Dad's here

Dad is alive and well. I see him every morning, usually around 7, although it's getting earlier all the time. He loves mornings. Cheerful. Upbeat. Glowing. "Another day!" he seems to say with his smile.

I hear his giggle and note his grin. It may be the way he holds his mouth, or the twinkle in the crystal blue eyes. Or his calves.

I like to spend time with him at lunch when I'm at home. We'll sit together, and I'll listen to him chatter on about his day. Maybe we'll watch a little TV. Just to sit there together, in the warmth of the kitchen while it's cold and miserable outside...these are precious moments.

After dinner he prefers a treat, usually ice cream. Vanilla is his favorite. Bedtime comes early and he likes to wind down the day with a little more TV. We pray, I tell him goodnight, and then it's off to bed.

Colton Lee is, so far, a clone of his Grandfather. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Stocky build. Even temperament. Smiles a lot. Even wiggles his feet the same way.

It's almost supernatural, really. There are moments when we'll lock eyes and it's as if I'm looking right at Dad, the resemblance is so startling.

And in some other-worldy way, he seems to acknowledge it, too. And I wonder, do angels exist? Is this something divine that God had planned all along to help ease the pain of grief?

Whatever it is, it's a surreal and unexpected dynamic of life these days. A life still plagued by grief, but a journey softened through Dad's little carbon copy.

  

Looking Back

Time doesn't heal anything.

Most of all grief. My grief is more like the seasons, changing every few months into something totally different. Familiar, but different.

1970. A family living the American Dream. My Mom knit each of these sweaters. We are sitting in front of our cottage on Wheeler Island in Three Lakes, WI. There is a Cadillac convertible parked in the driveway, and a boat at the dock. Here, all was well.

This was our holiday card that year.

Merry Christmas from the Clausen Family

Soon thereafter, we'd sell the place and my family would change in ways we could've never imagined. But for a time, this now-holy island represented the magical and wondrous things that life occasionally offers us.

Adventure. Tradition. Simplicity. Contentment. Legacy.

Like the green sweaters in the picture, I feel old and vulnerable to the grief lately. I find myself looking back more often than looking forward. Unpredictable waves of it maintain their pounding and swallow me up one occasional moment at a time. Will it ever subside? Not likely in this life. Time to push it away; to stuff it and get back to The Real Housewives.

Every family has a legacy of its own, imperfect and profound. It's flawed and beautiful and precious and disappointing and complicated and wonderful and mysterious all at the same time.

The three year anniversary of his exit inches closer. The cold weather carries the burden with a sharpened edge. In the shadows of my dreams at night, Dad lingers.

I see flashes of his face, hear snips of his laughter. I awaken and struggle to get back to sleep. I panic that I'm forgetting him: his eyes, or his smile, or his words. I remember the hospital room and the tubes and the fear. The neurologist who inexplicably cried as he told us it was hopeless. The days spent holding and studying the contours of his hands so I wouldn't forget them, all the time praying it wasn't over.

I lie awake, listening to the wind and ponder the lasting legacy of my flawed and perfect father. Sleep finally comes but morning doesn't erase the churn. Life maintains it's pace and I put on the armor that will sustain me, wrapped in the promise of paradise and a restored legacy that will live forever.

 

Masterpiece

Look closely at this one. Do you see it? It's in the eyes. Each of us has it.

Hope. Peace. A genuine sense of family. Of each other.

It's going to be alright after all.

We'd gotten Dad a new camera for his 50th birthday, the expensive kind. A Nikon. It had one of those self timers. So we had to use it for a picture Christmas morning. A family captured at their best. But for a moment.

We'd been through a lot as a family, and Christmas always represented a time of optimism. It was a season to reflect and refocus. To renew commitments. To realize all over again the value we had in each other as a family. Christmas always gave me hope.

They will be OK.

I've heard it said that families at their best are one of nature's masterpieces. If masterpieces are moments, or mornings, or holidays, this was one of them.

1982. All of us together, back from school and life and busyness, to celebrate Christmas. I like this picture because it reminds me of the goodness that often prevailed in my childhood. When parents break up, when families crumble, it's tempting to always reflect with a sense of sadness and loss. Not this day. This was a good day. This was a good moment. This was me, surrounded by a family I loved and who loved me.

Mom. Dad.

Brothers and sisters.

A family. Intact. Just the way it's supposed to be.

A masterpiece.

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.