, and now I am ready.

In peace, with understanding, I will follow, I will lead.

Just talking...

My favorite musician is a guy named Bebo Norman.  I discovered him on one of my many lonely late night flights from Lord-knows-where, just trying to get home.

It was during those times, while plugged in to an MP3 player and squeezed between a cold window and a stranger that smelled like stale corn chips, I found a few minutes of peace.

The song "Never saw you coming" is the one I play over and over. 

The artist talks about being you, being me, the disillusioned artist, the faithless minister, the lonely one that slips away, the promise about to be broken, the lost leader, the beggar reaching out his hands...

And you came.

You breathed your breath in me and made me new - you are mine and I am yours.

I never saw you coming.

I never dreamed of running.

It is a great song.

In the darkest of times, when my heart was breaking and I had no answers, when the storm was at its worst, this song was such a help...it just felt right, I remembered who I was, why I was, and where I was going...

My mother is now in the hospital.  8 months ago, we buried my father. I don't think this is like that, hopefully, we caught it before it got worse, she is recuperating from dehydration and infection.

But she was groggy like he was, she was unable to walk like he was, and once again, we - her children, had to try to rescue what is left of this family.

I've been listening to Bebo's music once again.

I have learned the meaning of a scripture...

I hope my father is in heaven, I hope to see him one day.  I hope this so intensely, that my system of beliefs are based on this hope.  I live by this hope, and what I believe makes this hope real.  This system, this faith, becomes the substance of the things I hope for.

When I pray, I hope they are heard.

When I see answers, I know they were, and my hope increases, I keep believing.  When they are not, I am disappointed, but I keep hoping...

And I listen to Bebo again.

Those lonely nights on long flights seem to be a thing of the past now, but nights have become day and the prison of a plane is no longer "Con Air" but the endless conference calls and contracts that restrain us to this wooden instrument of torture called a desk.

I know I ramble at times, but I hope you understand...

If not, listen to Bebo next time the night is at its darkest and morning seems light years away. 

And hope for better times - they will be here...

The Race

This race we call life - it is not a sprint, it is the longest relay race ever.

We watch those before us, we cheer them on, feel their pain when they fall, and sometimes feel the sorrow of elimination when they are disqualified.

Yes, what you do on your "leg" of the race affects the whole team.

Funny, in this race, we are the only runners.

No opposing team.

No stopwatch.

Just us.

No defined distance, just a run - as hard as you can, with all of your heart, all of your soul, all of your might, until you can run no longer.

When the runner before us starts to falter, we match their pace, arm extended behind...waiting on the baton.

When we feel it slap our palm, we explode with a burst of energy that leaves the previous runner far behind...

And we never look back.

We run like they did, with all our heart, all our soul, all our might.

We run through tears, we run through age, we run through sorrow, but we never stop.

We know we are nearing the end of our run when the stands begin to fill; familiar faces of runners past cheer us, encouraging us as we run.

Breath becomes strained, eyes fog with tears, strength is a memory, running is all we know - a labor, no longer a joy, no explosive bursts remain, just a race.

The cheering increases, the crowd is on its feet, the air is full of the roar of happy spectators...

The next runner is poised, no looking back, arm extended behind

Waiting for the baton.

Waiting for you.

Don't fall, don't stumble. Stay in your lane. The team is counting on you to keep them in the race.

When you pass the baton, they explode away from you and the cheering is all you know...

You are complete, you ran the race, and won.

The baton is in my hand and my run has just started...

I made it...

Yesterday was my birthday.

I turned 50.

Inside, I am still a 25 year old, I still have dreams, goals, and things I really want to do.

The regrets are getting less, am I forgetting more? No, just learning what has happened, right or wrong, yesterday or 2 years ago or even 20 years ago, is done. It is what it is.  As my brother said this weekend, the only thing we can change is tomorrow, by what we do today.

I joke and say, "I have only lived a third of my life."

I hope that is true.

I went to the cemetery with my brother (he came in from out of state), we saw your final resting place, and we had a good talk.  We are proud of you Dad.  You did well.

All you can really leave is a legacy, and yours is one of children following your faith, working, trying to make a difference in life.  Even though only one is active in the ministry, the rest of us are "socially" responsible.  We have a history of visting the jailed, feeding the homeless, caring for those that are less fortunate, even when we were hurting.

It is the right thing.

We learned to "suck it up" and "quit whining" and most important, to NEVER make someone feel excluded intentionally. There is nothing worse in this life than to be on the outside looking in.  You taught us the price to share the glory, the "prizes", and even the special days will only make us stronger.  The kinder we are, the stronger we become.

Kindness is a choice.

The more we exercise our ability to choose to be kind, the stronger we become.  The more perceptive we become, and the closer to Grace we live.

When we CHOOSE (intentional emphasis) to exercise selfishness and proclaim ANY reason (it's my birthday, it's my ...), we remove the grace and kindness from the moment. Wine becomes vinegar, sweetness is made bitter, and what should be life-giving becomes venomous.

The hardest thing about living according to a strong set of values is you may be the only one that adheres to these principles. It can be a lonely existence, but in your heart, you are strong.  You know what is right, and by standing on your principles, you will not only survive, you will be blessed.

I watched you in your lonely times, and saw you stay strong.  Sometimes it meant keeping quiet while the rest of the world roared around you, but you held fast.

