In a couple of days, Dad will have been gone from here for a year. As the date approaches, I am compelled to tell you about one of the blessings that flowed from his departure. I was witness to a miracle.

It was a scene straight from Hollywood. Mom and Dad were married for 30 years, and it was devastating when they decided to divorce just as I'd turned 15. Families were not designed to break apart, and the years since had been spotted with heartbreak for all of us.

When Dad was struck ill, my siblings and I of course shared the news with Mom. I was unsure how she would respond....unsure for but a moment.

"I want to come see him," she said, with an authority that took me by surprise. "Please ask Cyndi if this would be OK." Cyndi, Dad's wife, graciously agreed, and before I knew it, I was walking Mom into Dad's hospital room. I hadn't been alone in a room with my mom and dad in 22 years. It was a surreal moment I will never forget.

By this time, he was unconscious, alive only by the miracle of machines. Seemingly asleep, he nonetheless looked strong in his bed, and his color was exceptional. This did not look like a dying man!

Without any hesitation or fear, she moved alongside him, grabbed his big hand, held it tightly, brushed his forehead with her other hand, and began to speak to her once true love and father of her children.

"Oh my, Clutch." she said. (This had been her nickname for him while they dated in college.)
"You look so handsome. What are you doing in this bed? This isn't you. I remember how you always hated hospitals. And here you are."

She moved closely to his face, the face that she'd loved and stood by for all those years. With a quiet and graceful tone, she proceeded to tell him how much he'd meant to her. She thanked him for being such an incredible Dad to the kids. And most profoundly, she thanked him for trying so hard to love and understand her.

"I'll see you again someday, when our family will be reunited without any pain or hurting. Be well."

And with that, she kissed his forehead, began to weep, and left the room.

I will always cherish this last glimpse of my parents relationship. Closure -- at last.

The Weight of it All

I am now convinced that along with all the expected ailments that accompany the aging process, there is another burden to bare, perhaps more profound than the bunions and fragile bones: a grieving heart. Dad was incredibly fun to be around, with a sharp wit and constant upbeat spirit. But as I mentioned in a previous post, I sometimes noted in him a heart of sadness. In his latter years, tears came quickly when he'd discuss the past, his Dad, or thoughts of heaven. I'd often think it peculiar that this strong and powerful man could become weepy within moments of a conversation shift towards a subject that tugged at him.

But since his passing, the raw display of emotion is something I've begun to understand. Seems to me that growing older forces you to play the memory game quite often. As the winter season of life approaches, I'd imagine that thoughts routinely return to those wondrous years of first loves, young kids, effortless health, and summers in Wisconsin. It's like a perfect fall afternoon coming to an end, or realizing all the gifts have been opened. This must create an innate and chronic grief, a pain that the years are now long since past, and life's end is pending. I suspect this was the pain I saw in his brilliant blue eyes every so often: the loss of the past.

He felt sad that things were changing; that his favorite years -- those as a father of young kids -- were far gone now. What it must feel like to have your "life view" always looking back rather than forward! It was a weight on his back, and every once in a while, I could see the strain of it.

It was my birthday this past week, and it was a day that revealed his absence all over again. Dad was not there to wish me a happy birthday, and it weighed upon me; it filled my heart with (at times) crippling, lose-your-breath sadness. And profoundly, it made me even more in touch with how his aging carried with it a chronic grief all its own.

I moved from that day with a heart just a little heavier, a spirit just a touch more broken, and a longing for days and relationships gone by just a little more distracting. And in a sense, it made me more like him. Now it's my turn: my heart that hurts (like his did), my dreams of the past that play in my mind (like his did); my tears of grief of days gone by (like his were). How profound that with his absence my understanding of him only deepens.

