First Responders: Guest Blog by Dr. Bob Rusbosin

On March 3, 2017March 3, 2017 By seeyabubIn Guest Blog4 Comments

Ty: There were voices, I’m not sure whose, asking me questions.

“Who should we call immediately? Who do you need here right now?”

I had just been told minutes earlier that my Dad had passed away, a victim of suicide at age 50. My mind had been cloudy, foggy, overwhelmed ever since I heard that horrible news. There seemed to be a haze hanging over me. I knew that time was ticking on, but I felt like I was standing still, unable to progress forward.

But to that particular question, my mind cleared in an instant and I was able to form a response. I knew right away, in the eye of that storm, the people outside of my immediate family that I wanted there in that moment.

“I need my pastor, Harville. And I need Dr. Bob.”

Harville Duncan had been there through so many ups and downs of my spiritual journey. He knew the ins and outs of my struggles and my triumphs, and most importantly, he knew my family. He had ministered to my Mom and Dad since they were young. He had been there for us whenever we needed him. It makes sense that a Christian would call for their pastor in the immediate aftermath of a family death as tragic as ours.

But it probably makes less sense to an outsider looking in for a four-years-ago graduate of college to call for their Dean of Students. But to me, it made all the sense in the world.

I came to know Dr. Bob Rusbosin as a nervous college freshman when I started at Miami University’s Regional Campus in Hamilton. Pure chance inspired our first meeting. After leaving my geology class in Mosler Hall, I spotted a sign with flyers below it that read “Interested in Joining the Student Government Association?”

I had never participated in student government before, but I had always wanted to. My nerves and general shyness in high school had bested me in that chapter, but I refused to let it beat me in this new one. I flipped through the packet, read through the guidelines, and spotted a contact number: Dr. Bob Rusbosin, Dean of Students, Miami University Hamilton.

Once I arrived home, I picked up the phone and called Bob. I told him who I was, that I was interested in joining the Student Government Association (SGA), and hoped he might be able to answer a few questions. What I thought would be a ten-minute phone conversation quickly turned into 30 with the promise of a meeting on campus the next day.

I immediately knew I liked Bob from the moment I met him. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was unlike anybody I had ever met before. He was in a powerful position of authority at Miami, but he was humble and full of generosity. He was in a position to be a teacher full of knowledge to impart to his students, but he asked more questions than he answered. He was responsible for overseeing and attending to the needs of thousands of college students, but in that moment he made me feel like I was the only person who mattered.

At his urging, I ended up joining the SGA. And I ended up hanging around Bob’s office as long as I could—for the next four years. Bob was more than a student government advisor. He was a teacher when I needed to learn a lesson. He was an encouraging coach when I doubted myself. He was an advocate for me whenever he saw an opportunity I should take advantage of. Ultimately, Dr. Bob was always the person who would be there for me whenever I came calling. Just being there is one thing, but being entirely there to support someone else in every single moment is a trait we should all strive to develop. Bob embodies this trait better than anyone.

Bob: When Ty called me that fateful morning in late July 2013, he was completely devastated, distraught and beside himself in a way that I had rarely experienced ever before in my life. Ty was able to tell me through his uncontrollable sobbing that his Dad was dead. He told me that it had just happened at his Mom and Dad’s house, that Becky was at work when it happened but was now there but in a state of shock and that his grandfather was there with him. I was in my office at Miami University Hamilton and I told him that I would come over immediately. He thanked me profusely.

I did not hesitate in telling Ty that I would be there for him in his time of need. Tyler and I forged a bond that started at the end of his senior year in high school. He is the only high school student who ever called me to set up a meeting to discuss the Student Government Association (SGA). Needless to say, I was duly impressed with this aspiring leader’s interest and enthusiasm in being a young activist on campus. Little did I know that Tyler was someday going to be a model SGA President who would lead the organization with honesty, integrity, compassion and skills that were truly remarkable and noteworthy.

Tyler and I also bonded on a very personal level during our first meeting in my office shortly after that first phone call. The meeting was going quite well and it appeared that Tyler was the real deal for the SGA until he suddenly realized that he was meeting with the proud father of an amazingly talented son from his bitter rival Hamilton High School who had scored a last second, game winning three point shot against his beloved alma mater four years earlier. He told of the intense hatred that he felt towards my son over the past four years because of that shot. I told Ty how proud I was of Nate (and our daughter, Anna) for being great children and for their many amazing accomplishments including Nate’s memorable shot against Fairfield. Ty was listening (one of his greatest attributes I later learned) and he immediately was able to put the dreadful shot into perspective and went home with every intent to filling out the SGA application.

Tyler was an exceptional student leader at Miami whose accomplishments always seemed to eclipse one another. For example, he gave the best speech ever of all of the Communication 101 students as a freshman and this included all of the Oxford students as well as the regional campus students. His communication skills were and still are top notch! He developed the highly successful Campus Pride Initiative with the SGA on the Hamilton campus that was transformative and hugely significant in making the campus more vibrant, dynamic and visible. He spontaneously presented on the Campus Pride model at a national conference for student government leaders and advisors in St. Louis. He led campus-wide memorials for both 9/11 and the death of our hometown hero, Joe Nuxhall. He was presented the notable President’s Distinguished Service Award for his service to the campus and the community. He was the Voice of the Harriers for the basketball, volleyball and baseball games and was eventually tapped to fill in as the Voice of the RedHawks on the Oxford campus. This is when I first met Scott and Becky. They were proud parents of their son and rightly so!

Ty told me a lot about Scott through the years. I knew he was still playing basketball as was I and I kept thinking we would be meeting up somewhere on the courts but it never happened. Ty told me about Scott’s tremendous work ethic and his ability to work with his hands on just about anything. Ty told me about the love he had just being with his Dad that sounded so much like mine for my Dad. When Ty called, I just had to be there. Ty hugged me like he never wanted to let go. I tried to console him and Becky as best I could. Both seemed to be grateful for my presence. I was so pleased that his grandfather and his pastor were there. They were both saying good things and helping me feel welcome at this most challenging time for the family. More relatives began to arrive and I eventually retreated to allow the family love and compassion to freely flow.

I see Scott in Tyler in many ways today–funny, loving, devoted, accomplished and very compassionate. I was honored to be a mentor to Tyler during his undergraduate years at Miami and I am even more honored to have Tyler as a friend for life and now an almost brother to Anna and Nate!

Ty: I remember when Bob walked in that day. I saw him come through the foyer of our neighbor’s house, donning a blue polo and a look of complete, utter sympathy that I had seen him show to me so many times before. I broke down and fell into the arms of a man who had been a father to me at Miami. That hug lasted for a long time, but although our embrace did eventually end, the support, love, and care he exuded in that moment never has.

Yes, there were medical first responders and law enforcement officials on the scene who did an outstanding job attending to the situation. But there were also folks that I think of as emotional first responders that were there to support and care for me, my Mom, and my entire family.

Some people make good first responders, and others are born for it. Dr. Bob Rusbosin was born for it.

It’s no surprise that Bob Rusbosin is originally from Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Latrobe, for those who don’t know, is also the hometown of television icon “Mister” Fred Rogers. Dr. Bob and I have always had a mutual admiration for Fred Rogers, so much so that we traveled to Latrobe and the Greater Pittsburgh area to conduct research on our favorite television educator as part of my graduate studies. We met with people who knew Fred, including Bill Isler from the Fred Rogers company, Fred’s high school classmates, and many others.

Fred Rogers had an uncanny ability to talk about tragedy and make folks feel loved. Take a look at your social media feeds the next time that a large-scale tragedy strikes, and I’m sure you’ll find one of his more famous quotes posted and reposted over and over again:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.” (Mister Fred Rogers)

People say that Fred Rogers was one of a kind and that we will never see anyone like him on this earth ever again, but I have to disagree with those people. Those people haven’t met Bob Rusbosin.

In so many ways, from his personality and mannerisms to his genuine heart for others, Bob Rusbosin has always reminded me of Mister Rogers; but the similarity was even more recognizable in this tragic chapter of my life. Bob Rusbosin is the helper that people should always look for, and he was the person I knew that I could count on in my darkest, scariest moment.

I rarely speak in absolutes, but I will on this topic: It’s impossible to grieve and cope successfully in complete and utter isolation. We aren’t built that way. You can consult any psychologist or scientist, or you could also read your Bible, but either way you’ll come to this same conclusion. We need great people in our lives—people I call “emotional first responders”—to help us navigate these treacherous waters. Bob Rusbosin was, and still is, that person for me. Bob became an ideal helper and first responder for a number of different reasons:

He was there. I had no doubt that I could call Bob and he would drop everything he was doing to come help me. I wasn’t guessing that he would show up; I knew he would be there. I was confident that Bob would be there because he had a track record of being there. Over the years, I had dealt with questions and moments of uncertainty, and Bob had always been there to listen to me and care for me. He had developed a level of trust with me in a way that no other educator ever had. And I saw that his trust was more than a professional promise.

He accepted me for who I was in that moment. As you can imagine, college students deal with all sorts of different crises, from small disagreements with friends and family to larger, existential questions about their career and life purpose. Bob had seen me at my best, but he had also seen me at my worst numerous times. Bob is authentic and he is always genuine, and I knew that there was no wavering when it came to his core values. That reliability provided the stability I needed in a moment where it felt like my world was falling apart.

In the aftermath of my Dad’s death, I was (predictably) a mess. I was having trouble breathing. My vision was blurred. I would collect my emotions and then sob uncontrollably when someone else came into the house. I am thankful that I felt the freedom to be myself, my grieving self, in front of Bob. And it was only because he had spent so much time and honest energy getting to know me as a student that I felt free to be this unpolished version of myself in front of him.

He didn’t try to solve the problem. When Bob came into my neighbor’s house, he didn’t try to take control of the situation. He didn’t try to collect information about what had happened. He just came in, said hello to me, and hugged me. He sat in a chair across from me, and as he had done so many times, he just listened. No one had answers in the aftermath of my Dad’s death, and as much as Bob wanted to be my protector, he didn’t pretend to have answers either.

For an educator, it only seems natural to want to help people and try and solve their problems—but Bob understood that the best way he could help me was not to try and provide answers but to instead support me as I tried to find them on my own. There would be no quick answers, and there definitely wouldn’t be any just an hour or so out from the tragic news. So Bob, always patient and always kind, let the grieving process slowly unfold in front of him without trying to put a band-aid over a fatal wound.

He asked how he could help. In moments of tragic loss, especially death, I think we all feel a little uncomfortable when we ask grieving folks “Is there anything I can do to help you?” It seems strange, but in my situation it was particularly reassuring to have so many people offer to help me—even if my response to them was no.

Before he left the house that day, Bob made sure to ask me if there was anything I needed his help with. The gesture alone was enough to tell me that although my Dad, my provider, was gone, there would be people that would attempt to try and fill the voids that were now left in my life. And to my surprise, there were some things I needed immediate help with and I knew that I could trust Bob to accomplish them. I needed someone to communicate with my colleagues at Miami and let them know what was happening—and that I wouldn’t be at work for quite some time. I needed someone to call my graduate school faculty advisor, Peter, and alert him to the emergency happening at home. There were a few other folks who I needed to notify, and Bob agreed to take on all of this responsibility. I couldn’t imagine making some of those calls to try and explain to people what had happened when I couldn’t even explain it to myself. Bob was willing to shoulder this burden, and it made me feel so loved.

He called later to follow through and check on me. Bob is one of those rare individuals who thinks about others more than he thinks of himself. Bob fulfills the commands of Scripture that tell us “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2, NIV). Bob didn’t just show up that morning to be there for me in the moment—he showed up to show me that he was there for the long haul. Later that day, Bob called me to see how I was doing and how I was coping. He also updated me and let me know that he had fulfilled his promise to help me reach out to folks at Miami. But he was more concerned with how I was doing and what I was thinking, and he also shared some great memories of my Dad. It was unbelievably encouraging to hear his voice and know that he would always be there to help.

And yes, he brought ice cream. Bob knew that I loved ice cream. Specifically Graeter’s ice cream. Later that evening, I awoke from an unsuccessful attempt at a nap to learn that Bob had been back to the house to check on me and my entire family. He had stayed, getting to know all of the folks in the house that had visited that day. I had missed getting to see him, but his gestures of kindness were still there even though he had left.