When the faithful became faithless, when those we considered in spiritual leadership showed they were actually just religious, when the disciple became a pharisee, you did not lose your grip. You never changed, you drew closer to that which you believed in, you walked closer to the shepherd when the wolves dressed as sheep.

The lessons I learn from you now are not from your words, it is from remembering your heart, your intent, and ignoring your humanity.  You were just a man, just a guy, and you struggled with the same frustrations we all struggle with, words spoken in anger and sometimes deeds of the same.  But the heart never changed.

I always draw hope from the stories of David (Old Testament).  He was a man after God's heart, the musician, the poet, the sensitive one.  But he was a warrior, a violent man filled with pride and made terrible mistakes, but he was real.  He was unafraid to dance, to weep, to be angry, to do what he thought was the right thing (at the moment).

You told me long ago that you knew I was not afraid of consequences, that even as a young boy, I weighed the results and decided if I could live with the results of my actions.  Generally, i was willing to live in the result of my actions, good or bad.  You said you quit trying to correct me and started trying to guide me.  You knew if you could point me towards the right goal, I would never give up, I would pursue it forever.

And you quit worrying about me.

That was good.

I made my share of mistakes, but I still strive for the same goal, the same objective. In my wake are the broken pieces of mistakes, but along the way I have become stronger and tried to share the message, and the stronger I become, the kinder I want to be.

I turned 50.

Life just started...

It's getting better...maybe

I found some DVDs recently, they were used, but unlabeled.  I put one in, and it was a copy of the DVD I made to honor you during the memorial services.

Is it getting better?  This time I did not cry.

It was sad to remember I never really "knew" you until you were gone.  Everything I thought was you, was just my perception of you.  It was based on my relationship with you.

When we finally put the whole picture together, you were a pretty likable guy.

You have taught me more in the 6 months since your passing than I allowed earlier.

We are more than just the 1 or 2 dimensional image seen by our family.  So often those that love us the most, also constrain us more.  Somewhere along the path of life, we become demigods and create images of others based on our perception of what we think they should be.

And we never really know them.

They have dreams, fears, hopes, and tears.

But they can't have those - not in our world.

The box we create for them does not allow those freedoms.

The last box we put them in, contains all their dreams, all their hopes, but no fear.  The only tears are the ones we shed.

If we can just learn to see our loved ones for the people they are; the grouchy old man is a little boy that dreams of riding a bicycle on his own, the disabled lady in the wheelchair is a ballerina, the angry man was rejected, the shy young lady is a hero looking for a chance to rescue someone in need.

Take the boxes we created, set the images of each other free,  drop our demigod status and accept we are all the same.

I ramble...I do that a lot sometimes.

It's getting better...and I am still changing.

Here I am again...

It has been a while, and a lot has happened.

Your house sold, Father's Day came and went...and we survived.

I even found the ability to delete some of the email from you as I did a little "digital housekeeping."

There is a place in my heart that is still empty when I think of you.  Sometimes I try to remember all the things you did that made me so angry, and sometimes I can...not all the time...and it gets hard to fill that empty place.

I have been out to your grave a couple of times, I don't stay very long.  I remember going to the war memorials in Luxembourg when I was a child, and the view was similar to the grave scene in the movie, "Saving Private Ryan," when all you could see was headstones, as far as you were able to see.

It feels that way when I go to your grave.

So many headstones, so close together, so many Veterans.  It's funny, it almost feels comfortable out there.  These are the men and women I stood in line with to buy lunch, to go to the movies, to wait for you to get off work.

It is hard for civilians to understand sometimes...all we had was each other.

We were rarely in the same place on July 4th that we were at the previous Christmas.  We almost never had the same friends from one school year to the next.  All of life was ever changing, always disconnected, usually pretty lonely...all we had was each other, and we are less than when we started.

On this journey, we lost one, we lost you - our Chief, the Sergeant, our Guide in this wilderness of life.

We buried you where you fell, and you joined thousands honored in their service.  No great statues, just a simple headstone, one that looks like the others.  Not much different than the days of trying to pick you out of hundreds of other soldiers, all in uniform, all at attention, all proud to be serving.

So, here I am again...I was afraid you would "disappear" when the estate was settled, but you didn't, you are too much a part of who we are, why we are, and what we do.

It is amazing...you will never disappear.

On Father's Day, I saw my son with his sons, and I saw your legacy.  When I see your other grandchildren and your great-grandchildren, your legacy continues.

When my son talks about going to school and working full time and raising a family (all at the same time), it is something you did, I did, and there is a feeling of pride, knowing this is tough...but we did it, and he will too.

This our legacy...we serve, some in uniform, some on their knees, some doing both.

This is our legacy...we will never disappear.

A Special Day

To most of us (myself included), it was always the first holiday of the summer.  Not much value except to be out of school or off work.

A day of picnics, entertainment, barbecue, and whatever else makes for a great 3 day weekend.

I understand it better now.

Although you are not one of those that died that we may be free, you are one that lived for us to be free.
Your reward is the honor of your final resting place, and this day.

I know it was hard, to be away so much - to be in harms way, but you made it home, and we were blessed with you for many more years.

You have joined your comrades, a thousand salutes will forever be yours.

There will be tears of gratitude, and when the fireworks dance in the sky for generations to come, you will be one of those heroes we honor.

