Dad wasn't real talkative today, but I could still read into some of his responses and body language that he might be feeling ornery!
From across the room, Mom said, "I love you, honey."
"I love you, too", was the clear reply.
I was sitting on the bed in his direct gaze, so I said, "What about me?"
A slight shake of the head.
"Do you love me?!" I asked again.
Just a look.
Stinker.
"Well, that's OK, Dad, I love you."
After a second he responded, "OK."
That twinkle in his eye made me laugh.
Emily and I were in the car, talking about some of Poppy's "behind-the-wheel" vocabulary--aimed at other drivers, and just traffic in general.
"Local yokels."
"Whadaya think this is, a racetrack down through here?"
And attempting to pull out from his driveway, "There wasn't anybody through here in 5 minutes but look what we got coming now, a herd of turtles."
And aimed at other drivers:
"Nut case."
"Fruitcake."
"Idiot."
Emily said she would hear the word "moron", but never knew what it meant!
And my personal favorite--aimed at the population increasing the traffic congestion: "They oughta throw a bomb under this place."
Back and forth, Emily and I recited Dad's "driving phrases" tonight and we were howling with laughter!
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Moving forward yet looking back
Ironic, isn’t it, at the beginning of a new year typically filled with fresh starts, excited anticipation, and bright tomorrows that looking back paints a prettier picture than what is in front of me.
January 4th came and went this week without me giving any thought to the significance of the day. (That’s a good thing, right?!) Two years. Two whole years have passed since my daddy went away. Although he was drifting away for a long time before that.
God has been so faithful. Dad is safe, warm and well-cared for. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas, it didn’t matter that the snow was falling thickly outside his window. He was comfortable and content tucked safely in his bed. He was able to smile and say, “Christmas Gift to you, too!” HA! He remembered! THAT was a Christmas gift to me!
My throat tightens at what lies ahead in the immediate future for my father, for us. Will Dad’s earthly journey come to a close this year? What will the end look like? What will it be like as he "crosses chilly Jordan"? Will I be able to withstand? My mind races with unanswerable questions. I know I am not the first one to wonder about these things. But my thoughts must not focus on me. The end for me (saying goodbye for now) is just the beginning for him! “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Dad used to tell me. True, it will; but, boy, is it going to get better for him! Heaven is just around the corner, Dad, and what joy unspeakable! Seeing his Lord and Savior face to face! Healing! Wholeness! Complete mind and body restored! My spirits lift at those thoughts!
We gathered around the out-dated projector, silent yet very much alive images danced on the wall. Dad fishing with the boys and his brother-in-law, Joel. Dad with Virg and Grace and Vi at Six Flags over Georgia. Dad throwing football with his sons in the autumn leaves. Dad & Uncle Willard husking sweet corn in the front yard. Dad holding me as a baby, the year we visited Virg and Grace in Florida. Dad shoveling the snow drifts across the front driveway. Dad and Sam, the dog. Dad diving into the water at Jim Burns’ pool with two small boys on his back. That’s the good stuff to remember. Watching Dad in the “good ol’ days”, walking very quickly across my living room wall (!), it was not lost on me that he had a lot of energy then; much more even than when I was growing up. But I do remember summer evenings when the days were long and the sun kissed the earth even past 9pm, Dad would spontaneously suggest a round of golf. Hawk Valley. Most times we could fit 18 holes in before dark. Occasionally Mom would try out her clubs on a hole or two, often rattled by Dad’s constant—and not always kind—“coaching.” “Keep your head down; you topped it!” But mostly she and I were just along for the ride. Literally. I would squeeze in between them on the cart, Dad sometimes would let me “give it some gas” with his foot hovering near the brake. I can still almost smell THE SMELLS. Golf course smells. Newly cut grass. The engine of the golf cart. The sweaty, dirty and faintly-like-leather smell of the golf club grip. Suds from the ball-washing “machine”. And then...there was the 9th green. Squinting into the sunset. The waning sunlight cast long shadows of the flag. The best part about the 9th green was that it was just across the cartpath from the clubhouse. The clubhouse—where there were vending machines. Vending machines that contained Cokes; Dr. Peppers; long, skinny, plastic packs of salted peanuts and Hershey bars with almonds. We would almost always begin “the back nine” with such treasures and I would be content to sit happily munching the snacks, smack dab in the middle of the cart’s bench seat until, oh say, at least the 12th hole!