I think about him in Heaven quite often, and I try and picture his face, his calm spirit, and how he's spending all those lazy days. I see his face free of the pain and sadness; his heart is filled up and renewed, his body strong and able. The troubled soul that grieved the past is no more. The picture accompanying this entry was taken of Dad just a few months before he died. It shows him in one of his most favorite places, and in it, I can see a glimpse of him now. Look at his face. He has a twinkle in his eye, and it makes me wonder if at that moment he had a sudden awareness that coming soon he'd experience freedom from the weight of all those 76 years. I smile knowing all is finally well with his soul.

One of my favorites

We did alot of traveling when I was growing up, and often we'd end up at a state park, where we'd have a picnic and go for a hike, maybe find some tennis courts and hit the ball a bit. This picture was taken when I was nine years old, in 1978, at Rock Cut State Park in Rockford, IL. Dad would have been 47 at the time. I had just fell into the lake while trying to grab a rock to skip. Dad, of course at my side, grabbed me before I got too wet, and so I rolled my pants up, I think in some effort for them to dry and not get wetter in case of another slip. I can recall the beautiful day, the feeling of adventure as we explored the park, and Mom's constant picture taking. I thought Dad to be the coolest cat ever, which I think shows in this picture. We were buds.

Dad and me, both at 38

Is it supposed to get easier?

Strange feelings of late....very heavy hearted days. Perhaps it's the change of season that's approaching. The flash of cold air brings a mood along with it. The dying has begun.

The other day I passed by the gas station Dad was at the morning he had the stroke. He'd gone out to breakfast that morning, a grey and cold December day. Dad always loved going out to breakfast. My whole life growing up, except on Sunday, he'd be at a local restaurant for breakfast. It served as his community, his mission field of sorts. So like he had for the previous 50 or so years of mornings, he had his breakfast out, and while driving home noticed that he needed gas. So he stopped and filled the tank. This simple task done a thousand times before. For me, I've found the simple has become profound since he left us. I often wonder what he thought about during those few minutes standing alongside his truck while the tank ("tick tick tick") slowly filled to the top and the wind whipped coldly alongside him. Did he know? Did he have any suspician that things were on the verge of change?

If he only had known! Within an hour or so of that very normal morning, that very normal breakfast, and that very normal fill up at the local gas station, his life would essentially come to an end. That's the most disturbing part of it all. The rapid decent from normality to insane; from bright light to darkness; from life to death, all within moments of eachother. Boom. Done. Over. Just like that.

Think I miss him more now than ever. As the birth of my third child approaches, I'm struck by the irony of life starting anew within feet of where he died. Same hospital, same month, just 12 months apart. From death comes life I've heard it said, and it's true. What better way to celebrate all that this life offers than with a new little person. He'd have been the one I'd be most excited to tell. He would have cried a little bit, and told me in his calm way something to the effect that I'd never regret it, and that his years as a father were the most meaningful of his entire life. Mine too, Dad. Mine too.

A Provider with Passion

It was as surreal as surreal gets. I've never fully understood the meaning of the word. Heard it before, even used it a few times. But never really felt it. Until now.

The scene: a perfect spring Saturday morning. Crisp. Clear. The kind of morning when hope arrives with a renewed greeting. I found myself at the wheel of his truck, in his sweatshirt, carrying a load of his trees to deliver to his customer. Beside me was his grandson - my 4 year old son. As we drove along the country roads, it hit me like a swat upside the head. This was a scene for the generations.

I spent my childhood around a father who loved nature. He was passionate about all things green, and thrived when he could be outside, in the warmth of a sunny afternoon, surrounded by the world His Creator provided. This was no hobby. Dad found a way to support his family for his entire life - yes, his entire life - doing what he loved.

This didn't seem particularly profound to me at the time. As a boy, I'd ride along with him in his pick up truck for all kinds of adventures: trecks to Wisconsin to pick up a load of boulders, where we'd always coast down the hill in neutral (exctiting!); trips to various nurseries to pick up beautiful varieties of shrubs, bushes, and trees for future installations; even just to ride beside him to drop off a bill or a proposal to a new customer's home. And of course I worked for him - for years - never truly aware of the modeling that was taking place before my eyes. This was a man doing what he loved.