Thanks for serving, thanks for being strong enough to do the right things.

I understand it better now.

How great a teacher, that your lessons endure long after you are gone.

Sometimes I want to awaken from this dream, and like the Hollywood story we are all so familiar with, return to a day before all of this happened, and learn my lessons from the imaginary pain in the night.

This is real, and I can't make it go away.

This is one of those times it hurts...it will pass...I have to get busy again...stop slowing down...perhaps if I run a little faster, a little harder, work a little more...perhaps I can outrun the pain.

Time to refocus - no time for this.  I intended to honor you  by recognizing this day, not feel this all over again.

I'll be okay.


This I know, this I believe, that one day...I will see you again.

But until then, I will continue growing, learning, and healing.

Happy Memorial Day.

We are proud of you, and proud to be "of you."

One more thing...

Just one more thing to take care of, then you disappear.

Your house is scheduled to sell soon.

All that remains is what we carry in our hearts.

It is still hard to grasp, the fact you are gone.

Sometimes I wonder if I did enough, could I have insisted on different medical procedures, could we have saved you?

I assume all survivors go through this.

I no longer pick up the phone, wanting to call you and tell you the latest news; I no longer feel the heaviness of missing you...as often.

I still feel it...and I wonder...I hope...that you were "gone" at the end, that you never felt the struggle of those final days.

I found some videos of you, and it was so strange...you went to the hospital in December for a stomach ailment...30 days later, you were gone.  Although the disease usually takes 8 to 10 years to reach this stage, it appears you had been ill for a very long time, and we just did not know.

Sometimes that is the hardest thing to comprehend...you were so ill, and our lives were running at full speed, without any idea you were hearing the call to go home.

Perhaps the sorrow I feel is normal, the questions, the "20-20 hind sight" is par for the course...

Just one more thing...and all that remains is what we carry in our hearts.

I think that is best.

In my heart, you are still a young man giving me rides on your motorcycle...cooking out on the grill on summer nights...

In my heart, you will always be young, strong and smart.  I try not to remember the image at the end, the shell of a man.  Instead, I believe you had already left and were standing at the door of your mother and father's new home...calling them like you always did...

Smiling, and happy about going home.

Goodbye Dad, I will never stop missing you, but it is time to start running my own race again, and save my tears for when I am alone.

3 Months Later

It doesn't feel right.

This "new" normal.

This is not another TDY assignment.  This is not Viet Nam.  You are not coming back.

Little things happen, and I want to call you, talk like we always did, just to chat...but you are not here.

It doesn't feel right...but it is starting to...and I don't want it to.  I don't want life to feel right without you here.

I am glad for a few things - the images of the end are fading, and the healthy memories are becoming stronger; and somehow, I cannot explain, I have changed.  The things that used to irritate me and drive me up the wall just don't bother me anymore.

I am still growing.

As fathers, we don't always do the things we planned, say the things we were hoping to say, and act the way we really felt in our hearts.  All we can hope for is the message gets across.

It did.

You were not perfect, but you pointed me to perfection.

Like a relay, I was running before we ever had our final encounter.  When you passed the baton, I was almost at full speed, and could not look back as you finished your race - all I could do was run with all my might, all my heart, for the prize before me.

It's funny, you were a part of this race and now you are with so many others, cheering as we run.

Yes, it is different now.

But it will be okay.

As I said in the hospital - there is no time in eternity.  You will walk through Heaven's gates and turn around, and the lifetime we have here on Earth will be as a moment to you, and all of us will be together once again.

I am reminded of life long ago, you were such a young father, and you had 3 little boys counting on Daddy.  We slept peacefully, knowing you did the right things, there was no doubt in our minds, you were Daddy, you were Superman, you were our hero.

You never let us down.

So, like a little boy wearing Daddy's oversized shoes, I am rattling around here until I make this stuff fit.

Keep on cheering Dad, you set a good pace for us.

A Birthday...

It was your birthday recently...

I thought about it every time I saw the date.  A few times, I felt the sadness welling up, and I pushed it down...I tried to stay busy, too busy to think, too busy to care, but that is impossible.

You would have been 74.

I went to a new church on Sunday, and I was tempted to call you and tell you about it, that was so normal for us...

There is a new normal.

I called my brother instead.

The disassembly of your life continues, and sometimes the tender areas that were exposed through this "event" are hardened...like fresh skin, it is overly sensitive until it becomes as calloused as the rest of my life.

Life goes on...

My focus is slowly returning, the seasons are changing, Spring is coming.

Life goes on...with us or without us.

I am really glad I had this opportunity with you, I was there with you at the absolute "end" of this part of your life, and I watched you as you left us and joined your family and saints that were waiting...yes, I believe in a hereafter - something has to be better than this!

It's funny the things I catch myself doing - talking to the postman, telling him about my dad that just passed away, how you were retired Army and spent 30 years at the Postal Service afterwards - you had the first pick of all vacation time - 50 years of service is hard to beat!  I guess I still look for pieces of you everywhere, and I find them...

Yes, I find them. I find little things that remind me of you and I ache to talk with you just once more, to tell you how much I regret the wasted moments, the "Cat in the Cradle" times when you wanted to see me and I was "too busy"...

But I find other things too, I found the passion I thought lost.