“Ty,” my Grandma told me, “Bob brought you some ice cream. Your favorites from Graeter’s. The pints are in the freezer whenever you get hungry.” There are few things in this world more beautiful than a pint of Graeter’s ice cream, and Bob knew how I felt about this. Although life did not feel normal in that day, there was something beautiful about knowing that some of the things that represented a normal life, like ice cream, would still be there even though my Dad wasn’t. I didn’t eat much that day, but I did take a few bites of ice cream. I’m glad it was there, but more importantly I’m glad Bob was there.

I thank God for a lot of reasons each and every day, but near the top of that list I thank God for leading me to the stairwell on the campus of Miami University Hamilton where I picked up a student government flyer. I thank God that he led me to call the number of the Dean of Students and go meet with him. I thank God that he used my time in student government to help forge a friendship with one of the finest men he has ever put on this earth. And I thank God that he gave Bob Rusbosin the heart of an emotional first responder: authentic, vulnerable, and genuinely loving in every sense of the word.

We all need someone like Bob in our lives. When you hear the words that tell you your Father (or any loved one) is dead, you need people to surround you who can help you walk when you fall and who can help you stand when you feel as if you might never stand again. I’m thankful that God prepared Bob for that moment and chapter of my life by giving him such a tender and thoughtful spirit. He has been there ever since, and I know that any time I call, he will always be there to respond first.

In the days where I need my Dad and realize that he can’t be here for me, I’m grateful that I have Bob Rusbosin—a man who has become a father-figure to me whenever I need him.

Dad, Your death has left a huge hole in my heart and in many areas of my life. There are particular voids that will never be filled until I’m reunited with you on the other side of Eternity. But I am so thankful and so grateful that God positioned certain people in my life, like Bob Rusbosin, to help be there for me when you couldn’t. I know you’re in heaven watching over me, and I know that you are making sure that there are good people and helpers to fill in for you while you’re not here. Keep watching over me, Dad. Keep connecting me with your angels here on earth. I may be grown, but there are days when I need my Dad more than ever. I know how highly you thought of Bob, and I know that if you had a chance to hand-pick someone to fill your shoes, that man would be Bob. We all miss you, Dad, but we are all thankful that you are in a place where the pains you experienced in this life are no longer there. Until we are together again, keep watching over me like you always did when you were here. Seeya, Bub.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” Romans 12:15 (NIV)

Bob Rusbosin

For nearly 30 years, Dr. Bob Rusbosin served as the Dean of Students for Miami University’s Regional Campuses. In this capacity, Bob supported tens of thousands of students as an advisor for the Student Government Association, and oversaw all aspects of student life services, including student activities, athletics, counseling, disability services, career services, diversity and multicultural services, new student orientation, judicial affairs, and child care. A lifelong proponent of civility, Bob helped a group of students at Miami found “Project Civility”, which dramatically improved the campus climate at Miami and became a national model for character education. After a successful career in higher education, Bob is now enjoying his retirement in Venice, Florida where he lives with his wife, Sharon. Bob earned his Ed.D from Indiana University of Pennsylvania, his MAT from the University of Pittsburgh, and his BA from the University of Dayton.

Questions

On February 23, 2017February 23, 2017 By seeyabubIn Foundation Posts1 Comment

“How could God let this happen?”

Nearly eight hours earlier in the day, I had been told that my Dad was gone. Just like that. A victim of suicide. I sat on my bed, completely exasperated—full of pain, and full of unanswered questions. Across my darkened bedroom sat my pastor, Reverend Harville Duncan. He sat in a chair, looking directly at me, shoulders hung low with a face full of sympathy. This was the man who had dedicated me as a baby. This was the man who had baptized me as a young believer. This was the man who had led me through so many spiritual battles and questions.

Now would come one of his tougher tests.

Reverend Duncan has been in the ministry longer than I’ve been alive. He has more spiritual knowledge in his thumb than I have in my entire body. He has probably read thousands of books on God and Christianity throughout his life. He has earned multiple degrees and has studied theology with reputable Christian scholars. He has done everything he could to position himself to answer life’s toughest questions.

But as I looked at him across that room, I could tell that he was at a loss for answers just as much as I was.

Just like I tried to do in the aftermath of Dad’s death, I’ve tried to get out of writing on this topic. In all honesty, I’ve avoided writing this post and put it off until the last minute because I don’t enjoy facing these questions. I don’t enjoy facing them because I don’t have answers for any of it.

Ever since my Dad died, I’ve been flooded with questions big and small. They come in waves, but they come every day. And it’s rare that I’m able to provide an answer to many of them.

The death of a loved one, especially a parent, is a pivotal juncture in one’s life journey, particularly as it pertains to spiritual matters. When that innocence is shattered and when that familiar protector and provider is no longer there, it creates serious unrest in the lives of those left behind. How will I survive without that person? Why did this have to happen? What will life look like without the joy that person brought into it?

Suicide, however, adds and additional layer of questions that I never expected I would have to deal with. How could my Dad think that life wasn’t worth living? Could I have done more to convince him that this wasn’t the end? What factors made him think that life was unlivable? How could God let one of his believers, a man who lived the truth of the Gospel, meet such an untimely end?

I don’t know that these questions will ever cease. I don’t know that they’ll ever disappear from my life, because the pain of losing my Dad will always be there. Even though life has had it’s wonderful and bright moments since we lost my Dad, there’s been a dullness that sort of clouds every good thing that happens to me.

I have so many questions for my Dad; but I have so many more for God.

When you start to question God in front of a veteran minister, you wonder what kind of reaction they will have. I don’t remember all of the particular details of my conversation with Reverend Duncan on that day. But I do remember this—at no point did Reverend Duncan try and make me feel like I was a bad person for questioning why God would let something so tragic happen to my family. At no point did he belittle me, make me feel inferior, or try to minimize my pain.

We sat together in that darkened room for nearly an hour. Reverend Duncan mostly talking, and me mostly listening. I could tell that on a different level, Reverend Duncan was heartbroken. My Dad had been one of the original congregation members at our church when Reverend Duncan began his ministry there over thirty years ago. He enjoyed my Dad’s company, and my Dad enjoyed his.

In a way only he could do, Reverend Duncan assured me that the pain I felt was real. We talked about bad things happening to good people. We talked about God’s ability to take something bad and make it into something great. We talked about suffering and the pain my Dad must have felt trying to combat his depression on a daily basis.

And Reverend Duncan assured me that both my Dad and my God still loved me dearly.

But Reverend Duncan did something really unique on that day that has set the stage for so much of my healing. He let me ask questions, and he didn’t pretend to have all the answers.

Yes, a studied and learned member of the religious clergy told me that, together, we were going to encounter many questions on this side of eternity that we would never have an answer for. We would probably never know why my Dad did what he did. We would probably never know why God allowed him to suffer. We would probably never know why God allows something as horrific as suicide to weave into his master plan for our lives. We would probably never know why God thought we were all strong enough to live life without my Dad.

Together, there in that room, Reverend Duncan prayed over me—one of the most beautiful prayers I’ve ever heard in my life. It’s a private and unbelievably special moment that I’ll remember forever. I don’t know that I’ll remember the words or the phrases he spoke, but I remember a feeling of God being there with us in that room. And just like Reverend Duncan, he wasn’t mad that I had questions.

I don’t know if this is theologically correct or sound, but I’m of the mind that God is completely okay with us asking him questions.

Let me explain what I mean before I start getting messages from people who might cringe when they read that statement.

There is a difference between questioning God and asking Him questions.

When we question God, we are essentially telling Him that He doesn’t know what He’s doing. We are telling Him that we know better and could figure this out our own. When we question God, we are practically telling Him that His ways are wrong and our ways are right. This type of questioning comes from a deeply-rooted proclivity for disobedience. Questioning God means you doubt whether the promises He delivers through the Bible are actually true and actually accurate. Instead of Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel” it’s “Jesus, I’m So Sick of Being a Passenger Because You Drive Like a Maniac” (doubt she would have won a Grammy on that one…).

But when we ask God questions, we are doing something entirely different. We are coming to Him as humble servants. We are expressing, honestly, the innermost workings of our hearts and minds to the one who already knows them.

When we ask God a question, we acknowledge that He exists. Would you ever ask a question to someone who didn’t actually exist? You could, but it would probably be a pretty quick conversation. When we ask God a question, we validate that He is there with us. But more importantly…

When we ask God a question, we acknowledge that He’s in control. Even if we don’t understand what He’s doing. Would you ask a question if you already knew the answer? Most likely not. When we ask God a question and are legitimately seeking answers for the tragic things that happen to us in our lives, we aren’t doubting God. In fact, we are doing exactly what He commands us to do. We are submitting to Him and saying “God I don’t have any idea why you would let this happen. I don’t know how to reconcile this with the truths of your Word. Help me understand.” We are recognizing that God knows more than we do or ever could, and that only He can provide answers to the questions we have. And…

When we ask God questions, we are drawn into a closer relationship with Him. Let’s face it! If you’re having questions, God already knows them. Psalm 139:4 says “Before a word is on my tongue you, Lord, know it completely” (NIV). In even simpler terms? “You know what I am going to say even before I say it, Lord” (NLT). If you’re feeling guilty because you have questions for God about the things that are happening in your life, don’t feel that way or don’t try to hide them. He knows you inside and out, and He’s known you forever, and even though He knew that you would have all these questions about how he can grow love in a darkened life, He still sent His Son to the cross to die for you.

When I was little, my Dad always loved it when I would ask him questions. Whether it was about a game or a car or something completely irrelevant on television, my Dad never tired of giving me answers. He never once told me to be quiet and quit asking him questions. When I asked him those questions, I acknowledged that he was important to me and that he knew more than I did. And I think that made him feel loved, and important, and worthy.

I imagine our Heavenly Father has that same smile on His face when we ask questions.

I definitely know this part isn’t theologically sound, but I’ve often envisioned my first days in heaven as an episode of Gruden’s QB Camp (except God will be nothing like Jon Gruden…I think?). I imagine that God is going to take me into a small film room, just me and Him, and he’s going to hit play on the tape reel that sits in the table between us. Then, the two of us will sit and watch my life play out in front of me. We will see all the bright moments, and all the moments of defeat.

But then, the tape will get to July 24, 2013. We will watch the heartache of losing my Dad. We will experience the moments of shock and horror that accompanied his death. And then, I’ll slowly reach across the table and pause the tape. I’ll look at God, not with accusation but with a desperate longing for wisdom, and say “Can you explain what you were doing there?”

I imagine that God is going to come around the other side of the table. He’s going to put His arm around me. He’s going to embrace me in a way that only a loving Father could. And He’s going to explain how my Dad’s death fit into His ultimate master plan.

And I’ll finally have answers to the questions that plague me.

But to get to that point, I’ve got to trust that He has the answers. I’ve got to trust that the questions I’m facing now will be answered eventually, but not on this side of the grave. I’ve got to find comfort and solace in the fact that, in the times where life seems to be bursting apart at the seams, God is there to stitch everything back into place.

I’ll live my entire life with questions about my Dad and why he had to leave us so soon. But I’ll live in heaven knowing that my Father knows them all and loves me still.

Dad, There are so many days where I can’t get the questions about your death out of my mind. There are moments where the questions are so tense and overwhelming that I can’t seem to let them go. The more that the days go by since losing you, the more unanswered questions I seem to have. But I know that you’ve found peace in Heaven. I know that you’ve found comfort in the arms of God. I know that each day, I am one step closer to seeing you again and having those questions answered. Until that day, I’ll rest easy in the fact that God knows exactly what He’s doing. And until that day, seeya Bub.

“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart for my holy purpose. I appointed you to be a prophet to the nations.” Jeremiah 1:5 (GW)

Friendship Through Fire: Guest Blog by Chris Beatty

On February 16, 2017 By seeyabubIn Guest Blog1 Comment

Ty: “Have you talked to Chris lately?”

My Dad would always ask this question, knowing darn well what the answer was before he even asked it. Chris and I hadn’t talked in a long while.

And that, in and of itself, was extremely unusual. There was a period of time when Chris and I would have called each other three or four times throughout the day to share a joke, tell a story, or just chat. Chris Beatty and I had been the best of friends for many years. The type of friends who were completely inseparable. We spent nearly every night we could hanging out, going to country concerts, and commiserating over our inability to talk to women. Now, it had been months since I had even heard from Chris. We let a disagreement get the best of us, and now it was showing our worst.

