Hey Dad

Happy Father's Day Dad. I know you aren't here, but I know you really are here. So strange to feel close to you even though I don't get to see you or hear your voice. I wonder if you have your voice back. So sad how you didn't have your voice for the past couple of years. That must have been so frustrating. I can't imagine. That might be one of my greatest fears, losing my voice. Not so much losing the tone, volume, or high notes; but, rather the ability to express myself using my voice. You should know that even though you didn't talk as often, or with much volume, you were still expressing yourself and communicating.

There were values that you communicated to us through your actions and your words. And, even after losing your voice, you still modeled and expressed them. Strength, perseverance, loyalty, stubbornness, endurance, and love. Without words, you shared that we should never give up. I am afraid I might have let you down when it comes to this value. Even more, there may be times ahead that I give up out of sheer frustration or exhaustion. How did you do it? How did you keep going throughout your life? I look at the overwhelming amount of stress that you must have been enduring, not just as a father, but as a man; and I wonder what made you keep going? I also wonder, how you continually found yourself making decisions that would add more stress to your life, and subsequently, to ours? I don't mean that out of judgment, but rather out of curiosity. I see it happening over and over. Decisions made that negatively affect growth, success, and comfort are a part of what we do. Is it because we think the choice we are making will somehow bring a different consequence than it does? Or, sometimes, maybe we just aren't thinking. That might be more like it.

I find myself, on this day, Father's Day, thinking of all the questions and conversations that I wish I could have with my dad. Like, "Did you really like my singing?", "Where could you go if you could go anywhere in the world?", "What do you think about me going back to school?", "Aren't you amazed at your grand kids?", "What are you going to get mom for your anniversary?", "Aren't you proud of your wife and how she has managed for the past 40 years of marriage with you?", "Can you believe you had 4 children?"; and so many more that I know I will not get answers to, at least until I go to heaven. Some questions seem small and insignificant. They are just questions that a daughter should be able to ask her dad.

In addition to questions, I find myself thinking about conversations that I want to have. "I am so thankful that you are taking such good care of my mom. I know you are in heaven asking God to give her the assurance that she will be ok. Whether it is a bill you paid before you died that leaves mom with a surprise check of reimbursement, or the check coming from the insurance company; I know that you are watching over her and giving her gifts. You may not have been able to provide for all of us the you wanted, but I am so thankful that you are taking care of mom in ways that you never could while you were alive. She really does deserve the riches and blessings that come with putting up with you:). You know I love you and only pick on you because you taught me to."

So many unvoiced conversations will weigh heavily in my heart. The questions and the advice that I look for you to answer will be asked of others, but will beg an insight from you. I am so glad you aren't hurting anymore. It was devastating to watch your life slip away. Just as your losing your voice didn't stop you from communicating, losing your physical strength didn't stop you from showing each of us the pride and dignity that comes from enduring life's circumstances, and rising above the challenges to serve your family and those you love. You did that dad. But I still wish you were here; without the pain, and restrictions that came with your disease. I know we were lucky to have you as long as we did. You kept fighting to give each of us just what we needed so we could let go of you with peace and assurance.

So many are not given that great gift. They see their fathers taken inexplicably and in the blink of an eye. They don't get to have the questions of their heart answered either. My heart has a level of peace because I was able to ask you about your heart. In the moment you shared that you loved Jesus and knew you would be going to heaven, I was able to trust that when you needed to leave us you would never be farther away than a prayer or a thought. So many don't have the confidence of knowing they will be reunited with their dads, or a family member. How heavy a load that would be for my heart to carry.

I miss you dad. I miss having a dad. You were able to say to my husband, "Don't give into her too often. She needs someone who will be strong enough to put her in her place every so often." Some might not understand what that means, but I did. You gave Chris very wise council. That is indeed what I need. You know my heart like no other, and I am sad that I won't have your quiet reassurance that who I am is enough. I can't tell you how much it meant to me when I visited and shared about my personal struggles that you listened. You didn't judge me or ridicule me. You didn't tell me what I should have done, or should do. You listened and you loved me. You told me that everyone goes through hard times. You encouraged me to stay connected to Chris and trust him with my whole heart, even as it was hurting and angry. Such wise advice given lovingly and honestly.