One evening this week, the children were getting ready for bed. Out of the blue, my husband (he’d been looking at the sweet face of our son) said, “TJ, you are Poppy’s little man.” Dad would tell him that so often. And you know what, I was glad to hear the words, you ARE, not you WERE Poppy’s little man. TJ will never stop being that. Just like my father will never stop being. Even when his time on earth is over, he will live on—in eternity with Christ, yes, but in our hearts and minds because we have sweet memories from the past to carry us into the future.
January 4th came and went this week without me giving any thought to the significance of the day. (That’s a good thing, right?!) Two years. Two whole years have passed since my daddy went away. Although he was drifting away for a long time before that.
God has been so faithful. Dad is safe, warm and well-cared for. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas, it didn’t matter that the snow was falling thickly outside his window. He was comfortable and content tucked safely in his bed. He was able to smile and say, “Christmas Gift to you, too!” HA! He remembered! THAT was a Christmas gift to me!
My throat tightens at what lies ahead in the immediate future for my father, for us. Will Dad’s earthly journey come to a close this year? What will the end look like? What will it be like as he "crosses chilly Jordan"? Will I be able to withstand? My mind races with unanswerable questions. I know I am not the first one to wonder about these things. But my thoughts must not focus on me. The end for me (saying goodbye for now) is just the beginning for him! “It’s gonna get worse before it gets better,” Dad used to tell me. True, it will; but, boy, is it going to get better for him! Heaven is just around the corner, Dad, and what joy unspeakable! Seeing his Lord and Savior face to face! Healing! Wholeness! Complete mind and body restored! My spirits lift at those thoughts!
We gathered around the out-dated projector, silent yet very much alive images danced on the wall. Dad fishing with the boys and his brother-in-law, Joel. Dad with Virg and Grace and Vi at Six Flags over Georgia. Dad throwing football with his sons in the autumn leaves. Dad & Uncle Willard husking sweet corn in the front yard. Dad holding me as a baby, the year we visited Virg and Grace in Florida. Dad shoveling the snow drifts across the front driveway. Dad and Sam, the dog. Dad diving into the water at Jim Burns’ pool with two small boys on his back. That’s the good stuff to remember. Watching Dad in the “good ol’ days”, walking very quickly across my living room wall (!), it was not lost on me that he had a lot of energy then; much more even than when I was growing up. But I do remember summer evenings when the days were long and the sun kissed the earth even past 9pm, Dad would spontaneously suggest a round of golf. Hawk Valley. Most times we could fit 18 holes in before dark. Occasionally Mom would try out her clubs on a hole or two, often rattled by Dad’s constant—and not always kind—“coaching.” “Keep your head down; you topped it!” But mostly she and I were just along for the ride. Literally. I would squeeze in between them on the cart, Dad sometimes would let me “give it some gas” with his foot hovering near the brake. I can still almost smell THE SMELLS. Golf course smells. Newly cut grass. The engine of the golf cart. The sweaty, dirty and faintly-like-leather smell of the golf club grip. Suds from the ball-washing “machine”. And then...there was the 9th green. Squinting into the sunset. The waning sunlight cast long shadows of the flag. The best part about the 9th green was that it was just across the cartpath from the clubhouse. The clubhouse—where there were vending machines. Vending machines that contained Cokes; Dr. Peppers; long, skinny, plastic packs of salted peanuts and Hershey bars with almonds. We would almost always begin “the back nine” with such treasures and I would be content to sit happily munching the snacks, smack dab in the middle of the cart’s bench seat until, oh say, at least the 12th hole!
One evening this week, the children were getting ready for bed. Out of the blue, my husband (he’d been looking at the sweet face of our son) said, “TJ, you are Poppy’s little man.” Dad would tell him that so often. And you know what, I was glad to hear the words, you ARE, not you WERE Poppy’s little man. TJ will never stop being that. Just like my father will never stop being. Even when his time on earth is over, he will live on—in eternity with Christ, yes, but in our hearts and minds because we have sweet memories from the past to carry us into the future.
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