“You know, you really should call him. Life’s too short,” my Dad would always say. I had no idea at that time just how short life could truly be.

But I was stubborn and I was afraid to admit that I had made a terrible mistake and sinned against my fellow man—and not just any fellow man. My best friend. I was too arrogant to pick up the phone and call him. I let anger consume me for no reason other than haughty self-righteousness, and it was tearing my heart to pieces. I was too ego-conscious to drive over to his house and say I was sorry. I was too focused on myself to focus on God and what He wanted me to do to repair this friendship. And I let self blind me to everything that was important in life.

Even in the immediate aftermath of my Dad’s death, I had people telling me that my God could take horrible situations and make something good out of them. That even in the midst of tremendous, lifelong heartache, God can create brightness. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, God would be able to take this pain and bring His people closer together.

“Well, God,” I thought, “you’ve got your work cut out for you on this one.”

Chris: I was driving home the night I got the call. In her most comforting, yet emptied and wounded tone, my mom asked me if I could pull off to the side of the road because she had something ‘very important’ to tell me. This was a tone in which I have never heard from my mom’s voice, so I ‘pulled off’ the highway and prepared myself for the coming words that would change my life, forever.

“Chris, baby I don’t how to tell you this. Scott passed away. I don’t know all of the details, but he committed suicide.”

My body went numb. Honest to God, I literally pinched myself twice to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. It was at that point, that I really did pull off I-71N to clear my blurred vision from the tears that had cascaded my eyes. After gaining my composure, and taking a few deep breaths, I did something that I couldn’t bring myself to do for last 2 years. I swallowed my pride, dialed those 7 numbers that I still had memorized, and waited in anticipation for a familiar voice on the other side…

For those of you that don’t know, Ty and I met each other in Mrs. Hopkin’s 2nd grade class at Fairfield North Elementary. Since 9th grade, we have been best friends, and often mistaken for lovers by many. I guess going out with your buddy for ice-cream on a Friday night might’ve been the wrong play when trying to pick up girls. Ty and I share countless memories, many of which his dad played a part in.

Of all the memories, my personal favorite was when Ty and I started a business one summer, called Beatty & Bradshaw Landscaping. Scotty let me use his truck to pull out all the stumps and bushes from the ground. He also let us use his chainsaw, flame thrower, pressure washer, and Cub Cadet riding mower! I forgot to mention, all his tools were brand name and looked legit, which in turn, made us feel like real men.

*Side note: During our 2 years as business owners, Beatty & Bradshaw Landscaping had 1 client and 2 total invoices. We later liquidized all assets of the company and took up poker instead. That, too, was a failed venture.

Admittingly, I am a prideful person. Prideful to the point in which I squandered a lifelong friendship with Ty over something trivial. During our 2-year sabbatical from each other, a lot happened in our lives. We got real jobs; we each bought houses; I got married. In planning my wedding, there were some important questions…location, church, venue, colors, wedding party, honeymoon, etc. Up until that point, I had one obvious choice as my best man. Despite desperate attempts from my future wife and family to bring us back together, my pride restricted my ability to pick up the phone and make things right with Ty. As the wedding planning proceeded, Ty was not my best man. He nor his family were invited to celebrate the best day of my life. That decision was a life lesson that I learned the hard way.

Two years later…

Anxiously dialing Ty’s number, a number I had dialed so many times before, a calmness and a sense of compassion that only God can give someone filled my entire body. I heard Ty’s voice, but it was just his voicemail. I have no recollection of what I said, but in my most sympathetic tone, I asked him to call me.

It was the next day, I was about to walk into my office, and I saw those 7 familiar numbers pop up on my phone that I had answered so many times before. I can’t recall what Ty even said to me, but it didn’t matter. Differences aside, I knew this was the moment that Ty needed his brother. I cancelled all my meetings and raced to his house, which I realized was the same yard where we completed our 2 landscaping jobs at Beatty & Bradshaw Landscaping. Talk about poetic justice.

I remember apprehensively walking up to his door and thinking about what I wanted to say and how I was going to say it. How do you approach someone who you’ve known since you were 7, yet completely shut out of your life for the past 2 years, who just tragically lost his father?

God has a great way of working things out for you when you put your trust in Him. I walked inside and Ty greeted me with the most exposed, regretful, and heartbroken hug I’ve ever received. I spent so much time rehearsing what I would say and how I would apologize. Instead, we hugged each other and sobbed in each other’s arms for what seemed like an hour. It was at that point that every chain and shackle had been lifted off both of our stubborn hearts.

My greatest life lessons have always been learned the hard way, and this was no exception. It took a tragedy to bring my brother and I back together. Since that day, Ty and I have picked up where we left off; going to Red’s games, eating at Buffalo Joe’s and ordering extra blue cheese, singing every word to “We Rode in Trucks,” in Scotty’s GMC Silverado, and yes, still going out for Graeter’s black raspberry chip ice cream. In fact, we recently checked off a life-long bucket list item the other night when we went to go see Garth Brooks in concert. It was such an honor to share that experience together because we both had that same dream since we were 7 years old.

Pride blurred my vision, causing me to view myself in a distorted reality. Pride shields sin as strength and steadfast. I am so thankful that my God forgives me for my transgressions. If someone tells you that a burnt bridge will never be built again, or forgiveness isn’t possible, I can tell you differently, in ways not a lot of people can. While Ty and I will never get those 2 years back, I’m excited to open new chapters where I can be a part of the memorable moments in his life.

I know Scotty is smiling up there seeing his two boys back in action again.

Thanks, Scotty. I love you, man. I’ll thank you again in person one day, but until then, Seeya Bub.

Ty: Dad, Your death created a lot of heartache in my life that still continues today. But I’m also amazed how God was able to take this horrible situation and shine a light in other areas. I know that you are happy looking down and seeing Chris and I have mended our friendship. If it was possible, I think we’ve become even better friends than we ever were, because we know what truly matters—and Dad, you taught us that. You taught us that forgiveness isn’t an option, and that love for your fellow man is what matters at the end of this life. Chris and I are both able to cherish the example you set for what it means to be a friend to someone, and we are thankful that you are still watching over us, at times laughing with us and other times at our stupidity. I have no doubt that God has his hand over our friendship, and I have no doubt that you are there right next to Him, watching along and smiling at your boys. We miss you terribly, Dad, but we will see you again soon when we can all laugh together forever and ever. Until then, seeya Bub.

“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.” Ephesians 4:32 (ESV)

Chris Beatty

Chris Beatty is the Sr. Vice President of Business Development at Hyur Staffing Services, LLC., specializing in customized recruitment and staffing support. Chris graduated from Miami University (Oxford, OH) obtaining his B.S. in Marketing from the Farmer School of Business. He is also a member of Inner Circle Cincinnati, Inc., a 501©3 non-profit organization and men’s ministry devoted to turning lukewarm Christian men into spiritually mature disciples and leaders.

Olives

On February 2, 2017February 3, 2017 By seeyabubIn Grief4 Comments

To say that my Dad was a terrible cook is a gracious understatement.

Of all the talents that God gave my Dad—and he gave him many—cooking was not one of them. As a youngster, my Dad often worked second or third shifts, which meant he would usually pick me up from A.M. kindergarten. We typically arrived home around noon, and I had always worked up a healthy appetite from all the finger painting and make-believing that had occurred that morning. After getting home, Dad would head into the kitchen to embark on a culinary expedition, perusing the items in the fridge and freezer, but always deciding on the same entrée for our lunch menu…

Corn dogs.

Yes, corn dogs. An American classic with all the nutritional value one can pack into cured and processed meat. Dipped in batter. Deep friend. Frozen. Packaged. Transported. Microwaved. And heartily consumed, usually covered in mustard.

Yes, corndogs are usually individually wrapped with heating instructions on each package, but even as a youngster part of me secretly worried that Dad was still going to burn them.

I once heard a rumor that he burned soup. I don’t even know how that happens, or whether or not it’s true. But if anyone could burn soup, I think my Dad was the guy to figure out how.

When he would grill burgers or hot dogs or steaks on our back patio, you had two temperature options to choose from: “well done” and “I didn’t know steaks could char that much”.

As I grew up, Dad’s cooking skills didn’t get any better, which was mostly a result of his not needing to know how. I rarely saw him in the kitchen, unless it was to reheat something my Mom had made us. Thankfully, for our entire family, my Mom has always been an outstanding cook—and I mean truly outstanding. I was fortunate enough that my corn dog lunches were always supplemented with something delicious on the dinner table made by my Mom each night. From lasagna and casseroles to childhood staples like burgers and tacos, Mom always knew how to satisfy our tastes. I hate meatloaf, but even her meatloaf is good (when she leaves the ketchup off, that is). Her desserts, especially the chocolate strawberry pie that Dad and I would devour together within hours of Mom cooking it, were next-level extraordinary. My Dad always made sure to tell me how smart he was for choosing a wife who was such a tremendous cook. I argued it was more lucky than smart, but it was probably a bit of both.

All of this created a bit of a problem, however, on the nights when Mom wasn’t home. There was always the rare occasion that Mom had to work late, or had plans to go out to dinner with friends or family, leaving her boys stranded and empty-stomached. Dad’s lack of cooking acumen left us only one real option. There’s a void that’s created when you love to eat but can’t cook that can only be solved with one solution—going out to eat. It usually didn’t take us long to decide…

“Hey boy, want to go get dinner at LaRosa’s?”

For those of you who aren’t fortunate enough to live in the dining mecca that is Southwestern Ohio, LaRosa’s is a Greater Cincinnati pizza chain of epic proportion. LaRosa’s has always been one of my favorite pizza spots, and my Dad felt the same way. Whenever he and I would grab dinner together, LaRosa’s was nearly always our first choice. We would slam back Cokes (his regular, mine diet), order calzones or pizzas and a salad, and enjoy a meal with one another. It was a tradition that I loved, and one that is desperately missing in my life after Dad.

As much as he loved the pizza and calzones, and as many Cokes as he might have drank, I think Dad’s favorite part of the meal was always the salad. Ironic coming from the man who based my entire childhood noontime diet on battered hot dogs on a stick, but yes, the salad was always his favorite. He told me time and time again over our dinners that his favorite salad was the one from LaRosa’s. A bed of green lettuce, shredded mozzarella cheese, diced tomatoes, red onion rings, olives (one black, one green), croutons, and dressing (Dad went with French, I usually went with Ranch). It was always a great combo to go along with a hot pizza.

The salad was great, but I particularly disliked two of the ingredients: the tomatoes, and the olives. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never liked raw tomatoes. I don’t eat them on burgers, tacos, nachos, and the thought of ever eating a slice of tomato completely on its own makes me nauseas as I type. The tomatoes at LaRosa’s were particularly pesky because they were always diced. I always asked them to leave off the tomatoes, but if they forgot it would take me a good twenty minutes to pick them all out of my salad.

After the tomatoes, I always directed my scorn at the olives. Whether black or green, I showed no discrimination in my hatred and utter contempt for olives. I’ve tried them from time to time, and each time I attempt to stomach one, I am overcome by how such a little morsel can pack such an overwhelmingly disgusting flavor.

My Dad liked tomatoes, but he absolutely loved olives. Not just at LaRosa’s, but anywhere. If we were at a party with a vegetable tray, Dad could decimate a bowl of olives in just a few minutes. He would pop them like Skittles while I looked on with utter disdain. He would eat them at the house as a snack, which is shocking considering we had so many better snacks than that in our house for him to eat. When we ate together at Grecian Delight, one of our all-time favorite restaurants located in Middletown, Dad would savor the Greek olives that were in his salad, even with those annoying pits.

For Dad, olives were a precious treasure. The fact that he got not one but two on his salads at LaRosa’s made him almost giddy.

And thanks to his son’s hatred of those tiny morsels, Dad actually got four olives every time we went to LaRosa’s instead of two.

Whenever we went to LaRosa’s together, I always ordered my salads without tomatoes; but because the olives were easy enough to pick out of my salad without contaminating its overall flavor, I would always allow the servers to put the olives on my salad. Once they sat the bowls down on the table, my process was always the same—I would pluck the olives from my salad, put them on a plate, and slide them over to my Dad. He would always smile, offer a “Thanks, Bub”, and eat them with glee. I could see him eyeing them the second they sat my bowl down, and I would never disappoint him.

But sometimes, the smallest of vegetables (or are they fruits?) can cause a tremendous amount of pain.

