Dear Dad,
I have learned a lot during the past 18 months. More than just subject matter, more than just massive amounts of information to hold in mental closets until needed, I learned to use the tools you gave me, learned to build that which lasts.
We used to hear a story in Sunday School as children about 2 men - a wise man and a foolish man. The wise man built his house on the rock, the foolish man built his house on the sand. The rain and storms came, and the house built on the rock endured, the house built on the sand was destroyed.
Rock endures.
Sand does not.
Interesting point - sand is the part of the rock that is removed in the storm, or to put it differently, it is the part of the rock that could not weather the storm.
Get enough of these miniscule pieces of rock, and we have a nice cushion of sand. A cushion made from the pieces of the rock that was unable to endure.
We need a solid foundation, something we can cling to, something we can depend upon. A rock that will outlast the storms that come our way.
When everything we held so true is taken away, and all that remains is the skeleton we started with, will it be enough? Will we have a base strong enough to maintain when the dust settles and the aftershock of questions start rolling in?
If we build on the sand, enjoying the soft cushion of the pleasures of this life, when the storms come, we lose. Sometimes not all at once, but we lose.
When we build the easy way, we build to fail. It never lasts.
It is hard to build on the rock.
It requires effort, more than we can imagine.
It takes everything we have, every bit of strength, every hope, every dream, and sometimes every breath.
It may take our lives.
But what is built will endure.
The storms are unpredictable, and it is frightening to hear the wind when it attempts to tear us from all we know to be true, but if we cling to the rock you built upon, we are safe.
Like any other structure, we have to maintain, repair and sometimes build again. As long as we hold to the original plan, we will not waiver.
It cost you everything.
It is costing me no less.
I promised you long ago, that I would stand with you and for you. I promised I would be there until the end.
I kept my promise.
I think it was less about me being there for you as it seemed to be more about learning to position myself.
Now I stand, like you, on the rock that endures.
It is good.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
A Special Place
It would over simplify things to say there have been a lot of changes. I think the hardest thing for me to accept is there are no more chances to "fix the broken parts" of our relationship. We cover the wounds with emotional and psychological bandages until we appear as living mummies, our real features indistinguishable and the bandages that cover us not only keep us from feeling, but they become a bondage also.
Throughout the past year, I have peeled away the bandages, one layer at a time. The putrid stench of anger and bitterness was revolting, and so many scars were self inflicted by selfishness and pride. I am speaking in metaphors, obviously there were no bloody wounds and bandages, at least none that could be seen.
It is hard to admit, it feels so cowardly to say that I blamed so many things on my youth.
It was me.
I could say, "You never taught me...or You held me back..." but it would be false.
It was me.
I made the decisions, I did what I wanted to. The pain was mine, the joy was mine.
You know, it has not been so bad. I am beginning to wonder why I was angry, what happened that I blamed you? Life is good, it always was.
I can't remember the reasons for the bandages anymore.
Maybe this is what you were teaching - to be who we are, to be who we were created to be, and to be at peace.
During the past year, I came to this virtual place, this blog, and I laughed, I cried, I ranted, until I found myself empty, ready to move on.
The final part of this journey is to take the bandages off, stop trying to heal and protect myself, and move on.
I can do it.
It doesn't mean I stop this. This blog, this virtual room I have been so comfortable in is a special place.
It is a place of peace, of healing, and a place of hope.
It took a while, and I miss you terribly, but I am really okay.
I am still proud of your service, I have your "cover" and your medals, and other items that made you who you are. Yes, I said "are" - it is eternal, and who you were is who you are.
I am still sifting through the memories and holding on to some special ones, and sometimes - I still allow myself that time to reflect, I need it. I have learned it is good to forgive, and to be forgiven.
I come to this place, this special place that is with me everywhere I go - this virtual room of comfort, and I talk to you, about you, and there is peace...there is healing...
This is a long way from the angry path we shared so many years ago.
I am glad I made it here.
Thanks Dad, you did a good job.
Throughout the past year, I have peeled away the bandages, one layer at a time. The putrid stench of anger and bitterness was revolting, and so many scars were self inflicted by selfishness and pride. I am speaking in metaphors, obviously there were no bloody wounds and bandages, at least none that could be seen.
It is hard to admit, it feels so cowardly to say that I blamed so many things on my youth.
It was me.
I could say, "You never taught me...or You held me back..." but it would be false.
It was me.
I made the decisions, I did what I wanted to. The pain was mine, the joy was mine.
