October 22, 2009
Remembering Dad
I miss you dad. Even though it’s been five years, I still expect to see “Love and God Bless, Mom and Dad” at the end of emails, letters and cards. But no. The handwriting that now encompasses all that parental love is from mom alone.
I miss so many things dad. I miss sitting on your lap as a little girl while you read to me.
I miss your shyness that turns into passion when you stand behind the pulpit to open the Word of God.
I miss your quiet strength. There was nothing you wouldn’t do for us. Twice, I remember waking up in a hospital to see you sitting by my bedside. A third time we were both part of what had to be one of God’s sovereign displays of creative humor within crisis. You had Alzheimers and I have Epilepsy and they intersected that day I was brought into the hospital. While everyone was wondering where my insurance card was, this booming voice said “I am still the head of this house.” It’s the only thing I remember about that day, dad, but I’d go through it all again to hear that booming voice.
I miss your sense of humor. We all heard the same jokes over and over and over again. And if someone even mentioned your trip to Israel, out came all 27 reels of slides…and how many camels you were offered in trade for mom.
I especially miss sitting with you in your study surrounded by all of your books. We had some of the greatest conversations and would sometimes sit there for hours. I learned what to look for in a good book from you. A lot of my Bible training came from that room.
Even in your make-shift study in Indiana when you and Mom lived with Don and Sue we were able to share some time together. You were entering later stages of Alzheimers and you knew it, and we talked about it. You and I read Psalm 139 together. Your worn Bible was all underlined but you couldn’t remember ever reading or studying that passage before. But you and I talked about the fact that even in the womb your Alzheimers and my epilepsy had a divine purpose. It wasn’t long after this conversation that I heard your booming voice in the emergency room.
I miss your encouragement followed closely by your accountability. You wrote me a short note while I was in college that was filled with wisdom. “Do not betray the future for the seeming importance of today. Some things must be laid aside for the more lasting ones.”
I miss the “rathole” in your wallet. I could never figure out how someone who only kept $5 in that rathole managed to pull out $20 and then say “don’t tell your mother.” That rathole was like the five loaves and two fish. It never seemed to run out. Even now, dad, five years later, your wallet is still on your little table behind your recliner and the rathole still has money in it.
During one of our last conversations, you in your recliner and me at your knee, I was looking in your eyes trying to figure out if the dad I knew was still in there. I wanted to know how to reconcile a Spirit-filled life and Alzheimers. All of a sudden, that booming voice appeared again and said, “I was praying for you to come.”
I replay that conversation in my head so often because I still don’t have the answer but now, you do. You are now in the presence of the One who is answering all those hard questions and explaining all those underlined Scriptures you wanted to remember.
I miss you, dad, but I’ll see you again someday and we can continue our conversations.