One evening shortly after Dad’s death, Mom and I decided to get LaRosa’s takeout for dinner. We ordered our dinners, and I drove to the restaurant to pick them up. After returning home with boxes in hand, we set the table with our meals in the bright, windowed sunroom of our family home. We had done this so many times before, but this particular time there was a noticeable and looming absent place setting at the table next to me. That table felt vacant and empty, but I was afraid to say anything to my Mom about how I was feeling for fear that I might upset her.

Mom and I sat down together, justifiably more quiet than we typically were, as this was one of our first meals alone together without Dad. We were trying to preserve any semblance of normalcy that we could in a new world for us that felt so different and so much emptier than it had been.

I sat down to eat my meal, opening boxes and taking off container lids. I moved from my calzone to my salad, and after opening the lid and shaking up my dressing, I did something I had done during so many meals before.

I picked out the olives, put them on a plate, and instinctively pushed them away from me towards the spot where my Dad always sat.

I didn’t even realize what I was doing in that moment. I was so used to removing the olives and giving them to Dad that my body had trained itself to do this involuntarily, even when he wasn’t there to take them.

Immediately, a flood of emotion overcame me—intense and uncontrollable. I felt a wave of tears overtaking me, and before I knew it, my head fell into my hands and it took everything in me to not collapse in my seat. I broke down at the table, sobbing, with two small olives sitting on a plate in front of me.

Without hesitation, Mom got up from her seat and made her way over to me. I didn’t even have to say a word. She knew right away what was going on. She knew that for years I had always passed my olives to Dad, and now I would never be able to do that again. Mom, crying along with her son, put her arm around me and just said “I know how much you miss him, Ty. I miss him, too.”

I couldn’t stop the crying, all because of two seemingly inconspicuous olives.

Although my response isn’t as intense, I still think of my Dad every time I pick those olives out of my salad. I don’t break down and cry each time, but I still think about him and long for the days when I could pass them over to him. Now, I try to order my salad without the olives to avoid some of the pain, but I still think of him each time I go to LaRosa’s. Because it was such a special place for the two of us, I just can’t envision a day where I’ll ever go to LaRosa’s without thinking of my Dad.

But olives aren’t the only foods that make me think of him—there are so many more. I can’t eat a corn dog without thinking of a simpler life that existed when I was much younger and my Dad was an invincible hero. Even a kid gets tired of eating corn dogs, but I wish I could go back and live in those days forever.

Whenever I make a bag of popcorn, I’m reminded of him. It was his late-night snack of choice, and the smell that invades my house from the microwave makes me remember him. I’ve never been a big fan of popcorn, but every now and then I will make a bag at home and eat a few kernels just to remember him.

We used to fight over pints of Graeter’s black raspberry chip ice cream in the freezer. On occasion, Mom would splurge and buy us each a pint, which would last any normal person a week or so if they ate an appropriate serving each night. It was a miracle if our pints survived for 24 hours. If I was feeling particularly pesky, I would stake my claim by digging my spoon into his pint before he could get to it. It was a solid attack because Dad was such a germophobe that he would never think about eating a pint of ice cream that I had defiled—even if it was Graeter’s.

Now, I get all the pints of ice cream to myself—but I would give anything to have to share them with him once again.

The death of a loved one creates a weird phenomenon where the most seemingly insignificant aspects of life and our relationship take on an entirely new meaning. Mundane things, like olives in a salad, become symbols and reminders of the love we’ve lost and the pain we experience. But for me, those olives have also become subtle reminders that I had an amazing Father who made a tremendous impact on me for the 26 years we spent on this earth together. Whether it’s olives or popcorn, corn dogs or ice cream, I’ve found ways to cherish the positive memories associated with those foods. And the progress I’ve made from tears to treasured memories is evidence that God works in all things—even if it’s something as seemingly regular as the food we eat. I’ve always associated food with great memories, and God knows me better than anyone. I’m amazed at how He has been able to comfort me when something as insignificant as an olive causes my emotions to overtake me. And I’m reminded of this profound truth: If He cares about me in a moment as mundane as a meal, then I have to believe He cares about the big challenges of life without my Dad just as much.

Dad and I always enjoyed our meals together, and now I have to enjoy them differently while remembering all of the great ones we shared together. There are nights when I eat alone, and I’ll often look across the table and see my Dad smiling there after a hard day’s work. I’ll see him pouring a Coke (or two) into his glass of ice. I’ll see him smiling and laughing about something I said. I’ll see him thoroughly enjoying the food he’s eating, but even more I’ll see him cherishing the people he’s eating with. I’ll look across that empty table, and every now and then I can picture him popping an olive into his mouth—and I smile. I’ve still never acquired his taste for olives, and I don’t think I ever will. But I have learned to be grateful for all of the wonderful meals we shared together, and I’ve accepted the fact that olive-induced tears are my way of saying how much I miss my Dad.

Dad, I’m grateful that you always made it a priority to share a meal together. A weeknight dinner at LaRosa’s just isn’t the same without you. Every time I go to Graeter’s for a dip of black raspberry chip, which is way more often than I should, I think of you. Certain foods make me miss you tremendously, and the heartache of losing you so unexpectedly is sometimes too much for me to take. But you taught me to enjoy good food and good company. You taught me to share a meal with the people I love whenever I had the chance, and your inspiration continues to guide my life each and every day. You taught me that life is never too busy for a pizza and a fun night together. I’m looking forward to the day when I can pass my olives across the table to you once again. Until then, seeya Bub.

“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” Revelation 3:20 (NIV)

A Joyful Noise

On January 26, 2017January 26, 2017 By seeyabubIn Grief1 Comment

Some of my earliest memories of music are with my Dad. I used to ride around with him in his blue pick-up, strapped into my child seat. Bottle of juice in one hand, toy in the other, we would bounce along the road as his cassette tapes played through the rattling speakers.

My Dad and I were simpatico in the fact that we both had a deep, appreciating love for country music. I’m not sure when his started, but mine had been around since those early days. Amidst all the things that are memorable about my childhood, I remember that Dad had a mixtape with some late eighties country music on it, and we would ride down the road listening and singing whenever we got the chance. The tape had one of my favorite country songs of my youth on it—“The Church on Cumberland Road”, an old Shenandoah song that I still listen to on occasion to this day. Dad would sing and tap his hands on the steering wheel or beat his hand on the seat. He always took music and made it fun.

I spent a lot of time with my little cousin Jake when I was growing up, and when Dad would drive us around to go to softball games or get ice cream at Flub’s during the summer, the country music still played. Jake was a big fan of another country “classic”, a Tracy Byrd song called “Watermelon Crawl”. Dad would scan the radio dial back and forth until he found the song every time Jake was in the truck with us. Once he found it, Jake would try his best to sing along and we would both laugh as he jumbled the words.

I outgrew that car seat, cassette tapes went by the wayside, and Dad eventually traded that beat up blue pick-up in for a Gray Sierra and then a sleek Silverado, but one thing never changed. Dad always had music on in his truck. The artists he listened to might have changed a little bit over time. By the time I reached high school, Dad and I were listening to a lot of the same country artists: Jason Aldean, Montgomery Gentry, Joe Nichols, Travis Tritt, Shania Twain (you bet we did), and Brooks & Dunn. But his love for listening to music never changed.

And anytime he was working on a house project or fixing his truck in the garage, Dad always had a radio nearby. I was never much help on those household projects, but there was one simple thing that I could master. If a song would come on that my Dad really liked, he would look to me and say “Oh, this is a good one. Turn this one up.” Sometimes I agreed, and other times I didn’t, but I usually always went to turn up the volume knob for him. Or made a snide comment about a song that I didn’t like and criticized his taste.

Although we never had a chance to go to a concert together, Dad was a big fan of live music, too. Our family has always vacationed in Gulf Shores, Alabama, and one year Dad asked if I would take him to the Florabama—a local bar of with a legendary folklore that has been beaten by hurricanes too many times to count. Dad and I sat at one of the wooden tables covered in permanent marker messages of years gone by, and listened to the band that played Southern rock and oldies on that particular night. Dad sang along to the songs he knew, tapping his foot and bobbing his head like all middle-age Dads seem to do in the presence of a live band. It’s the type of move that embarrasses teenage sons worldwide.

Wherever we went, Dad always seemed to have music around him.

Listening to music and creating music, however, are two entirely different things. My Dad was not a musician, vocal or otherwise, in any sense of the word. Dad liked to sing in the truck, but I don’t know how many people truly enjoyed listening. He didn’t have a bad singing voice, but he didn’t have a good one either. He excelled at so many things in this life, but singing wasn’t one of them.

Among many genes, he has unfortunately passed this particular one along to his son. I’m praying that I inherited this gene in place of the “lose your hair at 30” gene, but I’m not holding my breath. I try to sing only when I know my voice will be drowned out because I’m embarrassed that I sound so off-key. I’m always in awe of those who have beautiful singing voices because mine is so unfortunately terrible. Like many other areas of my life, I’m easily embarrassed and overly concerned with what other people think of me—and my inability to carry a harmonious tune is at the top of that list.

Like me, I think Dad probably recognized that he didn’t have the best singing voice. I think that Dad knew what his talents were, and I’m sure he knew that singing wasn’t what God had called him to do as a profession or vocation.

But that never stopped my Dad from having a song in his heart, and one area where I’ll always remember this is in church. Knowing that he wasn’t called to sing, my Dad never signed up to sing a solo in front of the congregation, and he never joined the choir. I appreciated this for many reasons, one of which was that I always got to sit next to my Dad in the pew on Sunday mornings.

In the churches I grew up in, singing was always an important part of the worship service. As a congregation, we would all stand together and worship God together, singing hymns and songs together to show our love for our Heavenly Father.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve always been conscious of my less-than-harmonious voice, and I’ve always been embarrassed to sing in church. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt extremely self-conscious during worship services. I wish I could blame this one on my Dad, too, but I can’t…

No matter how off-key he might have been, and no matter whether he knew the lyrics well or not, Dad always tried his hardest to sing in church. His singing voice in church was rather deep, and I can always remember hearing him sing next to me as I stood nervously next to him in the pew. Because his singing voice was so deep, it was almost like the pew would vibrate a bit when he sang. Occasionally, Dad would try and get me to sing along. But I would often shake my head no or ignore his request. But he never let that dissuade him from singing along in worship.

And now, sitting in a pew without him at church, I would give anything to hear his off-key singing again.

I have to confess, I hadn’t intended to write a post about singing; but God has this really weird way of putting a song in your heart (get it?) or a sermon in your podcast list. This week while driving to work, I was listening to Matt Chandler, pastor of The Village Church in Texas. Matt has become one of my favorite preachers to listen to since a good friend from the gym recommended him to me shortly after my Dad’s death.

For the past few months, Matt Chandler has been preaching a series on the book of Exodus[1]. In a recent sermon on the 15^th chapter of Exodus, Chandler talked about singing and shared the following truth from Scripture that I never knew: There are over 400 verses in the Bible that refer to singing, and there are 50 explicit commands from God for his people to sing[2].

Even though God makes this a pretty black and white issue more than a handful of times throughout the Bible, this is one of those commands that I always try to gloss over or completely ignore. I try to play mental gymnastics and convince myself that God only wanted this command to apply to the people he blessed with a great singing voice, but the example my Dad gave me as a youngster has convinced me otherwise.

In his sermon, Matt Chandler refers to numerous verses, mostly in the Psalms, that clearly say “make a joyful noise”. Notice that God does not say “make a good noise” or “make a pleasant noise”, but instead instructs His followers to “make a joyful noise.” Chandler says “It’s not about you performing. It’s about you receiving. See, that’s the big confusion around corporate singing. No, no, no. We receive when we sing together as a body. We’re not performing…It’s not that God is in need; it’s that we’re in need.[3]”

My Dad understood that singing in church wasn’t about whether or not he satisfied the standards of good vocal talent. My Dad knew and believed that singing in church was his way of saying “thank you” and “I love you” to the God of the universe. It was about connecting with God, similar to the way we do when we pray. It was about my Dad telling God that he was open to his guidance and direction for his life. In an imperfect voice, my Dad would cry out to our perfect Creator, asking for God to carry him in those areas of his life where he might have been weak.

I often think of what my Dad looks like on the other side of Eternity (full head of hair maybe?), but I have to confess that I’ve rarely thought about what he will sound like. I’ve rarely thought about the fact that my Dad now resides in a perfect Kingdom where he worships God each and every day. I’m thankful that he had a lot of practice here on Earth, and that he never let his musical inabilities inhibit his love for God.