It wasn't until I graduated from college and realized how overwhelming it is to figure out what you want to do to make a living. It was then I was able to see Dad and his work in a transformed light. My admiration was intense, and I recall discussing it with him one afternoon during this "in-between" phase of my life. His words to me were simple, yet impacting. Dad said, "Scott, find something that gives you hope, something of which you're passionate, something that when you lay your head on the pillow at night, you're hopeful for the day's possibilities. If you can do this, you'll be just fine."

I remember thinking at the time, hmmm, OK, and then what? But slowly and methodically, I sought a career of white collar pursuits, worlds away from where Dad spent his days. And despite the differences in our career paths, I always knew he was proud of me. As I moved from job to job and city to city, I began to so appreciate his phone calls, "How's the job?" he'd tenderly ask, and we'd discuss it for a bit, always with his focused and interested ear. Then we'd catch up on his newest lawn mower or how the weeds were just "...getting out of control..."

The last conversation we had, just a couple of days before he died unexpectedly, was in regard to my job. I'd been seeking a large promotion for sometime, and had just arrived back home from the business trip during which I was to find out if I'd gotten it. That night, I called Dad. He answered, not with "Hello?" or "How are you?" but with "Well?" As if to say, "Well tell me, I've been waiting to hear all week, did you get the job?"

"Yes Dad, I did. Can you believe it? I'm now the VP of Sales!"

"I'm so proud of you, Scott," he said, with tears breaking up his tone. "That is such wonderful news for a dad to hear. I love you."

That was the last time I ever spoke to him.

Questions I wish I'd asked

It's been just over six months since Dad was transferred to Paradise. As I've moved from obsession to detachment regarding him, I am continually struck by how much I didn't know about this man, my father. He was raised in an era of masculine supremacy that didn't allow for free and permissive intimacy with one's children. I knew Dad through the person he revealed to me. I also knew him as I observed him with others. And yet, in the grand scheme of his 76 year existence, there is so much I didn't know about this man I worshipped. It is one of life's great ironies, that the Dad from whose genes I derive experienced so much life without my knowledge. I don't mention this as a criticism, but an observation in light of his departure. As I've contemplated his time here on earth, there is so much I wish I'd inquired about. Here are some examples:

How many children did you want when you were first married?

What was childhood like being raised with all those sisters? How did that effect your relationship with women?

Who were you closer to, your Mom or your Dad? Why?

What would you say was your greatest challenge as a young man? As a young husband? As a young father?

Where were you when Kennedy was shot?

Did new Cadillacs seem outrageously expensive to you when you'd drive by the dealer and dream?

How did you afford summer homes in northern Wisconsin for all those years?

When and where were you the happiest? Tell me about it.

Any regrets?

Had you been feeling OK those last weeks of life? Were you ready to go?

What was your greatest fear in life?

Describe a favorite childhood memory.

I am comforted, Dad, knowing that one day, I'll be able to sit with you, look into your brilliant blue eyes, and ask you these questions. I long for that day.

When it all started

I remember the moment with clarity, my commencement to grief. Dad, his wife, and I escaped to Canada for a fishing trip for a few days. It was a rare opportunity for me to step away from my hectic life of Provider/Father and relax with Dad in an environment we both adored. Though it was three years ago, I can recall the joy of being with him - just with him again - as a renewal of sorts. For the first time in years, I had his undivided attention. It was as if I was his son all over again, because my kids weren't there thirsting for his attention, etc. It felt wonderful. As the days raced by, I suspected that he too was sensing the preciousness of this time. And just maybe, we both realized that this might be the last time we'd have this kind of opportunity.

