Plastic Pretenders

There is something about the change of seasons that makes me long for Dad. I don't really understand it. The chill in the air strikes the grief match aflame, and I return to heartache. Today I was looking at old pictures...lots of old pictures. It can be a dangerous activity. Pictures tell a story.

As I scanned these treasures, I was struck by a sense of reflective awe. Smiling beautiful faces in wonderful locations looking back at me. It was like reading an old movie star magazine, with snapshot after snapshot of a happy couple and family. In an instant I was struck by how often there is a profound disparity between the glossy sheen of external perfection and the hollow discontent that often flies below the surface. (Maybe it's why I love the show "Mad Men" so much.) This family of mine sure appeared to have it all, but underneath there were secrets that told a different tale.

I was recently asked a question that provoked a strong reaction: "Describe your parents marriage in three words." If you're ever looking for a way to spark deeper conversation with someone, I dare you to pose this. As I tried to frame a response, I was hit with a wave of grief so hard I had to excuse myself. Grief for the death of a family; grief for the death of Dad; grief for the death of all those left-over kid dreams that apparently still reside within the soul.

As I continued the photo exploration, I found myself looking for a picture that would show me a more authentic tone of the era. I was tired of all the plastic pretenders, even frustrated by the charade of it all. I determined that there must be a picture in this box of memories that told a different story. And there it was.

Here was a moment of authenticity captured on film. It felt comforting to see this picture, despite the tenseness of expressions. It made me miss Dad all over again. Oh for a chance to sit and talk with him about the struggles of the era. To throw away the surface sheen and cultivate candor.

This is what I'd say.

"Dad, tell me about this day. Tell me about the struggles. Tell me what you learned. For you've gone before me, and I can be a better man through your life lessons."

I've put the pictures away for another day.

Colton Lee Clausen -- at 11 weeks

Last Time

Last time you see someone and you don't know it will be the last time. And all that you know now, if only you'd known then. But you didn't know, and now it's too late. And you tell yourself How could I have known. I could not have known.

You tell yourself.

The last time we were together was Thanksgiving. I hadn't seen Dad in a few weeks because life was racing by as it tends to do.

I remember walking into his warm, beautiful house, coming around the corner and into the kitchen. There he stood, at the counter, wearing an apron and helping prepare the feast at hand. There was a fire going in the fireplace. He smiled that smile that said, "I am so glad you're here" and I gave him a big hug.

If I take a moment to remember, to close my eyes and go to that moment in my mind, I can still feel his arms. I can feel his big, warm body. I can hear him say "Hey Scotter" with that rise in his voice. He sounded so thrilled to see me. Genuinely thrilled.

Since I hadn't seen him in a bit, I remember saying "I've missed you" in his ear as we hugged.

Softly he responded.

"Me too."

And as we pulled away from the embrace, I noticed the tears in his eyes. This small comment, letting him know I'd missed him, for some reason, tugged at his heart.

I don't remember much from the rest of that Thanksgiving. Two weeks later he'd be gone. How could I have known. If only I'd have known.

As was his custom, he walked us out to the car. Kids and Carolyn loaded up, just before getting in myself, I said "We'll talk soon, Dad. Thanks for a great night."

I can see him standing in his garage with his hands in his pockets. He looked content, as he often did after these nights of family time. We were still a family, despite the broken hearts and disappointments. These nights reminded him of that.

"OK Scott, Drive carefully. We'll talk this week."

If only I'd known.

Confidence Deficit

A few weeks ago, I had some unhurried and relaxed time with my two precious, older sisters. Kim was in town from Florida, and as we sat and caught up, talk (of course) turned to the gaping wound of Dad's death.

When Candy tenderly asked "What's been heaviest on your heart these days, Bud, in your grief?" I immediately knew...the deficit of confidence.

I've written previously about the gifts Dad so freely gave me as a son. He had a generous spirit, Dad did, and it marked me. The most distinct impact of late, I told Candy and Kim, was that I no longer had him in my corner. He was my biggest fan.

From my earliest days, I remember how much he believed in me, whether it was as a student, an athlete, an employee, or even a husband. Growing up, while riding alongside him in the front seat of his truck, I'd tell him about the anxiety I was feeling because of an upcoming match, test, or interview. He'd listen carefully, ask a few specific questions, and then thoughtfully and calmly instill a level of confidence that empowered me to believe. Always. I'd get out of the truck and think, "Wow, if he believes in me, then surely I'll succeed."

As a husband and parent, life is increasingly difficult. Even in recent years, I'd bring my child-like fears to him for council. Only now, these were adult-sized challenges. For this was a man of wisdom, a self-made giant with insight I craved. These chats were precious, for it was at these moments I was still his child. Even in the final weeks of his life, he continued to fill me up with strength. He empowered me with his words, his love, and his belief in me as his son. I was cherished. What a gift.

My biggest fan has relocated to Paradise, and left me here to persevere without his hand in mine. Perhaps it's the cliched "natural order" of things. It's my time to believe for myself, blah blah blah. I'm not ready. Life's obstacles feel bigger then they use to because of his absence. Who will ever believe in me the way he did?

I had a dream last week. There was Dad, in his white Jockey brand T shirt and shorts, working in the field the way he always did. It was a hot, sunny day, and I was running to him from behind, calling out. I was so thrilled to see him! I threw my arms around his back, screaming "You haven't left me! You haven't left me!" I saw his blue eyes, his glorious face, his sweet smile! It was as real as being there. And for the first time, I heard his voice.

"Of course I haven't left you, Scott. I'll always be right here for you."

And then I woke up, sobbing but stronger. Even in death, he was still there for me.

From Death to Life

I could feel the tension building inside of me. You know the feeling. Anxious excitement. The kind you'd get as a kid while standing in line for the roller coaster. The first day of school kind.

The day was fast approaching when my son was to be born. My second son, and third child. This baby, this child that came from grief. This gift, an idea spawned from Dad's passing.

Here we were, arriving at the same hospital that held such haunting memories from just a year prior. All I could see as we pulled up (to a different entrance, thankfully) was Dad in his hospital bed while we circled around his lifeless body singing his favorite hymns while holding his and each other's hands, and then finally, him passing away. How was I going to manage this?

The next ten hours passed by slowly. While Carolyn dosed, I read the paper, watched some TV, and prayed that I'd be able to handle all that was to come. I prayed for courage, and began to feel His strength. And in a strange sense I could feel Dad's presence in that room, his bright smile telling me it would be OK.

And then there he was, all pink and loud and beautiful. My son, Colton Lee Clausen, named after his grandfather. It was then that the floodgates burst. While the myriad of nurses attended to him (and Carolyn) I sobbed at the irony of it all. From death to life, in an instant. From winter to spring. From black and white to color. It was so bright in that room.

Someday I'll be able to tell Colton all about his grandfather. About his tender heart and loving way. And I'll be able to share with him that his birth carried with it a deep and relevant meaning unlike any other. When I look in Colton's eyes I'm sure I see Dad, and it's been the soothing balm to my grief filled soul. What a miracle to see the circle of life.

In the days that followed, I became curious about the time of day that Colton was born, 5:05 p.m. It seemed familiar. And so I did a little digging.

Dad passed away at 5:03 p.m.