I know that I should sing because God instructs me to, and I shouldn’t need any other motivation than that. But it doesn’t hurt that I had a real-life, personal example of the need to sing and honor and God. It’s been a painstaking process for me to come out of my shell and sing in the pew at church. There are some days when I do it without hesitation, and others where my embarrassment still gets the best of me.

And on those days, I remember my Dad. I remember that he never once told me, even as a child, not to sing, but instead encouraged me to do it. As a way to honor my Dad while also honoring God, I try and sing when I’m in church now. Even though I don’t always know the words, and even though the rhythm will sometimes get the best of me, I do my best to join in the chorus of the congregation, albeit quietly and still off-key.

And I apologize to the folks who sit near me and have to listen—you can blame it on my Dad.

When my Dad died, I was fortunate enough to inherit many of his things. Although the things can never replace the man, they do help me hold on to the memory of who he was here on this Earth and the impact he had on my life.

One of the things I was lucky enough to take possession of was my Dad’s book of CD’s. Yes, CD’s. The only iPod Dad ever owned was the hand-me-down iPod Mini that he got from me, and unfortunately he wasn’t with us long enough to use it substantially.

It wasn’t entirely full, but that CD book was something I always associate with my Dad. He kept it in the middle console of his truck at all times. Dad was the type of person (very unlike me) who would listen to an entire CD all the way through, and once it reached the end, he would start it again at the top. Then, after a few days of listening to that CD, he might switch to another. Or perhaps he would just continue to listen to the one that was currently in the player. My Dad enjoyed the simplicity of life, and listening to a CD was one of the simple pleasures he enjoyed.

Every now and then, especially on days where the thought of losing him is too much to bear, I’ll pull out that CD book and grab a disc to listen to. I’ll throw it in the CD player of my truck, and although he might not be there with my physically, there are times when I can see him riding in the passenger seat next to me. There are days when I can hear his voice again. There are moments when I swear I can feel the vibration of his thumb tapping the steering wheel. And on those days where it seems like he’s right there with me, I am thankful that for the 26 years I spent with him, my Dad always had a song in his heart and never shied to share that song with those he loved.

Dad, What I wouldn’t give to hear you sing another song right next to me. What I wouldn’t give to go back to those days where we would ride around in your truck and listen to country music together. I’m thankful that you always set the right example for me in church by singing along with the worship songs. I’m thankful that you always remembered that singing songs of praise and worship aren’t about us but are about developing a relationship with God. Certain songs come on the radio, and I still think of you. I’ll always be appreciative of the memories you gave me as a young child listening to country music in your truck. Thank you for being a Dad who always had a song of love in your heart. Until we both join the chorus of heavenly angels together, seeya Bub.

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.
Worship the Lord with gladness;
come before him with joyful songs.
Know that the Lord is God.
It is he who made us, and we are his^[a];
we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name.
For the Lord is good and his love endures forever;
his faithfulness continues through all generations.

Psalm 100:1-5 (NIV)

References:

[1] http://www.thevillagechurch.net/resources/sermons/series/exodus/

[2] http://thevillagechurch.net/mediafiles/uploaded/e/0e5770908_1483456017_exodus-part-17-from-bitter-to-sweet-t.pdf

[3] http://thevillagechurch.net/mediafiles/uploaded/e/0e5770908_1483456017_exodus-part-17-from-bitter-to-sweet-t.pdf

23 Pushups

On January 19, 2017 By seeyabubIn Mental Illness1 Comment

You wouldn’t know it from looking at me, but I actually go the gym four to five times a week. And I know what you’re thinking… “Man, you should really demand a refund.”

I joined the LA Fitness in my neighborhood many, many years ago with grandiose dreams. I was hoping to go from chubby to Channing Tatum in about six weeks. I could feel a six pack just lurking underneath the surface of the five or six Frisch’s Big Boys I ate every week. I planned to put in a few hours at the treadmill each week, a little bit of time throwing some weights around and grunting, and before you’d know it I would have to buy all new shirts because my biceps would tear holes in the old ones.

In what is an inexplicable physical anomaly, I can guarantee you that my muscles haven’t even come close to warranting a new wardrobe. Oftentimes, I find myself embarrassingly being outlifted by nearly everyone in the gym, including one hilariously painful endeavor where I dislocated a rib doing dumbbell flys with…well, not much weight. I’ve blacked out on treadmills, slipped from pull up bars, skipped nearly every leg day, and taken it upon myself to provide a nightly comedic act for the other patrons of LA Fitness.

But since Dad died, I don’t go to the gym for the same reasons I used to. Don’t get me wrong—if God wants to bless me with a Herculean physique, I’ll be grateful and gladly accepting of this gift. But if that doesn’t happen (and let me assure you, it really will take a miracle of God), I’ll still keep at it because there’s more at stake than muscle.

After Dad died, I knew that I would need to take some time off from work and my usual routine to get some clarity on the entire situation. I ended up being away from work for about four weeks, which was a blessing that I’ll always be thankful for. My supervisors at Miami made it possible for me to take all the time I needed to recollect and regroup before I got back into my new normal, and I did my best to heed the advice of so many others I had talked to about grief when they told me “Don’t try and rush things.”

The unintended consequence of all this time off, however, was that it gave me more time to sit and think about everything that had happened. As people started to return to the routine of their own lives, I began to have more and more time to myself. And for someone who can easily get lost in the drama and intensity of my own thoughts, this wasn’t always a good thing.

So, by week two I knew that I was going to have to start filling my time with things that were more productive and would occupy both my schedule and my mind. Summer was nearing its end, which gave me plenty of options. I could attend baseball games, or go to the movies, or visit the park and spend some time outdoors.

“Or,” I thought one morning, “I could start going to the gym again.”

Because things had been so busy earlier that summer, the gym had become more of an inconvenience than an opportunity for stress release. Every night, I found myself coming home and reading and working on assignments, so the gym just wasn’t an option on a regular basis.

So to try and get my mind off of all the trauma it had experienced, I promised myself I would go to the gym every day I could. I would show up for a few hours each day and do my best to get active. Instead of obsessing over the tragedy that had occurred, I would go there and challenge my mind instead.

I’m not going to tell you anything new that you haven’t heard from the fitness addicts in your own life, but it’s another voice to add to the chorus: When I went to the gym, I felt better. It was hard to explain because I didn’t know how to feel better having just lost my Dad so suddenly and unexpectedly, but my body and my mind felt better during those hours at the gym than trapping myself in the solitude and emptiness of my house.

A few months later, I would get some clarity on why I felt so much better. I had the privilege of joining my mentor and friend, Dr. Bob Rusbosin, and a few Miami undergraduates for a research presentation at a conference at Florida State University. The conference was on college student values and the concept of wellness, and we submitted a presentation on the research we had been doing on television icon Fred Rogers. As I perused the conference booklet, I noticed an interesting keynote that would take place later in the week. A psychiatrist and M.D. from Harvard, Dr. John Ratey, would be speaking about wellness and health from a medical doctor’s standpoint.

Dr. Ratey is the author of a book called Spark: The Revolutionary New Science Exercise and the Brain (visit the “Library” section of this page for a description and link). At about 9am midway through the conference week, Dr. Ratey engaged in a heavily scientific explanation using phrases related to brain anatomy, neurotransmitters, brain-derived neurotrophic factor, and a million other scientific terms and processes that were completely foreign for this particular audience member.

And I was completely and utterly fascinated.

Dr. Ratey says it much more intelligently than I ever could, but the premise of his argument is this: physical exercise benefits the brain just as much as it does the rest of the body.

And for my particular life situation, Dr. Ratey gave an explanation that really hit home—that physical fitness could lead to the prevention of mental illness like depression, thereby also diminishing the likelihood of suicide.

The introduction to Dr. Ratey’s book says it all. It’s a quote from Plato that reads “In order for man to succeed in life, God provided him with two means, education and physical activity. Not separately, one for the soul and the other for the body, but for the two together. With these two means, man can attain perfection.”

Let me give you the best explanation I can of the research Dr. Ratey has done (please keep your author in mind, as there have been episodes of Bill Nye the Science Guy that have tripped me up before). And forgive me for the technical description, but please understand–this disease killed my Father. I want to know everything I can about it so I can prevent it from happening to anyone else.

Brain signals are sent via neurotransmitters, or chemicals that send messages from one brain cell to another. Psychiatry has identified three primary brain transmitters that regulate everything the brain does: serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine. When the levels of these neurotransmitters are unbalanced, mental illnesses can occur. Most medications target one or two of these neurotransmitters, but exercise has a different effect. Exercise and physical activity actually have the capacity to elevate and regulate all three of these neurotransmitters simultaneously. Exercise also increases the presence of brain-derived neurotrophic factor (or BDNF), a crucial protein that can help our brains maintain and create healthy neurons. Dr. Ratey calls BDNF “Miracle-Gro for the brain” (I’ll reiterate, he explains this all much better than I ever could, and I would really encourage you to grab his book).

Here’s what all this talk of neurotransmitters and brain chemicals equates to:

Exercise helps our cognitive functioning and ability to learn
Exercise can help us relieve stress
Exercise can be an effective in the prevention or treatment of mental illnesses like depression, anxiety, and attention deficit (or can help in conjunction with other treatments)
Exercise can change the way our brains react to addiction
Exercise can help fight off brain-related aging diseases, like Alzheimer’s

Even though there were many factors at work in my Dad’s death, and even though he still had many more years to live, I constantly remind myself that my Dad fought successfully against this demon for decades of his life. I can’t help but think that the extremely complex concepts Dr. Ratey so beautifully articulated were playing out behind the scenes of my Dad’s own brain chemistry, helping him fight off his own periods of darkness for many, many years.

Although he didn’t do a very good job of passing the athletic genes on to his only son, my Dad was often the epitome of an active lifestyle.

My Dad was always an extremely energetic and “on the move” type guy. He was the Father who never got burdened by his son asking if they could go outside and play together—because he was usually the one doing the asking.

“Hey boy, you want to go for a bike ride?” was his common refrain after our family dinners. My Dad loved riding his bike. My family was fortunate enough to live close to a beautiful local park, and my Dad loved riding his bike back through the woods and the trails on a warm summer night. Much more adventurous than me, Dad would fly through the trails on his 21-speed mountain bike, never allowing fear to outweigh his desire to have fun.

Summer nights after dinner were always full of some kind of physical activity, even on days where I knew Dad was tired from a long day at work. Tossing a baseball, swimming in our backyard pool, or taking our family dog for a walk—Dad always found a way to get up off the couch and get moving. But more important than the movement was the smile on his face the entire time.

And Dad, a man who loved people, usually found a way to stay moving in the company of others. For as long as I could remember, my Dad had always played weekly pick-up basketball games with the guys from our church. He loved the competition, and he definitely loved showing the younger players a thing or two as he’d easily outsmart them as he cut to the rim for bucket after bucket.

A true renaissance athlete, Dad was also a tremendous softball player—in fact, the best season I ever saw him play was cut short by his own untimely death. He never hit for power. Actually, in all the years he played softball (over 30), he never hit a single home run (the critical sports announcer in me always reminded him of this weakness). But he was fast, and that gave him an advantage at any church softball league where most of the players had partaken in far too many Sunday potlucks. He could cover ground in the outfield better than anyone. He could turn a lazy single into a double, and usually a triple if the fielder had a poor arm. He would play any position he could, and could usually do it with ease. I was always in awe of his contributions to the team and the seamless ease with which he performed.

Unlike me, my Dad’s mind seemed to clear when he was playing a sport. If you aren’t familiar with my lack of athletic prowess, read….well, pretty much any other post I’ve ever written. Everything just seemed to click when my Dad was active—life was in harmony, completely balanced. He found happiness in the activity, and joy in the camaraderie.

When Dad was happiest, he never wanted to sit still. I was just never sure whether the happiness caused the activity, or the activity caused the happiness. And because I now know how happiness and being active were so intricately intertwined in my Dad’s life, I’ll try and do the same.

Every day, I do at least 23 pushups. I do them with strained effort, and probably incorrect form, but I make sure I do those 23 pushups. The 23 reps are not a random number—there’s a method to my madness.