You know, it has not been so bad. I am beginning to wonder why I was angry, what happened that I blamed you? Life is good, it always was.
I can't remember the reasons for the bandages anymore.
Maybe this is what you were teaching - to be who we are, to be who we were created to be, and to be at peace.
During the past year, I came to this virtual place, this blog, and I laughed, I cried, I ranted, until I found myself empty, ready to move on.
The final part of this journey is to take the bandages off, stop trying to heal and protect myself, and move on.
I can do it.
It doesn't mean I stop this. This blog, this virtual room I have been so comfortable in is a special place.
It is a place of peace, of healing, and a place of hope.
It took a while, and I miss you terribly, but I am really okay.
I am still proud of your service, I have your "cover" and your medals, and other items that made you who you are. Yes, I said "are" - it is eternal, and who you were is who you are.
I am still sifting through the memories and holding on to some special ones, and sometimes - I still allow myself that time to reflect, I need it. I have learned it is good to forgive, and to be forgiven.
I come to this place, this special place that is with me everywhere I go - this virtual room of comfort, and I talk to you, about you, and there is peace...there is healing...
This is a long way from the angry path we shared so many years ago.
I am glad I made it here.
Thanks Dad, you did a good job.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
An anniversary
You have been gone one year as of yesterday afternoon.
I think about a talk we had before you left when we were talking about eternity. I told you I would miss you, but you would not miss me. You looked confused, and I told you that you are going to a place where time exists no more. Whether it is 1 day, or 100 years from now, when I arrive - it will be like you just got there and turned around, and there I was - right after you.
Eternity is beyond our comprehension. We try to understand, but in a world of limits we cannot fathom a limitless existence.
Imagine the ocean. Water as far as you can see. So much water, it is immeasurable.
The ocean is eternity.
One drop of water is our life, lived to its fullest.
Eternity is incomprehensible.
It was a year ago you shrugged off the limits of this world.
In this ocean of eternity, not even a drop of water has passed.
You will turn, you will blink, and we will be there.
It is just like when we were children.
Dad always went before us, and secured everything. We had a place to live, schools and church to attend, they were expecting us. Although we were unable to spend a lot of time with our extended families, we always experienced someone waiting for us, someone excited about our arrival.
How much like Jesus this is.
He left before us, to prepare a place, that where he is, we may be also.
Just one more thing to hope for.
In this year without you, we have shed tears, we truly missed you.
But we have hope - hope we did not understand before.
You will turn, you will blink, and we will be there.
I think about a talk we had before you left when we were talking about eternity. I told you I would miss you, but you would not miss me. You looked confused, and I told you that you are going to a place where time exists no more. Whether it is 1 day, or 100 years from now, when I arrive - it will be like you just got there and turned around, and there I was - right after you.
Eternity is beyond our comprehension. We try to understand, but in a world of limits we cannot fathom a limitless existence.
Imagine the ocean. Water as far as you can see. So much water, it is immeasurable.
The ocean is eternity.
One drop of water is our life, lived to its fullest.
Eternity is incomprehensible.
It was a year ago you shrugged off the limits of this world.
In this ocean of eternity, not even a drop of water has passed.
You will turn, you will blink, and we will be there.
It is just like when we were children.
Dad always went before us, and secured everything. We had a place to live, schools and church to attend, they were expecting us. Although we were unable to spend a lot of time with our extended families, we always experienced someone waiting for us, someone excited about our arrival.
How much like Jesus this is.
He left before us, to prepare a place, that where he is, we may be also.
Just one more thing to hope for.
In this year without you, we have shed tears, we truly missed you.
But we have hope - hope we did not understand before.
You will turn, you will blink, and we will be there.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Time to say goodbye
It has been a year, and although the activities have always had your shadow overhead, you were not here.
We became "perceived" experts in our ability to diagnose everyone with your illness. Even those that are not sick. I guess it is a part of the pendulum of life swinging from one extreme to another.
Sometimes it has been hard to be motivated. I never felt like I was depressed or sad, but I just could not seem to "get going" with the intensity I once had.
I am more tolerant in some areas, and less in others.
I am beginning to care about me, and my feelings.
I grew up and suffered religious angst when my core, the very being of who I am, did not coincide with the mindless dribble by those learned theologians allowed to be in authority of our faith. When I questioned, I was always wrong for questioning, and the answers were...never there.
I wish I could say you taught me to question, that you taught me to seek these things out.