I remember you working like a maniac when I was younger, your passion for detail, your drive to perform, the desire to be more than good - the pursuit of excellence, the pursuit of kindness.  I thought you lost it when you were so sick.

I was wrong.

At the end, it was all that remained.

I understand why you held so tightly to your passion, it burned with an intensity that branded you, scarred you, became a part of you, until you were inseparable from your passion, it was who you were.

I wondered how you could stand and face your death like a hero, and not be a "victim", but fight the fight of life, all the way until you knew the plan.  It was like someone whispered in your ear, "Time to stop fighting."

And you stopped.

As the disease took its toll quickly, your passion never burned out.

But you died.

I was there.

We buried you.

It was cold after you were gone.  We had unusually cold weather for this region.

Last week I went to your grave.  I saw the memorial to you, along with thousands of your peers, and I realized everything you ever wanted came true, even where you were buried.

Your life was full.

Your passion carried you, drove you to be the man I knew.

I thought your passion was gone.

I was wrong.

You gave it to me.

Somewhere, somehow, in one of those late nights when it was just the two of us, as you were dying and I was holding on to all we believe in, and hoping...in one of those moments when I did all I could, and all that remained was to stand...

Your passion became mine.

Now, it is in my heart.  I hold this heritage tightly, even though it burns with an intensity that scars and remakes me into something I fought so hard against.  Your passion, you father's passion, has become mine.

Happy Birthday Dad.

You did a good job, I am still changing.

We change

It is inevitable.

We cannot stay the same.

It has been a month since the funeral.

It is quiet now.

Winter has been colder this year.  Somehow, on the day of the funeral, it was one of the few Spring-like days.

We'll always remember that last day as a beautiful day.

Life is trying to return to normal, I am trying, but it isn't the same.  I have changed.

I could get all mushy and touchy-feeley, but the truth is...if I didn't change, I would be broken.

Somethings just aren't as important anymore, others have taken their place.

It was hard to refocus, I am getting there.  The "entertainer" that enjoyed the show is resting.  I am paying more attention to detail, trying to pick up so many pieces that need attention...so many pieces.

My brother and I have changed.

We stand alone now, as the "older generation", too young to counsel, to old to take chances.

I have a lot to do.  It is early and the taskmaster I created in my moment of tears awaits.  I need to take care of life that waits for no man.

It was a pretty day when we buried him, the sun was shining and the colors of the flag were vibrant as a hero was laid to rest.

I ramble, I guess the feelings are still pretty intense, in time...it will change also.

It is inevitable.

We change to survive.

Maybe I'll go to the grave and honor him today...

There are no instructions

Dear Dad,

I was young, maybe 4 years old.  I remember the small "cottage" (a nice way to say "tiny") place we lived.  I remember hardwood floors (they weren't cool back then), I remember playing on the floor.  Funny, the floors were always clean.

I remember you building car models, you loved to build models of antique cars.

You always told me, "read the instructions."

When I started building models, I learned the value of your words.

You know, I am one of the few guys that reads instructions...maybe I am older than my time, but I found something that works.  I have wasted too much time and money trying to do it without instructions.

Now, as we disassemble your life, there are no instructions.

I pack up items, separate them by boxes with the names of your sons, and I have to stop sometimes...it really happened.  You are not going to yell up in the attic and ask,"what are you doing up there?"

There is no book that tells me how to make the memories fit without hurting.  Life does not have perforations, where I can "tear here" and fit the memories smoothly into a box in my heart.

Life is fragile, brittle, and when I try to bend and fold it, it breaks into a million tiny shards that cut like razors.  Some are so small they become embedded in who I am, and they appear at unplanned moments and slice mercilessly.

There are no instructions.  No manual to remove someone you love from your heart, maybe we aren't supposed to.

Whether by death, or some other unfortunate situation, I believe the separation from a loved one is a dreadful punishment.

It is a cold day today, barely above freezing and grey skies outside.

The inside feels like the outside today.

It will pass.

It has to.

In the mean time, I will take the pieces of you, embed them deeply into my life, so even as I disassemble your life, you are still here.

When the tears flow once again, I will rejoice that yours have stopped, and perhaps I will feel all there is to feel, and the healing will be sweet relief.

There are no instructions.

Things we learned

Dear Dad,

You were always teaching.  It was in your heart, your calling.  All the rest was just the "stuff" you had to do in order to pursue your heart's desire.

You were teaching...whether actually sitting down and explaining, or just by doing the right thing in front of us, it was important for you to show your "boys" what being a man was all about.

I remember you as a young man, just a young father, with 3 little boys, the youngest only a year old.  I remember sitting at the dinner table, we all had our place, and yours, "daddy's seat" was the one we all aspired to sit in, but dared not.

I remember learning to whistle at the dinner table, then learning NOT to whistle at the table!

What I remember most was your ability in crisis.  When the youngest suffered a terrible injury at 18 months old, I remember you, a young 28 year old father, springing into action, and perhaps saving his life.

We lived in a small rent house, just outside of Fort Hood, and there was a large dog house in the back yard, probably for a dog the size of a great dane, or some other large dog.  We, the other children were playing "carpenter" in the back yard, with little rubber hammers, pretending to "build a house."