Dad, I knew when you I kissed you good-bye when you and mom were leaving Illinois that Wednesday, the last day of March on your way to Indy that it might be the last time I would see you. I didn't want to wake you up because you had been hiccuping all night and were finally asleep. But, mom told me you would want to say good-bye. I hugged you and gave you a kiss. Leaning over you I asked if you were going to get better. I will never forget the look on your face and the shake of your head as you said, "No, I don't thinks so." It was a mix of orneriness, sadness, defiance, and exhaustion. It was the last time I saw you.

I am glad you don't hurt anymore. I am so glad you can breathe and speak and laugh and tease. But, dad, I miss you. I am sad for all of us as we try to make sense of loss and change that seems too much at times. My heart grieves that I won't be able to look into your beautiful blue eyes and see the acceptance that I crave and try to prove, but that you just gave because I was yours. Crying comes sporadically these days. But when I cry, as I am right now, I feel a little relief that it is ok to not be strong and in control. You are here with me and this vulnerability is not being judged or negated as insignificant or inappropriate. So, I will rest in this place for a few more moments, and then I will pull myself together and rise to meet the day. I am glad you are my dad. I love you and I miss you.

No matter what, and even if

My blogger website has been down for the past couple days, but I kept myself busy with my aunt and uncle. Aunt Karen just recently got an iPad, so, we had to explore the music, games, apps, everything. We worked very hard. Now, to some, it may have appeared that we were doing nothing. But, I have to vehemently deny that assertion. Not only were we learning, exploring, and connecting neurons in our brain, we were getting to know each other. We were connecting and sharing parts of who we were with each other.

I can count on one hand how many times I have seen my aunt and uncle since I have any recollection of memories of my own life; my wedding, my grandfather's funeral, my uncle's funeral, and my father's funeral. Funny how family can be so far away, disconnected, but when major life events occur, they always show up. This time they showed up just to visit. They were driving through on their way back to Washington State in their RV with their two dogs. They did a lot of sight seeing as they began their travels the day after my dad died. They made it to Indianapolis by his funeral. Then traveled to see their daughter, and then on to Florida to see my mother. They chose to stop by; nobody had died, gotten married, had a baby, or required anything of them. Well, I did need more time with her iPad, but they didn't have to oblige me.

I had deluded myself for some time into believing that I could get by with being distanced from my family. In my head, family was more than blood. Family was the people who walked along side us, and loved us when our blood family were too far away, either physically or emotionally. Family were our neighbors, our friends, our students, our colleagues, and our church. Part of me will always consider these various entities my family. They are the people who brought us a meal when my children were sick, or let me drop my kids off to them when I had an audition, or a performance. These people loved my children when I have been too impatient, frustrated, or sad to do them right. Then there are the folks who listened to me cry my heart out because I didn't understand why a woman who has struggled her whole life had to suffer a brain aneurysm that kept her from being the woman, the mother, the employee she needed to be to survive in this world. There were friends who watched me fall apart because I couldn't serve in the capacity that I wanted or needed and told me I would be ok. Some dear friends watched my life crack wide open as my reputation, value, and identity were questioned, ridiculed, and humiliated. They stood beside me, loved me and encouraged me to put myself back together. They saw me when I didn't see myself.

There were friends who cautioned me about giving too much of myself away in my effort to love and support others. Friends who I considered family because they loved me despite my frustrated outbursts at staff and committee meetings. Some came into my home to get me out of bed when I didn't want to face the morning. Some dear friends let me hold their newborn babies, or hug their sweet preschoolers as they walked by me at church. These family members had no blood relation to me, but they cared enough in the midst of life's highs and lows to email or call me to be sure I was breathing. The friends from here to Champaign, from New York to Indianapolis, from Chicago, and every small town and suburb across this state and country loved my children, my husband and me even when they didn't have to or know how to love us. I could write a blog recounting the variety of ways I was blessed in being able to love others who, even though I wasn't their family, let me love them in moments of vulnerability, sadness, and celebration.

