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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
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.
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.
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