On the drive home, I recall a two hour stretch as we headed towards the Canadian border. Cyndi was asleep, and Dad and I got to talking. Our favorite music from times gone by played softly in the background, and as the rocky coastline of pines flew by the window, we reminisced together. We'd already had the conversations about work, and raising of kids, and the struggles of "managing it all." No, this was our chance to recall the good times of years long since past. And that's what we did, with both of us recalling how rich a time we had together as father and son: the routines we shared, the vacation adventures we went on, the love of dogs and cars and tennis. It was so bittersweet that emotions caught us both at various times during the sharing. We'd look at each other, both realizing that it would never be like that again. Having commune with this part of Dad's heart - a part I knew existed, but so rarely emerged - felt like heaven on earth.

As we pulled into the gas station at the border, my heart began to feel a bit heavy. Our time was ending - exchange was over for now. I started to wonder if I'd ever experience him like this again, where sharing the vulnerable "stuff" was OK, even desired. It dawned on me that part of him was gone, the Daddy part that nurtured me, tucked me in at night, held my hand when I trembled, and would always be there. I was a Dad now, too, and this was life's natural evolution, but it seemed to strike me profoundly at that moment. Perhaps it was provoked by the bittersweet memories (it felt so good to hear him talk like this!) we discussed for the previous few hours. Whatever it was, I was troubled when we returned to the car. Now I understand: it was at that moment - three years before his death - that I began to grieve.

We got back on the road. Sitting in the back seat now, with Dad at the wheel of my car, I glanced up to see Dad's eyes in the rear view mirror. He was looking at me, noting my sadness. As he winked, I realized that he understood my pain, and he shared in it with me. And though we never talked about it (or talked like that) again, I knew at that moment that he'd be holding me in his arms forever.

Am I willing?

The pace of life maintains it's warp speed. Everyone around me seems to pass me by. I'm like the granny in the Buick in the right lane unsure of just what speed I can go. Slow then fast - then stuck. Immobilized. Dad is everywhere sometimes, and then he disappears. I want to cry out to him, "Dad, wait for me, please wait. I see your arms open wide." I think it's the tedious parts of life that have taken on a fresh challenge. I sat down on a recent Saturday afternoon to balance my checkbook, easily one of life's joys. As I reviewed the transactions around the time of Dad's escape, I noticed the ledger was fraught with errors, wrong transaction amounts entered, receipts that had disappeared, just a mess. It took me quite awhile to reconcile, and afterward, I thought to myself, "This is how grief is to me. I want to reconcile it and be done." Oh how i wish.

We all know the saying about time and how it's supposed to heal. I don't buy it. This is why: for my entire life, whenever Dad talked about his Dad, he would cry. Always. Every single time. It was a fresh and painful place for him, even forty years after his dad died. I recall thinking on more than one occasion that he must have really loved his pops, that they must have been close friends. And I'd often wonder, will it be the same for me when he's gone? Will it plague me or will it be a sweet sadness? Sometimes I couldn't tell the difference for him, and so far for me, forty-five days later, I'm engulfed in the pain part of remembering.

All that I'm reading tells me that I need to be willing to grieve, willing to feel it, willing to enter into that place. If I don't, the "experts" say, I will face a deeper pain further down life's road. "Hmmm, interesting," I think. Does it make me more receptive to going to the dark place? Sometimes. Always. Never. Too soon to tell, I suppose. And life goes. I've got to get to the dry cleaners today.

progress?

A sustained mystery to me within this process is how to define progress. Perhaps it's not even necessary, but I seem to be pointed in a preferred direction when I feel like I'm doing "better." Maybe I didn't cry quite as hard today. Or as often. How about this one: I could remember you, Dad, and smile, laugh a little bit, rather than weep. Is that good? Better? Healthier? Not sure why I have this preoccupation with progress regarding the grief-thing, but it does seem to be a persistant desire. And yet, the more I read, the more I study, the more I allow myself to feel, the less I understand, and the less confidence I have that true progress is something that's even attainable. Life moves on, that's a given. Driving to the airport in crazy traffic on a recent morning, I was struck by how many aspects of life expect me to be back in the game so quickly. Can I screw up at work fo awhile because my Dad has been ripped from my life forever? Not likely. Maybe I can just be a rotten, disengaged father for some time. Nope. How about a vaction from husbanding, or being a friend, son (to Mom), or brother? No way. If you saw me as I was boarding that flight, you'd chalk me up as just one more young executive-type with great shoes climbing up the ladder of life. Don't be fooled! On the inside, my heart is crushed, my eyes water oh so often, and my soul aches for the loving and tender grip of my father's hands in mine once again. Look a little more closely next time. I do. I see different things in strangers eyes now. I wonder, and often, I know. They are struggling too. And I'm reminded that I am not alone on this journey, and for a moment, I find comfort in that. But I'll always miss you, Pops. Always.