I will always consider these people my family. Whether or not they knew I was related to them, they will always be considered family in my heart. I guess I underestimated how my family, the one I was born into, though not always within driving distance or in my everyday interactions, has loved and accepted me; even though they weren't a part of our every day lives. My aunt and uncle knew my heart for my children, and they had a vested interest in getting to know them for who they were. I was able to be me and trust that they would love me. I could tell them about my sadness, my fears, my joys, my anxiety, and my passion. They were always caring for me, even when they didn't know all the details.

I know that my friends are my family and will continue to love us even though we won't be close to them anymore. I have learned I can rely on my family members, both blood relations, and the gifts of family members who God has given us throughout every stage of our life. Of course, their are some people who I will always misappropriately label as family. I will continue to learn through painful experiences that I should not trust so fully or so liberally allow others to be part of our family. All families have disagreements, arguments, and brokenness. But, when I try to claim a friend as family, I am not honoring the mutual decision that has to be made in maintaining the relationship. And, in reality, I don't get to be the one who claims a person as a family member. Just loving a person and wanting to care for them doesn't mean they are willing or able to receive what I,or my family has to offer. I don't get to choose or take someone as mine. God gives them to me, to us. He has given us beautiful children, siblings, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. He has also given us wonderful neighbors, teachers, mentors, friends, colleagues, students, and church leaders. God has given each of us our family in a myriad of ways and through diverse and complex relationships.

Just as I did when my grandparents used to drive away from our house after a short visit when I was younger, I cried when my aunt and uncle left this morning. I remember crying when my mom and dad would leave after they would visit us in New York. Crying when people leave or when I have to leave is a part of who I am. Whether we are given the opportunity to move in a new direction before this fall begins, or in a year, I have already begun grieving, crying as I say good-bye to the experiences and relationships that have been my family. But, unlike when I was a little girl, sitting on the step as my grandparents drove away, or like I was this morning as my aunt and uncle headed out; I will know that each moment and family member who God has given me will never leave me. I will still cry, but I will be comforted in knowing that those who are really my family, those by blood, and those gifted to me in other forms will love me and allow me to love them, no matter what, and even if.

Say what?

Have you ever thought about why we say, or, rather, don't say, what needs to be said, or what we want to say? That is very clear, right? I am sure you already see where I am going with this. But, humor me. I am a little slow in translating and understanding my own thoughts.

For instance, my grandfather, my dad's dad, is still alive. My dad died 4 weeks ago, as of yesterday. He was 63 years old. My Grandpa is like, 200 years old, or maybe 95 years old. There was a great deal of discussion amongst the family about whether to tell my grandpa about my dad's death. He lives in a nursing home near my uncle, his son. Grandpa raised his family in Indianapolis, as did my dad. He moved to live near my uncle when my mom and dad moved to Florida, about 7 years ago. My dad visited my grandfather every day for years before he moved. They didn't talk much, but my dad always showed up. So, back to the dilemma.

When my dad died, the discussion about whether or not to tell his dad, my grandfather, was the only source of confusion or contention. I talked to my Aunt, my cousins, my sister, brothers, and my mom. The fear was that it might break my grandfather's heart. Or, maybe he wouldn't understand. Or, maybe he would forget. But, the point I most related to, sympathized with, was that he would have no response at all. Can you imagine? As a parent, I would want to know. I imagine I might feel it in the very depth of my soul if something happened to my child. No matter how old I become, I feel like I would recognize, sense, and feel the loss somewhere deep down inside of me.

But, what if I didn't. What if time, circumstances, ordeals, tragedies, dilemmas, disputes, heartbreak and brokenness kept me from feeling? What if those things didn't keep me from feeling, but rather made me incapable of responding or communicating the pain? Or, what if, the painful path of life made him unable to empathize with his two living children? Can you imagine? My aunt and uncle would have to tell their father that their brother, his son had passed away. Their own hearts broken, having seen their youngest brother wither before their eyes; they would stand before their father sharing the grief and loss of losing their brother. Seeking the love and compassion of their father, they may receive nothing, no response.