The youngest was inside the house hammering on the roof, so young he was still in a diaper. Suddenly, the roof of the house caved in, and a jagged piece of wood struck him in the side of the head, right in the temple.  He collapsed and we began to scream.  I was 4 years old, my older brother was 6, and the neighbor boy was 8.   You ran out of the house, saw what was happening, picked up your baby, saw the horrible wound, and immediately grabbed a cloth to put pressure on the bleeding.

By the way, it was 1964.

You used a handkerchief, and later I learned the wound was so large you were able to fold the handkerchief and insert the entire cloth into the wound, packing it to add pressure to slow the bleeding.

There was no 911, no time to call the operator and ask for an ambulance, just you throwing the keys to our neighbor and telling him to drive while you held your infant son in your lap on the way to the hospital.  You told us how you held him and cried out to God to keep your baby alive while you kept applying pressure to the terrible wound in his head.

Later, we learned your quick action saved his life, the doctors applauded you.

He was going to be okay.

The next time I saw you, you were bringing your baby home, it was several hours later and you were older than before you left.

You were tired, shirt still covered in your child's blood, but he was okay.

I remember that night, it was just the 5 of us, your 3 boys, our mother, and you.

The baby was lying in his crib, sleeping.

You were holding me and my older brother, we were watching television, and we were a family.

Even after a crisis, the most important thing to you was to keep the family intact, to keep the structure, the routine, the safety and the peace.

It was good...even after a crisis, it was good.

We knew you were strong, smart, and braver than any man alive.

Nobody could do anything to us that our dad could not fix.  The family was eternal.

Through years, there were more situations when your quick thinking and action saved us again, automobile accidents, injuries from sports, injuries in the front yard (we were VERY active boys - and liked to play HARD!).

You were always there.

You always made the wrongs right, you always took care of us.

We learned real men step up to the plate and deliver what is needed, when it is needed, and move back into the shadows, allowing the world to continue on its path.

We learned real heroes are just regular guys that make the right decisions in crisis.

We learned to prepare for a crisis we had to spend time learning the right things.  It was a lot of discipline, but the right stuff is never easy.

So now, when hard times come, we do the right stuff.

There are no other options available.

And when it is over, we hold our families close, and when no one is looking, we cry, remembering the man that taught us by example, and wonder if it felt bittersweet to you also when the crisis ended.

For a moment, we are no longer standing as men, but we are little boys, in the arms of our hero father, and it feels good.

One week later

Dear Dad,

It has been one week since the funeral.

I cleaned up the DVD a little, added a menu and a portion of the message to the family.

Now I have time to feel everything...

It has been a quiet week around here.

I cannot say I miss the man lying in the hospital bed, struggling with every breath, but I miss the healthy man that had dreams and hopes, the man whose thirst for knowledge was unending, the man that loved his children and grandchildren.

The patriot that would be proud of his final ceremony.

Somethings just take some getting used to.

It has been a relief to not have to make the drive to the hospital or the nursing home, and I have found my focus returning, but I still find times when I feel like I am supposed to be doing something, I am supposed to be worrying about you, trying to help you.

I have a little extra time that is getting filled with life without you, and it feels sad sometimes.

I am sure it will pass, it has only been a week.

I remember some of the funny things you said, like last year when we were working on the old house and I had to go out of town when some contractors were coming over.  You stayed at the house and took care of our dog while we were out, and just watched over things.

During that time, our dog, Angel, became pretty attached to you.  You always liked dogs, and enjoyed her company.

I remember one day you called me and told me, "I think I have been spending too much time with your dog."

I asked you why, and you said, "I think I can read her mind, she just sits and stares at me and I know what she wants!"

You were joking of course, Angel does that when she wants to go outside, and she finally trained you to respond!

Perhaps it is not as funny as I thought, but at least I am not crying.

I would rather remember the good times, the fun times, the times we were laughing.

Yes, I miss you and I hope that never changes.  You left so much of yourself in us, all of us - not just your sons, but the entire family.  When we are together as a family, there is enough of "you" here, it is good.

Not too much to say, I am tired and I don't want to ramble...too much.

Thanks Dad for doing the right stuff.

It was worth it.

We are still here

A lot happened last week.

I can hardly believe it really took place.  We knew it would, but the motions of the funeral home, the casket, the flag, it was so surreal, like a dream and not reality.

A bad dream.

We are still here.

The battle appears to be over, the dust has settled, and we are still standing.

Is it the Military upbringing?

Maybe.

Probably not.

I believe it is what we have inside, the faith, the knowledge of our history, the hope for the future, and the incredible desire to make bad things good.

We are still here.

As I told my 2 brothers, "We are now our father (Dad) to our families, we can no longer count on someone else to fill in the gaps.  It is now our job."

We have moved forward one space on this gigantic board game of life...

So...we are still here. Life continues, and like the Silent Movie, "The Crowd" - eventually, we will slip back into the hustle and bustle of life, and our limp will become less noticeable every day, until it is gone.

The Celebration

(Written on the day of the funeral)
Dear Dad,

Last night, we had the "family visitation" at the funeral home.  So many people came.  It was amazing!

And you looked GREAT!  You were in your uniform, you looked like an older version of the dad I remember, like your picture in the foyer.

It was so good...Kennedy, my grand daughter, said the greatest thing - when we were standing by your coffin, teary eyed, she said, "Why are you sad?"

I looked at her and said, "What a great question!" Why are we sad?