At one time in this country, it was reported that 22 veterans of the United States Military (particularly the most recent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq) were victims of suicide. This led to the creation of great military support organizations, like Mission 22[1], which provide resources and support for veterans struggling with mental illness. Recent numbers have shown the number is probably closer to 20[2], but even if the number was 1, it would be entirely too high.

I added that last pushup in for my Dad. No, my Dad was not a veteran, but mental illness is the enemy we all fight against, service member or not. Military family or not, anyone who loses a family member or loved one to suicide suffers a similar heartache when those we love leave us earlier than they should. When I do those 23 pushups, I’m simultaneously honoring the people that suicide touches and making sure that it never ever impacts my life in the same way it has theirs.

I’m very aware of my need to go to the gym, because I know that every time I step foot on a treadmill or lift a weight, I’m fighting back against the same depression and anxiety that took my Dad away from me. People say that depression and mental illness are so difficult to fight against because they are invisible—and I agree with this claim. But the things we can do to fight against these unseen enemies are often very visible, and very tangible. Staying active is just one of the many tools I’ll use to fight back against the darkness.

I’ve also found that going to the gym allows me to work through my grief. I’ve made great friends at the gym, Godly men who have listened to my pain and helped me work through it. There have been days where instead of lifting, we’ve stood near a machine together and talked about our lives and how God loves us in spite of our circumstances. I have been able to share things with my friends at the gym and connect with them on a brotherly level that I never would have been able to articulate in any other environment. In the same way that a therapy session clears my brain, I’ve found the same peace and sense of calm after spending a few hours at the gym with my friends.

There are plenty of days where I just don’t feel like going to the gym—and my body is probably a reflection of giving in to that impulse for far too long. But the fact that I don’t feel like going to the gym is exactly why I need to go. As Dr. Ratey has found, every time I choose activity over laziness, I’m boosting my brain’s capability to fire on all cylinders. I’m re-wiring my brain to choose action of victim-hood, bravery over surrender.

Don’t confuse what I’m saying—if you are suffering from mental illness or suicidal thoughts, a 15 minute sprint on a treadmill alone might not save your life. You should still seek treatment on all fronts, including medical or psychiatric care. You should still seek professional help. You should still talk to someone who can help you in your fight. But physical activity is one “tool in the toolbox” that can help in that fight, and combined with other forms of treatment, it can be a very powerful remedy.

Whether grieving from a loss or trying to prevent your own mental illness, exercise and physical activity can play an unbelievable role in the road to recovery. No matter how pathetic my physique might appear, I’ll always be a staunch advocate that those dealing with mental illness or those fighting through grief should try and find relief by getting up and getting going.

And if all that activity and brain boosting just happens to lead to six pack abs along the way…even better.

Dad, I always admired your energy and vitality. You attacked life and took on new challenges, and you were never that Dad who loved the couch more than he loved spending time with his family. In your life, you always seemed to be able to find a good balance between rest and being active, but when you were active, you always made the most of it and there was always a huge smile on your face. Whether it was riding bikes, walking the dog, playing softball, schooling a bunch of youngsters in basketball, or simply goofing around in the backyard swimming pool, you realized that life was designed to be lived. Even though I didn’t always listen (and boy do I wish I would have), you always encouraged me to get up and get going. You always encouraged me to believe there was life outside of a TV set or computer screen, and since you left I’ve tried to live this out. I’m looking forward to many bike rides together on the other side of Eternity. And if you could talk to the Big Guy upstairs and have him send me a little more muscle mass, I’d be appreciative. Until then, seeya Bub.

“Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship.” Romans 12:1 (NIV)

References:

[1] Mission 22 Website: http://www.mission22.com/#ourcause

[2] http://www.militarytimes.com/story/veterans/2016/07/07/va-suicide-20-daily-research/86788332/

The Walk: Guest Blog by Jeffrey Yetter

On January 12, 2017January 17, 2017 By seeyabubIn Guest Blog, Uncategorized6 Comments

Ty: “Huh. They really do have couches.”

When I entered a therapist’s office for the first time, I’m ashamed to admit the curiosity of “Do they really have couches?” had overwhelmed me in the days leading up to the visit. Under the surface, however, my preoccupation with couches was simply masking my complete and utter terror at the fact that I was going to visit a therapist in the first place.

Here’s what you don’t know: that first therapist’s visit came nearly two years before my Dad died. And I’m not, in the least, ashamed to admit it. In fact, I’m ashamed that I didn’t go sooner.

For a whole host of reasons, I was dealing with severe anxiety. A completely bizarre illness a few years back had scared and scarred me so tremendously that my mind had been consumed with a completely irrational thought—something that the doctors couldn’t explain was going to kill me.

For nearly 9 months, I slept about 3 hours a night, usually always interrupted. I lost weight because I couldn’t convince myself to eat. I would obsess over WebMD posts and online discussion boards in an attempt to diagnose myself with something that the doctors couldn’t (let’s save the “Don’t go on WebMD if you’re anxious” discussion for another post). I was distracted at work, I was distracted at church, and I felt so sad around my family because I thought I was leaving them soon that I disconnected and spent endless hours in solitude.

Until finally, I broke down. In a moment of weakness, I confessed all the anxiety to my Mom and Dad, and scheduled a doctor’s appointment for the next week. My doctor, in an effort to rid me of the dark thoughts in my mind, agreed to run every test imaginable to show me that I was perfectly healthy, which she did. She walked through the original diagnosis from the previous hospital stay, and confirmed the results of what the doctors had eventually settled on. And then, she gave me a different type of prescription.

“I think it would be a good idea for you to go visit a therapist. I have someone in mind.”

Enter Jeff Yetter—a man who God knew I would need in that moment and the many moments to come. At the time, I don’t think I quite understood why God was leading me to go see a therapist, and I definitely didn’t understand why He was putting me through this unnecessary storm.

Now, I have perspective, and just like my Bible has promised, God works everything together for a purpose. That period of anxiety led me to go see Jeff, and I’m convinced that God allowed me to experience that so that I would have Jeff in my life when Dad’s death would strike a while later. Even in the midst of the storm, God is always in control, and having Jeff in my life convinced me of that more than anything.

When I started this blog, I knew that I wanted Jeff to be the first guest post. Yes, because of his knowledge of mental illness. Yes, because of his personal experience with my story. Yes, because he is a clinician that can provide help to so many people who need it. But most importantly, I wanted Jeff to write because he is a man who cares. He is a man who counters every negative stereotype that might exist about the counseling profession. If all the people who hesitate to go to therapy could just meet Jeff, I’m convinced they would change their minds—and Jeff would help heal theirs. Hearing Jeff talk about my own experience gives me so much clarity, and his writing will provide comfort to so many people who are hurting or lost.

Jeff: Before I begin, I want to offer a “qualifier” to my effort here. This is my first ever blog entry. I’ve written professionally before, but never in such a precious capacity. When Tyler asked me to be a “guest blogger” in this space, speaking on such a personal and powerful topic, to say I was honored would be a tremendous understatement. I am honored and blessed to participate in this amazing undertaking, authored by a loving son who so tragically lost his amazing father. So, bear with me, as this is my first foray into the blogging world, and I want to do both Tyler and his father proud with my effort.

That First Visit…
When I noticed that Tyler Bradshaw was on the schedule to see me on August 1, 2013, I thought to myself, “Cool, Tyler is coming in. It’ll be really good to see him. It’s been awhile”. Yep, I’m a clinician, and I actually like my patients. Love them, really.

You see, I’d seen Tyler in the past for a handful of visits for some stuff he was going through at that time, and we had a good rapport, he seemed to like the therapeutic techniques I use, and we shared a love of baseball, so I was genuinely looking forward to “catching up” with him.

So, at 11:45am, I greeted Tyler in the Waiting Room, and escorted him down to my lower level office. As we greeted in my office, and before he sat down on my sofa, I could see that something was “different”. See, Tyler is a very warm and friendly young man. Not “phony” friendly or “overly-gregarious” to where you would doubt his sincerity, but genuinely friendly. Kind. Loving. The type of person with whom you immediately feel at-ease. Always quick with a kind smile and a genuine, “How are you doing?” But this day was different. The usual smile and friendly greeting were replaced with vacant eyes, desperately trying to hold back tears, and looking “distant” and “lost”. I said, in a voice that did not conceal my concern, something to the effect of, “Welcome back, brother. What’s going on?” And that’s when Tyler, this amazing, smart, kind, genuine, loving, and eloquent young man, began to disclose to me the details of his father taking his own life, just one week before this visit.

Disbelief
Tyler’s Dad?? What??? I found myself, a clinician of 20+ years at the time, trying to make sense of this, asking myself if I’d heard him accurately. But I could see everything in Tyler’s face. His friend, his mentor, his hero, his comedian, his confidant…his Dad, was gone, and in the most tragic and traumatic way imaginable. I know there’s a brief “Bio” of my academic and professional history below, but I can tell you as a clinician and as a human being that nothing, NOTHING, prepares you for what was being discussed in my office that day. And, I can tell you that, in an instant, my entire heart, mind, and spirit went out to Tyler and his family and everyone affected by this tragedy. And in that very moment, Tyler and I began what he and I have referred to as “our walk” through this heart-wrenching journey. A day at a time. A session at a time. Through tears, and pain. Through occasional smiles and a bit of laughter. All of it. This was to be “our walk”, and I am a better person for having accompanied Tyler thus far on this journey.

The Walk
In this first guest blog, I wanted to give an account as to how Tyler and I began “our walk”, through this incredibly tragic and painful event in his young life. But as a clinician, I would also like to speak to the importance and necessity of reaching out for help.

Tyler has asked that I “guest blog” in the future, and as was the case in this instance, I am honored to do so. In future offerings, I will directly speak to “walking” through and seeking help during times when it does not seem possible to crawl, much less walk. But for now, I will say this: we are all hurting in some way or another. Our pain is “ours”. It is unique to us in that we are “experiencing” it. It is “ours”. We feel it ourselves, we behave relative to it, ourselves.

But we are not alone. We are never alone. There is someone who cares. Someone who will talk. Someone who will listen. Someone who will validate. Someone who will hug. Someone who will simply “be” with us. Family, friends, clergy, professionals—someone. You are never alone. Please do not hesitate to contact a local agency or office, if you are hurting. Talk to a friend. Someone. You are not alone. You matter, and you are worthy. And you are worthy because you matter.

Until we speak again,
Jeff

“I will never leave you or forsake you.” (Hebrews 13:5)

Ty: Jeff’s therapeutic approach helped me because he didn’t offer to snap his fingers and instantly make things better. He didn’t give me a list of five things I needed to do to make life better. He recognized the hurt, he validated it, and acknowledged that the pain was real.

But he did offer a remedy. Not a quick fix, not a magic wand, but something better. He just offered to be there. He offered to listen and give me honest feedback. He offered to pick me up when I got low and carry me through, “arm in arm” as he’s said so many times during our visits.

There is a stigma in our country, particularly among males, that this type of “arm in arm” walk somehow reveals weakness. More than anything, I want this post and Jeff’s future writing to reveal an important truth: Seeking help when you need it is one of the most courageous and brave things you’ll ever do.

I don’t fault my Dad for his death, but he was a victim of this societal mentality. My Dad, the man who deserved this type of loving treatment most, could never bring himself to seek it out. Ironically, our family doctor had recommended that my Dad go visit Jeff—the same therapist who is helping me in the aftermath of Dad’s death. I’m confident that Jeff and my Dad would have been great buddies, and wish they could have had the opportunity to meet. For both of their sake.

I author this blog for many reasons, one of which is to reach out to people who are suffering from mental illness to let them know that getting help from someone who deals with these issues specifically is of paramount importance. Reaching out to a counselor, like Jeff, in your area could be the difference between a lifetime of darkness and finding the light. Yes, my Dad’s story here on Earth didn’t end the way we wanted it to—but yours can have a different ending. Your loved ones can be different. In future posts, Jeff will do so many things to help us all have a better understanding of mental illness, grief, God’s love, and so many other things. But in this first post, let’s all agree that when we need help, no matter the public perception, we will ask for it.

And in case you needed more convincing…the couches are super comfortable.

Dad, I would never fault you for the sickness you experienced, but I sure wish we could have gotten you the right treatment you needed. You had so much to live for and experience, and I know that Jeff could have helped you fight off the demons and doubts you were facing. I’m still learning from you even after you’re gone, and because I love you I promise that I will always get help when I need it. I’ll never let my emotions overwhelm the plan God has for my life, and I’ll always encourage other people to get help when they need it. If nothing else, you would have loved talking baseball with Jeff. I’d give anything to see the two of you meet—and someday you will. But for now, seeya Bub.