Perhaps you did, when your blind acceptance of fallible men's interpretations of the scriptures became your gospel...and I wanted more...I wanted a personal truth.
I wanted more than the social event of Sunday morning, and perhaps another day during the week.
I wanted that faith, that relationship with someone that would never leave. After all, even at its best, all of life is temporal.
I wanted that rest in my spirit, that peace in my soul, when in the solitude of darkness I can still hear you struggling to breathe...and it stops.
And never starts again.
You taught me a lot, or at least you tried to. I adhere to your faith, your eternal hope is my eternal hope. But I want more.
I want the strength to stand when I have done all I can, and all that is left is to trust in the unseen. I want to "stand in the gap" for those that are suffering in silence, and let them sleep, knowing someone cares.
I want to pass this knowledge to someone else. Pass this baton to the next runner, as we sit in silence because we have said all there is to say.
I want to be missed one day.
I guess I want the things you achieved.
It has been a long year. A lot of soul searching and growth, and I am finally seeing a little life from this year of cultivation. I am finally starting to understand.
I am growing up.
Dad, I never wanted to say goodbye, but this cannot go on forever. It is time to return to my life and carry the memories in my heart, and continue the journey.
Thank you for the tireless efforts of training, teaching, and in the end, yes - I know you loved me.
You were a good man, and I am proud to have been with you through all of this.
I remember wearing your combat boots when I was a child, just a boy "flopping" around in his father's shoes. It was funny, it was entertaining, and you were the giant in all of life.
It took a long time before I could wear those boots, and when I did - it felt right.
Whether it is wingtips, boots, or some other shoe - they are mine now. No longer a child "flopping" around in Daddy's shoes, but a man...following my own call, my own piper - after all, that is what you taught me to do.
Rest in peace Dad, it's going to be okay.
We became "perceived" experts in our ability to diagnose everyone with your illness. Even those that are not sick. I guess it is a part of the pendulum of life swinging from one extreme to another.
Sometimes it has been hard to be motivated. I never felt like I was depressed or sad, but I just could not seem to "get going" with the intensity I once had.
I am more tolerant in some areas, and less in others.
I am beginning to care about me, and my feelings.
I grew up and suffered religious angst when my core, the very being of who I am, did not coincide with the mindless dribble by those learned theologians allowed to be in authority of our faith. When I questioned, I was always wrong for questioning, and the answers were...never there.
I wish I could say you taught me to question, that you taught me to seek these things out.
Perhaps you did, when your blind acceptance of fallible men's interpretations of the scriptures became your gospel...and I wanted more...I wanted a personal truth.
I wanted more than the social event of Sunday morning, and perhaps another day during the week.
I wanted that faith, that relationship with someone that would never leave. After all, even at its best, all of life is temporal.
I wanted that rest in my spirit, that peace in my soul, when in the solitude of darkness I can still hear you struggling to breathe...and it stops.
And never starts again.
You taught me a lot, or at least you tried to. I adhere to your faith, your eternal hope is my eternal hope. But I want more.
I want the strength to stand when I have done all I can, and all that is left is to trust in the unseen. I want to "stand in the gap" for those that are suffering in silence, and let them sleep, knowing someone cares.
I want to pass this knowledge to someone else. Pass this baton to the next runner, as we sit in silence because we have said all there is to say.
I want to be missed one day.
I guess I want the things you achieved.
It has been a long year. A lot of soul searching and growth, and I am finally seeing a little life from this year of cultivation. I am finally starting to understand.
I am growing up.
Dad, I never wanted to say goodbye, but this cannot go on forever. It is time to return to my life and carry the memories in my heart, and continue the journey.
Thank you for the tireless efforts of training, teaching, and in the end, yes - I know you loved me.
You were a good man, and I am proud to have been with you through all of this.
I remember wearing your combat boots when I was a child, just a boy "flopping" around in his father's shoes. It was funny, it was entertaining, and you were the giant in all of life.
It took a long time before I could wear those boots, and when I did - it felt right.
Whether it is wingtips, boots, or some other shoe - they are mine now. No longer a child "flopping" around in Daddy's shoes, but a man...following my own call, my own piper - after all, that is what you taught me to do.
Rest in peace Dad, it's going to be okay.
Monday, December 13, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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...
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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...
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...
Monday, August 23, 2010
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...
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...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, May 28, 2010
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.
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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.
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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."
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.
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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.
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.
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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."
Friday, May 21, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
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...
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...
Monday, February 8, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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.
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.
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