This is not about mourning, but the celebration of your life, of your legacy, who you were, who you are, and the fact that we will see you again!

The sadness left and we enjoyed talking about you, sharing stories about you, and before we left, we gathered n a circle, held hands and gave thanks for your life.

I know this sounds crazy, but I could have sworn you were smiling.

Today, was the real job.  I was up visiting with friends and family until midnight, worked on the DVD until 2 am, then back up at 430 am to finish it.

Between the DVD and my own opportunity to talk, I was exhausted, but the military ceremony was incredible.

I have your hat, the flag draped over you, and one of the 3 cartridges given to the family.

It feels really good right now.

Everything you ever wanted happened.

You retired from the Army, graduated college, retired from a second career, enjoyed your family and friends, and now, you were buried in the National Cemetery with full Military Honors.

You are a rare man Dad, you achieved everything you set out to do.

Back in July 2009, you dictated a message to be delivered to the family upon your death.  I hope you don't mind that I had it printed in the leaflet we handed out.  Who better to receive the family message, but your "family" from the church, your community, your life?

By the way, it was good to see you again.

If you are okay with it, I think I am going to write you for a while longer, maybe help clear up some of those lost emotions that seem to run amok at times like this.

"If you are okay with it"...I am not foolish, just looking at this as it really is, you are gone, and I haven't let go yet.

I will.

It just may take a little time.

In the mean time, I will continue to express feelings in the form of a letter to you, and eventually, about you.

So, like I said on the DVD at the funeral...We will miss you, but we will see you again.

Maybe it's not the end...

Things are different...

We are going through the motions of preparing for a funeral.

As I assemble pictures for a DVD to be played during the service, I learn so much more about my father.

Dear Dad,

I found pictures of you the other day.  It was funny, you were a young man, an old teen, and there you were - it was at least 1954, and you were stylishly dressed,  in front of your car, and what I can't figure out is...

Who were all the girls in the pictures? Each picture had a different girl!

Here I am, mourning you, and I find out you were quite the ladies man in your younger days!

What a great way to take away the tears!

I saw so many pictures, you as a young man in the Army, a young married man, a young father, your military years, the times in Viet Nam, your college years, and finally - the happiest years, the ones with your children and grandchildren.

So many smiles, so much laughter...it was really you.

It was good to see you again.

Tomorrow, we have the family visitation at the funeral home, and the next day is the funeral.

For some reason, it doesn't really feel like goodbye...but a celebration of YOU.

This will be a great gathering of family and friends, the people that love you and share memories of you, what a time of joy and laughter we will have!

I found the message you dictated in July, the one to be read after your death, and decided to put it in the leaflet we are distributing at your celebration.

You really did well...you prepared for the end, and allowed me to be a part of it.

I realized today what a special moment I had, to be with you and see you as you entered eternity,  How much God must love me and trust me to allow me to see your face as you saw the one that was taking you home.

It was good.

I struggled at first, did I do enough?  Could I have saved you?  Should I have tried to give you a lobe from my liver (if I matched) and try to force a transplant?

It is so easy to second guess ourselves when looking backwards. Hind sight...is it 20/20?

Not really, we just think it is.

You raised me.  You prepared me for the moments when I had to step in for you.
You knew what you would need, and you trained me to be that man.

It changed me.

I cannot stop being who you made me.

It's not the end...just a new beginning.

January 17, 2010 - The journey ends

At 4:40 pm, at the Presbyterian Village North in Dallas, Texas, SFC (Retired) Daniel Howard Wallace departed this earthly abode and joined his family in Heaven.

I received a phone call earlier in the afternoon from the hospice nurse, she said my father's breathing was so labored and his vital signs were such that she was ordering critical care, 24  hour watch on him.  She said she felt like he had less than 24 hours to live.

My wife and I left soon afterwards, calling his wife first and driving to the nursing center.

His wife, Marion was there when we arrived, as was the nurse.

His breathing was not for the faint - the horrible sound of the "rattle" could be frightening if you let it, and he strained with each breath.

We went to his bedside, he was nonresponsive to sound and touch, and his pupils were fixed.

We told him we were there and we loved him.

For awhile, we told each other (the "visitors") funny stories about family, and me in particular, about my dad.

He received a dose of Morphine at 2:45 pm, the nurse noticed he was straining to breathe again.

He began to breathe easier.

We would talk with him a little, let him know we were there and we loved him, touch his hand, his shoulder.

His breathing became labored again at 4:00 pm, and he received another dose of morphine.

About 4:25 pm, I leaned over and told him,"Dad, this is Don...I just want you to know I am here and I am not leaving you.  A lot of people are in heaven today because of you....(he was a lay minister in the church, many times speaking, and preaching, involved in many lives changing)...You have completed your call...You can go to be with Jesus anytime now....I love you Dad, and I am proud of you."

Around 4:30 pm, I was texting my son, telling him about my dad.

At 4:36 pm, I quoted the scripture "to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord."

At 4:38 pm, I sent the message, "He is almost with Jesus."

At 4:39 pm, his breathing became labored again, and it slowed significantly.

At 4:40 pm, he jerked slightly, opened his eyes and appeared to look towards me, and died.

It was over.

He won.

This race he has been running, this marathon of marathons we call life, was over...my father, with every strained breath, every painful move, every step was taking him closer to the finish line, and he crossed over, victorious, arms held high, tears of joy, as he entered the winners circle shared by Saints and martyrs.

