March Sixth

So, this is my Dad. Today he's been gone for 12 years. This is the Grampa Rob my kids talk about out-of-the-blue and the personality I see glimpses of in my own husband (isn't that weird?).

This picture is from like 1992. And doing the math real quick, he was 38. What is so weird is that my husband will be 38 this year. I had no idea how young 38 was. And then to die at 41 is just unreal if you think about it.

I love this photo of Dad. It's nothing really all that special. Except it was my sister behind the 110mm camera taking photographs for her summer 4-H project. And then there's the DOUBLE-WIDE trailer in the background and I smile to myself knowing that back in '92 it was just our house... I was completely unaware that it was a trailer! And then there's the cord that jimmy-rigged our big-screen TV to the big ol' pole with the antennae thingy in it. Mom and Dad used to send us outside to "fix" the screen (we'd have to twist the pole until one of them said "OKAY! That's good!" and then we were cleared to come back inside. (I know! I'm thinkin' the same thing... REDNECK! lol)

And looking at his photo, I can hear Dad's laughter as he's asking Kristy how to pose. And I admire his youthful and hardworking arms, strong from good hard manual labor and his Wrangler jeans. And the smile in his eyes beneath the bill of one of his 80,000 [free] caps (this one from his sister-in-law).

Some years March is harder than others. There was lots of shock and heartache and pain when he died. And if I am not careful with my thoughts, I'll let myself into those rooms that have long since been cleaned up and polished by the healing restorative power of my Jesus. It's a weird thing, grief. Sometimes you just feel like getting back to the raw emotion of it, to feel barren and stricken and tear your clothes and put on sackcloth and ashes. Because when there's no edge on the grief... it means it's been too long since he's been within reach.

I'll always remember the feel of the inside of his hands. He was a hand holder. And his hands were calloused and yet polished smooth with consistent use. His hand would give my knee a squeeze or he'd get me right in that soft spot between the collar bone and the neck with a teasing jab. Oh yeah, he would bite his nails to the quick (my husband, does, too). Those were my dad's hands.

I don't know. Today is really just like yesterday. Except not. It's just like tomorrow will be. Except not. Today, 12 years ago, my life and my world stopped. And yet, the earth kept spinning on its axis. Everyone around us continued on. But our lives were changed. So we live even though they don't. And trust that God was working it for good for my heart and my life.

And my babes will know their Grampa Rob through me, through what I share. Just like my Dad would tell us about his own father who died before I was born.

In the meantime, I keep discovering little treasures from the Lord, in His good humor, that He's ingrained into my husband. Sometimes I just marvel. Bryan didn't get to meet Dad. So my husband only knows him through me. There are times when Bryan will laugh really hard and it sounds like Dad (that noiseless gut laugh, you know?). Bryan's always called me Babe (my mom was The Babe). He calls our oldest son Roberto (which was also something my Dad called my brother). One time in a half-hearted scolding of our two boys for goofing around in their room, Bryan said, "That's enough there, Kemosabes." (Dad totally always called Kristy 'Kemosabe'!)
btw kemosabe is a Native American word for "faithful friend." That's a free fact for you, no charge.

And you know, most of these similarities between my Dad and my Bryan didn't start surfacing until after we've had our babes. So, I just thank my Jesus, for the ways He (big H) and he (little h) show up in my everyday life. And on days when I miss my Dad... ordinary non-milestone days and especially on those extraordinary memory-maker days, I just beg the Lord to tell Dad I love him and miss him and still need him. I'll always be glad I got to be his daughter.

And hey... "daughter" is just one letter different than the word "laughter." And when I think of Dad that's what I cherish the most -- his laughter and the encouragement he brought to everyone around him. Dad still makes me laugh. So I know I'm still his girl.