oh it's hard

This is some tough stuff. My heart has a dull and chronic ache. There are moments, even hours, when I am able to see that I will survive this, even thrive emotionally again someday. Then there are the dark moments, hours, even whole days when I am captured like a prisoner in a cell, gates firmly locked, no key in sight. I was telling a colleague this week how mysterious death is, how it grips and releases then grips again. I wish you were here Dad, sitting here by side, so I could look in your eyes, feel your hands, big and rough as they always were. You'd always hold them, and me, whenever I wanted. As my mind has been returning to moments from years gone by, I recall how treasured, how cherished, you always made me feel. Seemed so ordinary to me as a kid, I never knew anything else, and yet now as a parent myself I see the challenge of delivering unconditionally the way you always did. How you gave - tirelessly - for all the days in my memory. I think often about what you're up to, who you had lunch with today, and what your favorite discovery is so far. Is it the view? Is it the blooms of the trees, brighter than they ever were here on earth? Perhaps it's the smile on Jesus' face that greets you warmly each and every morning. Maybe it's getting to throw the unsnagged line into the pristine beauty of a mountain lake with your dad by your side. Are you talking about the years he missed? What's it like to catch that many big fish? How is Gram? Bet she was thrilled to wrap her arms around her precious son again. Do you remember what it is I hope to hear when I arrive? "Scott, your mother and father are waiting for you." I can not wait.

Sunshine

Every morning when I wake up I'm eager to see if the sun is shining. It almost serves as a barometer for how I'm going to experience my grief for the day. I feel more hopeful, brighter, even brave when the sun is out. Bring clouds or rain, and oh boy am I troubled. I often feel like a little child, trying to find my way in this unfamiliar world of heartache. Perhaps the most unusual aspect of this experience is that my will, my actions, can have no impact upon the outcome. I can not bring Dad back. Unlike a difficult marriage, (let's get counseling or go on a vacation) weight gain, (I must get to the gym and stop with the bread!) a dead-end job (better call a recruiter), or virtually anything else in life, death locks you out. Suffering is my only option. Ugh. My relief is primarily through distraction, solitude, or knowing that one day, I will feel Dad's hugs again when I arrive in heaven. I know it, and there IS some comfort in that, but it's not sufficient. Psalm 69:1 says it best for me right now: "Save me, O God, for the waters have come up to my neck." That sound you hear is me grasping for air.

too much too soon

It was the day that I'd always new would come, and somehow could never quite prepare for. I can recall imagining this phone call's reality for years prior - even when I was a kid and Dad was struggling through a fresh heart or other ailment. He could seem so frail when ill - and yet the epitome of strength when well. Strange how that could be. Dad died on December 15th at 5:03 p.m. with his beloved family surrounding his bed. (Perhaps nine of us?) I was hoping for a Spielberg-like viewing of his soul passing before our crying eyes as he transitioned from one dimension to another - but there was none. Instead, there was Dad, seemingly asleep, full of color and hair combed just right, albeit in the ICU unit of a top neuro unit. How could it have come to this? How could my precious, all-powerful, loving Dad now be dying, and dead? I still had so much to tell him, so many things, so many plans yet to make. So many more memories to create. This sucks, I thought to myself. A new day begins - me - without a father. Can I make it? The journey starts now.