He won.

The journey ends.

I am 9 years old once again, standing at the airport, watching my father leave.  I know it is only temporary, but a year is forever to a child.  I wonder how I will be without my dad, will I be the man he intended me to be, what will happen while he is gone, will I see him again?

Yes.

In my heart, in the deepest part, the area we dare not look into ourselves, that place so secret we are afraid to speak of, that part of my heart knows I will see him again, and I will be the man he raised.

I am my father's son.

Goodbye Dad, I will miss you, but every time I share your story, every time I show mercy, I know you are here, your legacy will live forever...

"...His mercy endures forever..."

In memory of my father, Daniel Howard Wallace.  Born in Butler, Alabama March 3, 1936.  Took the hand of his Saviour and stepped into eternity on January 17, 2010 in Dallas, Texas.

January 16, 2010 - acute care

Dear Dad,

Yesterday was Saturday, the day you were moved from your room in the Rehab center to the room in Health/Acute Care.

We moved your personal items, while the center had to call an ambulance to take you across the campus, your condition was too extreme to stay where you were, and you could not go by wheelchair.

After the move, Marsha and I walked into your room, another semi private room, you are next to the window.

It is like you are not really here.

Just a shell of a body, sleeping (?), labored breathing, the "rattle" is so incredibly disturbing when you breathe, I am not sure how visitors would take it.  Your color has changed, perhaps it is the labored breathing, you were flushed in your face, but your legs and hands are starting to feel cool.

The nursing staff were very nice, very compassionate.  I am glad you are here, even if you don't realize where you are.  They appear to be concerned not only with your healthy, but your dignity.

Marion (your wife), Marsha, and I talked about the funeral today.  I picked up several boxes of pictures to put together a DVD to show at the funeral.

It is easier now.

I lost my feelings somewhere, and I can't find them anymore.

None of this seems to bother me.  It is just a job that needs to be done.  I can't really understand when people ask how I am doing, I feel like screaming at them and asking, "How do you think I am doing? My father is dying, and none of us were ready, and his personal business was a wreck!"

But I just say, "I'm okay."

It's just a job.

I don't remember when it started, I don't know when it will end, but in the mean time, we keep walking in circles, running in the dark, and hoping we find moments worth remembering in this starless midnight hour.

I plan to write something for you and read it/speak at your funeral.  I want people to enjoy a few memories of you, I want them to see the Army Sarge that was "abused" by his terrorist sons (you were such an easy target for practical jokes), the strict disciplinarian that became a man of mercy, the immovable rock whose faith could never be questioned, the regular guy that was happy with simple things, the educated man that loved learning, the frustrated musician.  This is who you are.

I hope as I write, the feelings will come back, and Spring will return.

Right now, it feels like Winter.

It's cold out here, and I am waiting on a ride that may not arrive.

Getting Closer

Dear Dad,

Today, I met with hospice and we discussed the comfort care plan to help you in your final days.

We are nearing the end.

I spoke with the nurse, she said if you were coherent, it would be good to let you know what is going on, so when we walked in your room, you were awake, and we talked.  I explained we had followed your wishes and there was nothing left except to make you comfortable in your final days.  I introduced you to the new nurse from hospice, and asked you to cooperate with her, as she would help you to rest and be comfortable.

When I asked if you understood what I was saying you replied, "Yes."

I am tired.

I have been tired for a long time, I am not sure if it is everything you are going through or from my own holiday upper respiratory issues, both, or who knows.  I am just tired.

I have been balancing keeping family out of state informed and keeping peace locally while juggling my own life...

Sometimes life just kicks you where it counts, and you have to take a couple of breaths, shake it off, and get back into the fight.

The fight...what an analogy...comparing life to a fight.

No rules...the "other guy" (we never see the other guy) cheats...all you can do is do right, sometimes take a few punches, and when you see the opportunity to get your own licks in, fight like a madman with nothing to lose...that is the way it really is...we have nothing to lose, everything to gain.

I think your fight may be nearing the end...

Flash forward a day - this letter has been in process for a couple of days now.

Yesterday, you were very agitated and restless.  Your chloride levels are considered critical, your breathing varies between irregular and eratic, it is a strain to breath sometimes, then sometimes it is not.

You consume very little, and your recognition of others is slipping.

The other night, your swallow reflex came and went until you had "the rattle".  We are dealing with that with atropine.

It is difficult watching you waste away like this, but we are helpless.  Even though we provide medical care, you have chosen to refuse life saving methods, and at times clamp your lips shut and refuse food or drink.

I am still tired...

Last night we went to see you and you had pulled yourself out of bed, but were too weak to walk, so you collapsed by your bed.  The nursing staff found you before we did, sitting on the floor leaning against your bed. They were in the process of getting you back into bed and cleaning you up (accidents happen) when we arrive.

This has got to be tough on you.

Dad, we are still here, standing with you, helping you all the way to the end.  Sometimes when we talk, I don't know if you are really there anymore (in the last couple of days), you have a faraway look in your eyes, and you keep looking over my shoulder, sometimes I turn around to see what you are looking at, and there is nothing visible...I am not going to get all mystic and spiritualize things I am ignorant of, but who knows what you are seeing...