“So you are no longer a slave, but God’s child; and since you are his child, God has made you also an heir.” Galatians 4:7 (NIV)

Jeffrey Yetter, M.Ed., LPCC
Licensed Professional Clinical Counselor
Jeff Yetter has practiced in the field of counseling and psychotherapy for the past 24 years. He has worked in both the public and private sector, and is currently in Private Practice in Middletown, Ohio. Jeff has also been an Adjunct Professor in the Graduate School of Counseling at Xavier University. Academically, Jeff completed his undergraduate study at the College of Mount Saint Joseph (now, MSJ University) in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he graduated Magna Cum Laude. He completed his Master’s Degree in Agency and Community Counseling at Xavier University. He completed his Post-Master’s Endorsement in Clinical Counseling at Xavier University as well.

Shockwaves

On January 6, 2017January 6, 2017 By seeyabubIn Grief1 Comment

“He’s gone.”

My body had never experienced a physical response like it did in that moment. It was as if every bone in my entire body had suddenly disappeared. Against my own desire to forget, I remember that moment very vividly. I grabbed the Kentucky hat I had thrown on that morning and threw it violently across the front yard. I collapsed onto the grass and began to sob. Everything had gone black. My Dad was gone, and so were my senses.

I remember hearing my Mom screaming. I remember hearing my Grandpa attempt to corral the chaos that was enveloping in our front yard. But before I knew it, the sounds were drifting away. It was almost as if I was under water—I knew there was noise and commotion, but I couldn’t make out or process what any of it was. Everything sounded muffled as the sea of emotion overwhelmed me. My body was so overcome with emotion that it seemed to be rejecting any stimulus of the physical world around me. My mind had been hijacked, and in my head, a track was stuck on repeat, playing those words over and over again: “He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.”

The dark and muffled moments that followed were difficult to comprehend. At some point, our neighbor, Billie, made her way into the front yard. I remember hearing her voice, feeling her hand on my shoulder as I lay weeping in the front yard. I remember her saying “Tyler, come with me. We need to get you out of here.” Without even wanting to, my body lifted itself from the ground—but I had no strength at all. Billie had to support me as tears streamed down my face. Had I wanted to run from the scene, I couldn’t have. My body seemed to be paralyzed.

We crossed the street into Billie and Sam’s driveway. As a youngster, I had made that trek so many times. As a grade schooler, I had always enjoyed going over to their house—partially because of the can of Dr. Pepper I knew Billie would always bring me, but also because they made me feel so loved. They were genuinely interested in me as a young boy, and when they talked to me, I felt like the most important person in the world. Fortunately, as I grew older, their sincerity never changed.

All the comfort and memory of a childhood chat with the friendly neighbors across the street had been shattered a few minutes earlier. That walk across the street to their driveway would now be forever tainted, no matter how many trips I ended up making into that familiar landscape. No matter what the occasion, I always knew my mind would be flooded with the thoughts of that morning. “This is where you walked the morning your Dad died. This is the door you came through the morning your Dad died. This is the chair you sat in the morning your Dad died.” The thought of life being different from that point forward had already set in, and my Dad had only been gone for a few minutes.

I was walking, but I wasn’t taking anything in because my mind was so consumed with the evil voices telling me that I would never forget, that I would never be able to move on. I walked down that driveway. I walked through their door. And I sat on a couch in their patio room. Billie, silent as I sat down, was in as much shock as I was. She stood there, not knowing what to do—and neither did I, as I held my hanging head limply in my hands. We had both entered a new world. The things we had once known would always be different. I searched for answers, and so did she.

“Do you need something to drink?” she said.

More than anything, I wanted a can of Dr. Pepper and to be seven years old again.

I describe the moments after my Dad’s death as “shockwave” moments. They were moments where the pain radiated through my body in ways I had never experienced. I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of earthquakes, and that was how my life felt in that very moment—except the pain had been centralized to one particular family and community of people. I could look across the landscape of my life and recognize the terrain and familiar aspects—but they were irreparably damaged and fractured. There was a devastation sweeping over our family home, and it was completely unexpected.

Although I still felt trapped underwater after being ushered over to Billie’s house, I remember my emotions switching dramatically from one feeling to the next. My inner dialogue ran high with what I hoped was my own voice, but which likely could have been Satan trying to drive me deeper into despair. I didn’t know who to believe, and I didn’t even know if I could trust myself.

I felt overwhelming loss. For my entire life, I had known my Dad. I had relied on him for so many things. He was my provider. He was my trusted resource. He was a problem-solver anytime an engine failed or a piece of furniture needed constructing. He was my personal comedian anytime I needed a laugh. He was my catcher when I wanted to toss. He was my biggest fan when I realized I would never make it as an athlete and needed to transition into the broadcast booth. In every moment, and in every memory, Dad was there. Every aspect of my life that was good seemed to involve my Dad.

I felt confusion. And I desperately searched for answers. If life was that good and that enjoyable, how could Dad have wanted to end his? How could the quality of his life sink that low to make it appear inescapable? Was it something I had said? Could I have said something differently that would have helped him avoid this end? Could I have told him how much I loved him one more time? How could a loving God allow me to lose one of the people I needed most? How could a loving God allow one of his most authentic followers to meet such a demise? Was God really loving? These questions all swirled around in my head, beating my soul mercilessly and without interruption. I had all the questions in the world, but not a single answer.

I felt abandonment. It was irrational, but completely real—but sometimes our most irrational fears are the ones that captivate us most. Yes, I would have people in my life that would surround me. I still had a loving Mother who would support me and love me to the ends of the earth. But it felt like I had nothing. Having the man who had been my superhero for my entire life suddenly ripped from my everyday was bone-chilling. My Dad had been there in nearly every capacity of my life, and he was more than just a Father. He was a Dad—involved, and loving, and always there for his child. I was in my twenties, and from a legalistic definition I wasn’t orphaned, but I felt like I was.

I felt doubt. Even in the minutes after Dad’s death, I began to think about all of the things that would be different now that he was gone. If I wanted to call him, I wouldn’t be able to. If I wanted to go have dinner with him on the nights that Mom worked late, I would have to go alone. If my car broke or the house caught on fire again (long story for another post…), I would have to deal with it on my own. I would need to help take care of Mom when she needed it. I would have to do all the things my Dad normally did. And there was no way I could live up to the example he set. There was no way I could ever be a fraction of the man he was. The life that lay ahead of me seemed to be clouded with eminent failure. It was inescapable.

And yes, I felt anger…but not at the source most people would probably assume. I’ve talked with other survivors of suicide, and many of them told me “It’s okay to be angry with your Dad,” but I never was—not even in the immediate aftermath of his death. How could I be mad at my Dad? It wasn’t his fault that he dealt with depression. He didn’t want to feel sad on purpose. Even if I had tried, I couldn’t have been mad at my Dad.

I was angry at the forces that led to his depression, and I didn’t even know what they were at the moment. I was angry at a chemical imbalance, if that was the result that had led him to suffer. I was angry at the life circumstances that had put unnecessary pressure on him and driven him further into the pit. I was angry at the medication that had not done what it had promised. To this day, I’ve felt anger at all of those things—but never once have I felt anger towards him.

And deep down, I was angry at myself. Why had I left him that morning? Why had I not stayed with him the entire day? Offered to take him out to lunch? Or just watched television with him? Why had my life gotten to such a point that a graduate school presentation seemed more important than making my Dad feel like he was loved? Call it guilt, or self-doubt, or inward-directed-anger, or any other name you can think of—but I felt like I could have done more, even though I consciously realized I had probably done all I could have.

I felt everything, and I felt nothing.

What I also remember feeling was a feeling that I was sinking. I lost all track of time, but I couldn’t shake the feelings of being both in the moment and completely disconnected from it. That “under the water” sensation was still there, and it lingered for days and weeks after he passed. I knew people were talking—and I could see their lips moving and I could hear the words they said. But I couldn’t put them together. I couldn’t get anything to make sense in my head. I couldn’t find meaning in what was happening. Everything still sounded jumbled and muffled, as were the thoughts in my head.

On the same morning of Dad’s death but prior to the incident, I had been sitting at the desk in my cozy home office, working on a PowerPoint and sipping a warm tea. Now, I was sitting in front of a detective from the Fairfield Township Police Department answering questions about my Dad and what had gone wrong.

I don’t even remember his specific questions, but I do remember that this particular police officer was gentle. As gentle as a police detective can be, that is. He understood the sensitivity of the situation. I remember him walking into the room, putting his hand on my shoulder, and saying that he was sorry he had to do this. I was sorry he had to do it, too.

I remember him saying that he didn’t want to have to ask me questions right now, but because of the tragic nature of the morning’s events, they needed to collect as much information as possible to find out what had happened to my Dad. Their goal was to help me, to help my family, in any way they could. As I sat up on the couch, I nodded my head and wiped away the tears. I had no desire to answer his questions, but maybe the quicker I answered them, the quicker he could leave me.

He would ask me questions about what my Dad and I had discussed that morning, and how Dad had responded. I tried to string together answers to his questions, but my mind was still drowning in emotion. I heard a dark voice inside my head over and over again saying “This is your life. This is what you are now. This is your new life.” And it was completely overwhelming. The same glazed-over look my Dad had earlier that morning when I went to talk to him, I now replicated to the police detective who sat opposite me.

I had answers for the detective’s questions, but I knew that no matter how much information I gave him, he probably wouldn’t be able to have answers for mine. Yes, he might be able to create a timeline of events and a file full of evidence, but he wouldn’t be able to tell me why my Dad had felt life was so painful that he had to resort to suicide to escape it. He wouldn’t be able to tell me why the combination of my Dad’s biological and life experiences had collided together in a lethal mix. He wouldn’t be able to tell me how to navigate life without a Father. The more I thought about all the questions I had, the more overwhelmed I became.

Eventually, the detective had everything he needed. The one vivid detail I do remember is that, when he arose from the chair across the room, he walked over to me and extended his hand. Weak and failing, I reached out and limply shook his hand with as much strength as I could muster. He looked at me, with genuine, caring eyes.

“I truly am sorry about your Dad and your loss. I met him before, and he was a great man. Please let me know if I can do anything to help. We will be here to support you any way we can.”

Boom. Another shockwave. It was the first time that anyone had ever told me they were sorry to hear about my Dad’s death.

“Dad’s death.” The words hit me with the force of a boulder barreling straight for my chest. I couldn’t absorb it, I couldn’t comprehend it. Everything still felt very, very unreal. A lazy summer morning had turned into an unbearable new chapter of my life, and I didn’t know how to survive the shock.

With any earthquake, there are significant aftershocks, and those aftershocks have continued to strike for the past three and a half years.

There are days where the underwater sensation returns, and I feel like I’m barely treading to stay alive. Even though I’m years removed, I will still have those days where the thoughts of missing my Dad are so powerful that I can’t concentrate. There are still days where the words just don’t sink in and I feel like I’m drowning all over again.

Fortunately, there are also days when I’m reminded that our God doesn’t let his people drown. When the nation of Israel was being pursued by Pharoh and the Egyptian Army, God used Moses to part the Red Sea. He let his people through to safety, and then called the waters to crash back down on top of their trailing enemies (Exodus 14). When a storm struck the boat carrying Jesus and the disciples through the Sea of Galilee, he told the waves to stop their tossing—and they did (Matthew 8, Mark 4, Luke 8). And when Jesus called Peter out onto the water, and Peter’s lack of faith caused him to begin drowning, Jesus literally reached out his hand and prevented him from going under (Matthew 14).

When I look at my life, I see the mounting waves; but when I look at Jesus, I see the solution.

It doesn’t always make life easier. It doesn’t automatically remove the obstacles. The waves are still there. The Israelites still had to run through the wall of waves. The disciples still had to guide the boat, and Peter still had to get out of his. But Jesus was there through all of it. And little by little, in every single moment, he’s helped me navigate through the waters just like he did thousands of years ago. The same power that rescued those men and women still rescues me.

My emotions still run deep when I think of that initial day, and it’s hard to deal with the thought of losing my Dad. I find little ways to deal with the storms, and while some are successful, there are many that don’t work. I have my good days, and I have my days where I feel like I’ve made no progress from that fateful Wednesday morning.