I am not sure my aunt, uncle, cousins, brothers, sister or mother thought about this point, this lack of response when they debated whether or not to tell my grandfather about the death of his son. I think we all thought about what my dad would want. He would not want to put his sister or brother, or his wife or children to have to share the news of his passing. He would not want his father to feel the pain in the depth of his soul of losing his child before he got to go to heaven to be with his wife. My dad would not want his father to know about his death. Right or wrong, we all knew this is where my father stood.

(I pause here to wonder if my dad would want to know if one of his children passed. That is the inner struggle I had with this decision. What kind of premise is set by deciding not to tell my grandfather about my dad's death? Does that not speak to lack of trust, confidence, and faith? Is the truth the truth, even when it is not spoken? Yes, my dad is gone. That is true, even if his dad doesn't know it. I can argue both sides with this statement. Whether or not my grandfather knew about my dad, the truth is the truth. My dad is gone. But, I didn't want any of my family to think it was ok to not share the truth. Even the painful, broken, and unspeakable truth of death is meant to be shared with family. I want my children to know they can tell me anything. I know...I know...they won't tell me everything. But, I don't want to set a presidence for not telling me the truth by modeling avoidance or denial. This will be out of my control, I am aware.)

My family decided not to tell my grandfather about my dad's passing. My uncle spoke fervently before and after my dad's death that his dad was not aware of all that was going on around him. Three weeks before my dad's death, my dad, his sister and brother, visited my grandfather. My grandfather seemed oblivious to the fact that my dad was sick, that he weighed slightly more than 90 pounds and could not stand up on his own. There was no question, no comment, no acknowledgement by my grandfather that his son was struggling to breathe. So, what good would telling him that his son died serve? The truth for the truth's sake seems hardly justifiable for provoking unnecessary suffering and pain. But, who would have suffered the pain?

I submit that the my aunt, uncle, mother, siblings, or myself would have suffered the greatest injustice. Not because my grandfather is cold, bitter, or unfeeling (though this may be very true and understandable realizing that he watched his wife suffer for years with alzheimers and then had to let her go and live the rest of his life without his love), but because all of us would have suffered the rejection of comfort and compassion in our moments of greatest pain. Again, I know that my grandfather is not to blame. He did the very best he could do in this long journey of his. He suffered and has admittedly given up living; wanting to go to be with his wife, my grandmother.

How many times do we, each and every one of us, refuse to speak the truth to those we love because we are afraid? I know I don't say all that I think or feel because I am afraid. But, what I am realizing is, I am not so much afraid of saying it, but afraid I may not be heard and responded to in such away that comforts or supports me in the way I need or want. As I write this, I wonder if it comes across as selfish as it seems to me coming off of my fingertips. It sounds so selfish to say that I have an expectation that somebody respond a certain way when I share information. But, in reality, that is where I am. Recently, I was asked to clarify my lack of effort or desire to do something. Today I realized why. The fear of not getting the response I expect or need keeps me from wanting to be vulnerable and open. Sharing the intimate feelings regarding love, death, fear, and joy implies risk. When we agree to risk something, we want to have some reassurance that there will be a comforting, accepting, and loving response from the recipient. Or, I suppose, there are times when we want a response of frustration, anger, or disgust, depending on what is shared. But, we want a response. Apathy is not the response we can easily accept when we risk being vulnerable.

So, when I considered the expectation for comfort, compassion, and nurture needed from my grandfather with the risk that my family would extend in sharing this sad news of my dad's loss, I understood why my dad, aunt, and uncle would not want to put themselves in this position. The facts are really very sad; not just for my family, but for all of us. We are a people afraid of risking our hearts because we have learned to quickly and painfully that our expectations can not always be met. But, my fear subsides when I realize that the truth is the truth, and that my Father knows each and every pain, risk, and expectation that each of His children have. We do not have to live in fear because we are human and fail one another on a regular basis. We can live with hope that reconciliation and joy awaits each of us who love Him and know the truth that He is fully capable, ultimately forgiving, and unimaginably generous.