Walk in Paradise

This week marks three years since my dad was called home to be with the Lord.

The bright spot in the middle of the week is that my nephew, my parents' first grandchild, was baptized two years ago today.

But I still miss my dad.

A few nights ago I was singing to one of my twin girls while she tried valiantly to fall asleep in my arms. Out of the blue, I started singing a Hawaiian hymn that my father used to sing to us when we were young. When I forgot the words, I simply hummed the beautiful melody, hoping my baby would find it as soothing as I did so many years ago. Inside, I was saddened to realize that I had forgotten many of the words.

The next day, as I was going through a box of my father's things, I came across a copy of the Hawaiian lyrics that he had prepared for me. What are the odds? The Lord is merciful, even in the smallest matters.

Rather than relay the written lyrics, I found this video on YouTube, where you can also read a short explanation of the song. I only remember my dad singing the second verse in English, which began, "Let me walk in Paradise with you, Lord."

And now he is walking in Paradise. His prayer has been answered.

Father's Day

This Father's Day afternoon was spent going through quite a few things that belonged to my late father. Some of that stuff has been sitting in our basement for 2 1/2 years. My husband did not force me to face all those memories before I was ready. I needed time and healing to be able to endure such a task. I was amazed that I could get rid of so much. Almost everything, in fact.

Oh sure, there are some things I won't be giving up, like the cross he wore that was made out of 5 nails to symbolize the 5 wounds of Christ on the cross; or dozens of sermon tapes that I hope to digitize and share with my family; or his library books (many of them, anyway); or the guitar he played when singing us to sleep; or his favorite pair of cowboy boots. Yes, I wanted to keep the cowboy boots. Surely anyone who knew him can understand that.

With the passage of time, the memory of my father is still vivid, and letting "things" go, I now realize, does not threaten those memories. If anything, the burden of mere "stuff" clouds the legacy of the man who is no longer here to use it, but is rather enjoying the treasures he stored up in Heaven. I miss my earthly father every day, but he is in the presence of my Heavenly Father.

And with a hope like that, I have much to be thankful for this Father's Day.

On this, his birthday...

My dad would have been 56 today.

If things had turned out differently, we might have had a party. My mom might have cooked his favorite: prime rib. I might have unearthed my old (and very limited) cake decorating supplies to bake him a chocolate cake with chocolate icing to eat with chocolate ice cream topped with chocolate fudge. The family might have chipped in to buy him a special gift. I might have been sitting at my usual spot at the kitchen table next to him while we talked theology until well after midnight.

But things didn't turn out differently. Instead, I am having a glass of his favorite scotch (Balvenie) in honor of his memory. It was actually his bottle, come to think of it. Thanks, Dad.

In those turbulent high school years I saw my dad as my rock, my steady anchor and support in that raging sea of stereotypical teenage angst. I could tell him anything, ask him anything, and he would drop what he was doing to be what a father should be. Now he is gone, and try as I might, sometimes I can't help but feel alone. It doesn't make sense. I have a wonderful husband, a caring family, and supportive Christian friends. But that connection - that deep understanding I shared with my dad and no one else - that is gone.

A friend and mentor explained to me recently that the Lord sometimes takes our idols away from us. Perhaps that is what God has done here for me. Now my dad is with Jesus, and my heart and mind are more frequently drawn to Him than they ever were.

That is, I believe, what my dad would want. The cross was his life. He constantly pointed others to Christ. In his death, I am reminded that the Gospel gives life. My dad is forgiven, and so am I. When the Lord calls me home, what a happy reunion it will be.

Here's to you, Dad.

Distraction

I was ready for school to start. It's exciting to be working with older students. Even though it's more difficult, I find that reading about the political intrigues of the Italian Renaissance is much more enjoyable than figuring out how to teach 7-year-olds what sounds "th" makes.

But there is a different way in which I was looking forward to school. It provides me with a built-in distraction from so many burdens. I don't mean to complain because, yes, things could be a lot worse and, yes, despite my cares I am still immensely blessed. Yet to acknowledge that doesn't flip a magical switch and remove the sadness that I carry.

The story is that when Martin Luther was depressed, he threw himself into his work. I definitely think it's more desirable to do that than to sit around and wallow in self-pity. If I'm focusing on something worthwhile, something immediate, and something emotionally neutral, then I'm NOT focusing on sorrow, and pain, and loss. How can that be a bad thing?

A couple of nights ago as I was falling asleep, I was thinking about what happens when I stop and step back from my work. Where has my distraction led me? I take my head out of the sand and the crosses I bear are as real as ever. What's worse is that in using my job as a set of blinders to take my eyes off of the hurt I risk blinding myself to the good things in life. A long walk in cool twilight. New songs on the radio. Enjoying a drink and cigar on the deck with my husband. The pleasure of rambling about whatever strikes my fancy at my computer. Picking garden ripe tomatoes. The joy of decorating my house. A thoughtful gift from a good friend.

Yes, I was looking forward to school for its value as a distraction. I'm sure it will remain a temptation for me to treat it as one. But I need to remind myself that it's not worth taking my eyes off of what is important.