Well Dad, another day is beginning, let's see how you are doing today.

It really seems like the next "level" is getting closer...

Back on Track

Dear Dad,

The past few days have been another roller coaster ride.  First, I get the call to sign a do not resuscitate order, then you make a "comeback", then you go back to where you were.

I guess we just need to enjoy the good days, even if they are short.

Last night, my wife and I went by to see you.  As we walked in, I did not know what to expect, but my hopes were up, considering the  most recent events where you appeared to be improving.

Unfortunately, you were "back on track."

When we walked in, you were sleeping and I tried to rouse you.  You never really woke up enough to talk more than a few words. I helped move you in your bed, your feet were hanging off the end.  When I grabbed the sheet to move you, I realized how much weight you have lost.

So frail.

So tired.

So weak.

Back on track.

Sometimes, we venture off the path designed for us.  When we are in the middle of our lives, we have the opportunity to roam, we think there is always time to get back on track.  As we near the end, if we believe  God is in control of everything, and our days are truly known and numbered, those options must be minimized, we are drawn back to the course designated for us, hopefully with no regrets.

We start, we wander, we end.  Hopefully, we stay in touch with the designer enough to know our purpose and stay on course.

The times of reprieve are getting less.

Back on track.

I hate this.

Helpless, all we can do is watch and try to make you comfortable.  All efforts are truly temporary, no matter what we do, you are drawn to the same path, the same motions, possibly the same timing.

Back on track.

I'll see you again soon.

Not yet...

Dear Dad,

Well, here we are.  A week into the New Year, and you are still "lingering."  Actually, lingering does not describe it.  After being called to the nursing center the other evening (3 days ago) to sign new DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) papers, and your breathing was labored (down to 4 breaths per minute), the next morning arrived and you showed some improvement.

You ate a little cream of wheat, drank quite a bit of juice, and started a new uphill battle.  Ate lunch, and wanted to feed yourself dinner.

Yesterday, you talked on the phone several times, and even wanted to go home.

You are receiving some pain medication and muscle relaxers to ease things for you, and the nurse said that is allowing you to tolerate the days better.

It is literally day to day with you and I just don't know what to think anymore.  I am glad you are still here, I just hope as your health changes, the quality of life will do the same, I would hate to see you improve enough to recognize how helpless you are, you have always been too independent to be satisfied with that.

Not much to write, perhaps iy is also from my own condition.  I ended up very sick with bronchitis and have been to the doctor twice, I think I ran myself down over the holidays, trying to do too much.  Second trip to doctor, second set of meds, feel a little better today.

We are having an incredible cold spell here in Dallas.  The wind chill is in single digits, fortunately, no precipitation.  It affects the ability for us (all of us) to visit, and I hope you do not realize it.

I know this is far from spiritual, but I am reminded of one of my all time favorite movies, "Gladiator", starring Russel Crowe.  I know, it is a "guy" (violent) movie, but there are some real hidden truths in the movie.  The one I like most is when Russel is talking with the African man and the African tells him he will be with his family soon, "but not yet..."

Sounds like one of our talks recently.  I told you this race is almost over, and you win. I described it as if I was a spectator, this time your sons are watching you from the stands, instead of you watching us.  We are cheering for you, along with "that great crowd of witnesses."  This time you are alone, having outrun your enemy, your competition, and you are about to cross the finish line...a winner.

Soon...but not yet.

Changes - New Year

Dear Dad,

There are a lot of changes taking place.  Yesterday, you were moved back to the skilled nursing facility, your hospital stay accomplished all it was meant to do.

So here we are, almost back where we started.

The families are all here, some will be here through the weekend, others are leaving town, you need the rest, this is good.

When my brother arrived this morning, you were eating in the dining hall, it appears the caffeine (coffee) and the sugar (orange juice) gave your a perk and you did okay for awhile. The slight "rush" ended and you were tired and started to rest again.

Not much to write about today.

A few changes, earlier this morning, about 2 am, when I was still awake, I realized the important things for now.

You know, we have been with you for 50 years (not me, but my older brother), and we know that we have had the privilege of having you with us for all these years.  It occurred to me that we need to recognize this time as a change in our family, not a loss, as we are stepping up to the plate you are vacating as you are "promoted" to your new position in this life.

I believe there are people that know you and love you, that need to be touched with the kindness and generosity you stood for.  We, your sons, have made the choice to continue this and for our lives to be your legacy.

I was reading some scriptures last night, it seems I do not do enough of this, but at times like this, even the heathen are comforted by God's word.  I read Psalm 136, and noticed a recurring theme, "his mercy endures forever."

Wow...

I finally understand you...as I realize mercy is undeserved kindness at a time of need, and to endure means effort is involved,  Forever is eternal.

You have chosen to be kind to those in need, even when it requires extreme effort, with no timetable.

I know your choices have cost you, but the rewards I see are incredible.  The people that have stepped up to say how much you mean is unbelievable.  The mercy of God endures forever, and you have been a vessel to share His mercy to so many.

This is what is is all about, what you are all about.  This is how you could endure, because His mercy endured through you. Your kindness and generosity go outside of the family, to others in need, many times in desperate situations...isn't this what being a Christian...being an American...being a Man is all about?

We will not let your legacy die.

His mercy will endure forever.

Thanks Dad, it took along time, but I finally get it.