A Goodbye

Dear Dad,

I keep thinking of everything I want to say. Your face is there, your easy-going smile that is almost but not quite a smirk. The way you raise your eyebrows when I say something as you think about your answer or you’re about to make a smart remark. I keep hearing your voice in my head, reminding me of all the things you would say if you were here watching us, which you well may be, considering the Bible says we have a “great cloud of witnesses” watching our race home.

I’ve been thinking for a few years that I needed to say some things to you. I was afraid because our family doesn’t get emotional. We’re open and honest and funny, but we don’t do mushy, and I was trying to think of a way to say the things without being mushy.

I want you to know I’ve always been very proud of you. How many people can say they have a dad who never once in their entire life raised his voice to them? You have a peaceful, optimistic and methodic approach to life that has been a tether to my natural tendency to fly off into outer space. There was a time in my life I wished you would say the things I wanted to hear, but when I learned to listen in the ways that you communicate, I found out you were basically shouting them. There is no doubt in my mind that you loved me, that you delighted in me, that you were proud of me.

Some of my favorite things from my childhood are remembering the ways you tried to make life interesting and fun. I still pause whenever I catch the scent of the glue you used for your train models or the electric photographic smell of your slides when you were giving us a slide show. You didn’t have great amounts of money, but you did your best to take us on epic trips that we would remember forever. (And I remember them, even if I was a brat at the time.) You were a tease, you were stubborn, you were the kind of father who had perfected the art of sarcasm to a point where instead of hearing insult we heard you saying you loved us. You taught us that humor and wit were essential to life. You taught us to value music in virtually any form it came. You taught us to see the beauty and value in words. In poetry, in music, in fiction and nonfiction and so many other ways.

More importantly, you taught us the essentials of living a life that is pleasing to Christ. You taught us to be every bit and more concerned with Biblical accuracy as we were about grammar. You taught us not to give up on people when they were difficult or suffering or lost. You taught us to do everything for God’s glory, not our own agenda, even if it meant being humble or not getting what we wanted.  You showed us how to be teachable. You were always changing, always growing in your understanding of the Word. You didn’t get stuck in ruts that held you back or made you ineffectual. You were always open, always sharing what you learned with others and helping them to see God’s truth. You weren’t afraid of speaking the truth when others didn’t want to hear it but needed to.

I don’t want you to be gone yet. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to stop seeing my children sitting with you in church, leaning their head on your shoulder. I wasn’t ready to stop seeing you like everything I said on facebook. I wasn’t ready to pass by your study and not see you there in your chair, feverishly writing and recording and preserving everything you had in you, everything you wanted to leave as a legacy for us and for your grandchildren. I wasn’t ready to stop watching you love mom and be her best friend and protector and the love of her life. I wasn’t ready to stop walking down the hall and see you in your Sunday School class waiting to start teaching. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

We won’t forget, Dad. We won’t forget the things that were important to you. We won’t forget to consider the people that have come before us, we won’t forget your story. Because I understand now why it was so important to you to share it. You didn’t want people to look at you, you wanted them to see how much Christ had done for you. He’s the focus. He’s your focus. And Jesus is who you wanted us to be focused on, more than any dream or ambition. You and I have quite a few of those. Thank you for teaching me how to be patient and wait for God’s time and leading. Thank you for passing on to me your love of words and stories and everything beautiful in this life. I will treasure and nurture those gifts and make sure that Jesus is always in charge of how they are used.

Goodbye, Dad. I love you.