But I’ve learned that feelings aren’t facts. Just because I feel helpless doesn’t mean I am. Just because life feels hopeless doesn’t mean it is. Just because I have bouts of confusion doesn’t mean I’m living a confused life. Just because the world looks overwhelming doesn’t make the words of my Bible any less true. I so wish that I always lived my life every day like I believed this, but step by step, I’m navigating the waters. And you will too.

Dad, I don’t think a single day goes by where I don’t replay the sights and sounds of that awful July morning. I constantly fight against my mind to not let the tragedy overshadow the love you showed me, but I’m not always successful. There are days when it’s hard for me to feel happy. There are days when it’s hard for me to feel like I couldn’t have done more to help you. But I never questioned your love for me and for our family. In the moments where life gets really tough and the waters especially overwhelming, I can always feel your presence right there with me. I can always feel you helping me fight against those aftershocks. I’m thankful that you taught me how to love others. I’m thankful that you helped prepare me for the difficulties that would come my way. I’m grateful to have had a Dad who always knew how to comfort me, and I’m thankful that, even from Heaven, you still continue to love me and direct me. Until then, seeya Bub.

“When Jesus woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the waves, ‘Silence! Be still!’ Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm.” Mark 4:39 (NLT)

The Time Line

On December 28, 2016December 28, 2016 By seeyabubIn Grief3 Comments

On page 673 of my Bible, there is a line drawn at the end of the 68^th Psalm. To the side of that line, there’s a note written and outlined in a box: “7/30/13: This is where I resume my reading of Psalms after my Father’s suicide and death. I miss you Dad.”

The line that’s there in my Bible is an important one. I had been in the process of reading through the entire Bible from start to finish when Dad passed away. I had started by reading through the New Testament first, and I was in the middle of working my way through the Psalms a few chapters at a night. When I closed my Bible on July 23, 2013, I had no idea that the trials and storms I had read about over so many chapters were getting ready to become very real for me and my family.

Over the years, I had written many notes in my Bible. Since college, I had always been an avid “underliner” in the books I read, constantly writing notes in the margins, boxing in concepts that stuck out to me, and marking up each and every book I could get my hands on (to any frequent readers who find red pen marks in their library books…please don’t report me). Grab any book on my bookshelf, and you’ll usually be able to tell if I’ve read it or not by red pen markings or the lack thereof. My Bible, of course, is the most marked-up book that I own because its marked my life more than anything else. I mostly use pencil or a soft highlighter because of the tissue-paper-thickness of the pages, but even in graphite my handiwork is pretty evident.

But no marking is more important than that line on page 673. It’s a line in the most important book I’ll ever own, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the most important line I’ve ever drawn, and it’s one I had never expected to draw in the first place.

When Dad died, the way I described time became very, very different. Suddenly, every time I told a story, the time descriptor I used resembled the language I had heard in so many history lectures. I found myself saying “Before Dad died…” or “After Dad died…” every time I told a story.

At no other point in my life had I ever used a single event or circumstance to define when I had done something. Yes, there was the occasional “In fourth grade…” or “When I was a kid…”, or “That one time I got rejected by a girl in high school…” (which was used more frequently than the rest), but those descriptors usually changed based on the story. Now, no matter the content, I was using “B.D. and A.D.” time to preface every story (Before Dad died, and After Dad). It’s a feeling that I think anyone who loses a loved one begins to experience, and it’s much more than a simple line. Understanding the significance of that line can help to understand the magnitude of grief that permeates a survivor of suicide or any traumatic experience.

I remember drawing that line. It felt like a momentous, life-defining exercise. It had only been a few days after my Dad’s death, and just a day after his funeral when I felt the urge to retreat to my office, close the door, and pick up where I had left off. I partly wanted to escape and just be by myself for a while, because for the past week it felt as if I hadn’t been able to spend a moment’s time to myself. I knew that my thoughts were building up, but I hadn’t even had time to process them just yet. Mostly, I wanted to try and recapture some of the normalcy of my life, because things had been anything but normal for the past six days. Sitting at my desk and reading my Bible had become the most regular activity of my life over the past year or so. It seemed only natural to sit down and resume the work, but there was also an immense guilt that swept over me. My life’s history was transitioning periods from B.D. to A.D., and there was a mourning in my soul that told me if I refused to draw the line, maybe things would go back to normal. It’s irrational, but it’s natural.

When I drew that line, there was a sense of finality that swept across my mind. One chapter, an extremely significant chapter in my life had closed shut rather abruptly. And the conclusion of that chapter would affect all the ones that came after it. That realization weighed heavily on my shoulders.

But I drew it anyway. With tears in my eyes, I slowly and weakly drew a single solid line across the page, deliberately and slowly recognizing the magnitude of the moment. But the fact that I drew a line at all helped me comprehend one very, very important truth.

There is life after the line.

It sounds insensitive to even write those words. Even now, three years and more removed from Dad’s death, I feel guilty when I write that. But I can’t deny truth, and I refuse to let evil thoughts and the storms of this life hinder the joy that can still exist all around me. Yes, life isn’t the same after Dad died; but there is still life. And for all the dark moments it’s been filled with since he’s gone, there have also been beautiful moments that celebrate everything that my Dad loved.

When Dad died, there were moments, heart-wrenching moments, where it felt like life couldn’t go on, even when you know deep down that it will. Convincing yourself that life will go on in spite of the tragedy is the difficult part, but it does.

Life after the line isn’t easy. As a matter of fact, there are days where it feels impossible.

But guess what? Just like life before the line wasn’t always wonderful, life after the line isn’t always horrible. Don’t get me wrong—I would give anything to completely erase that line from my Bible and my memory and have my Dad back with me again. Life was just better when he was in it, and life will never be the same without him. But even though it’s not the same as it once was, there are moments in life where I see glimpses and snapshots of the joy I once experienced when Dad was alive. Since Dad has died, I’ve met wonderful friends and had tremendously fun moments with them. I’ve reconciled friendships from the past that have made life more enjoyable. There are times when life feels normal again, even though its dramatically broken, and instead of feeling guilty about those moments, I’m slowly learning to accept them. Day by day, I’m learning to live life after the line. I’m learning that it’s okay to hurt, but that it’s also okay to live. If I needed to learn anything from my Dad’s death, it’s that truth.

I don’t think it’s any coincidence that God put me where He did within my Bible-reading journey, and I don’t think it’s any coincidence that that line is drawn where it is. God knew that I would need the words that would follow in the 69^th Psalm to guide me through my life beyond the line, and those words continue to speak to me when I think about my Dad’s death. The first section of that Psalm, the words I read through tearstained eyes on the evening of July 30, 2013, will be with me forever:

Save me, O God!

The water is already up to my neck!

I am sinking in deep mud.

There is nothing to stand on.

I am in deep water:

A flood is sweeping me away.

I am exhausted from crying for help.

My throat is hoarse.

My eyes are strained from looking for my God.

(Psalm 69:1-3)

May my prayer come to you at an acceptable time, O Lord.

O God, out of the greatness of your mercy,

Answer me with the truth of your salvation.

Rescue me from the mud.

Do not let me sink into it.

I want to be rescued from those who hate me

And from the deep water.

Do not let floodwaters sweep me away.

Do not let the ocean swallow me up,

Or the pit to close its mouth over me.

Answer me, O Lord, because your mercy is good.

Out of your unlimited compassion, turn to me.

I am in trouble, so do not hide your face from me.

Answer me quickly!

Come close, and defend my soul.

Set me free because of my enemies.

(Psalm 69:13-18)

When those words were written, God answered David. And when those words are read thousands of years later, God answers me. He responded to my cries on that July night a few years ago, and he continues to respond as I navigate life on the other side of the line.

The dawning of another year always causes me to think about my Dad and the loss we all feel not having him around. I still quantify life by his passing, and I have no doubt that on New Year’s Eve this year, I’ll consciously start the counting in my head. 2017 will mark the fourth year of “A.D.” life for me. It’s a difficult chapter of life to embrace. But I’ll remind myself that life after the line isn’t always bad. I’ll be thankful for life in general—before or after the line. I’ll be grateful for the opportunity to have had a wonderful Dad for 26 years of life on this Earth, and I’ll rest easy in the fact that I’ll have a Father for all eternity that can lead me through this into a greater relationship with Him.

The line will always be there, but the Scriptures that surround it will never be outdone.

Dad, I’d do anything to go back to that awful day in July 2013 and never have to draw a line in my Bible. But the fact that I’m even drawing that line means you made a tremendous impact on me and my life. You always approached your work with the utmost sincerity and dedication, but there was no job more important to you than being my Dad and the leader of our family. I’ll always be appreciative of that. I’m sad when I see the line, but I smile when I remember the man whose memory deserved it. I promise that my life after the line will honor you and make you proud. I promise that you will not have died in vain—that people will live their lives differently when they hear about you. Keep watching over me. Seeya, bub.

“Come close and defend my soul.” Psalm 69:18 (GW)

Shopping for Dad

On December 15, 2016 By seeyabubIn Holidays2 Comments

“Dad would really like that for Christmas this year.” It’s a pretty normal thing to say. That is for someone who isn’t me, because this is the fourth Christmas I’ve had without my Dad, and I still find myself saying that as I fight my way through the shopping malls filled with aggressive soccer Mom’s ready to fight over a hatching robotic bird (come on, America—we are better than this). But I still say it, and there’s part of me that probably always will.

When Dad was alive, he could be really hard to buy for. He was a man who had everything. And there was always a good chance that he had two of everything and they were both brand name.

When I look back on Christmases gone by, there were some years where I really struggled to find a good set of Christmas gifts for my Dad. One year, I fell for a TV infomercial for a set of screwdrivers that you never had to remove from the screw while you turned—as if they one thing my Dad could really use was another set of screwdrivers to add to the hundreds he already owned. The Kobalt Double Drive Screwdriver set–complete with magnetic tool belt pouch and free shipping and handling. I don’t even remember the benefits to this particular purchase, but they had a fancy name and I’m pretty sure Bob Vila or a Bob Vila impersonator had endorsed them. And they were sold at Lowes’. And if I called within the next 15 minutes, they would give me two of them. I could give one to my Dad and keep one for myself in case I wanted to send the impression to a visitor that I actually knew how to complete a home repair.

There were also years, however, when I was able to find really cool gifts for my Dad. It usually had something to do with an experience we could share together. I’ll never forget the year I got him tickets to a Miami University hockey game for Christmas. Dad wasn’t an avid hockey fan, so I think he was kind of confused when he opened up the tickets (even though he would never let me see that). But once he got to the game, everything changed. A carpenter and builder by trade, Dad was completely enamored with the intricate architecture of the Goggin Ice Arena in Oxford. He especially loved the white marble floors that make up the concourse, inlaid with silver trim in figure eight patterns to mimic skate cuts in the ice. And although he didn’t really understand the rules of the game, he was a competitor at heart who loved the energy of a Miami hockey game. By the end of the game, we were both into it, cheering on the RedHawks even though he didn’t always know what he was cheering for. It’s a night I’ll remember for a long time. One that was very special for both of us.

No matter what gift I eventually settled on, the process of finding something for Dad was always rather difficult. For as many possessions as my Dad owned, he never let those possessions define him. Sure he loved gifts, but he loved the gift-givers even more. My Dad found true joy in community and loving other people. He loved spending time with people on the holidays and making others smile. The special charm of Christmas was never about what awesome gifts he might receive—which made shopping for him a particularly frustrating task. I could’ve found peace in the fact that my Dad would have loved any gift I got him, but I often found myself stressing out to try and blow him away with something he hadn’t even thought of. Over the years, I don’t know how many times I succeeded.

Now, the Christmas shopping is still frustrating, but for an entirely different set of reasons. The Christmas season used to feel like a warm embrace, but now it feels like a slap in the face—and Christmas shopping has become one of the primary experiences that makes the season so emotionally difficult.

For all the years he was alive, I struggled to find Christmas gifts for Dad. Now that he’s gone, however,I see hundreds of things in the stores that I would have loved to buy for him. Sweatshirts he would have worn well. Tickets to events he would have enjoyed. Movies he could have laughed at. Tools that he could have….well, added to his other tools.

The exhilaration of gift-giving has been stolen from me. It’s been irreparably tainted. The tradition is now enveloped with sadness, and it’s difficult for me to accept that. With every item I pass in the stores that makes me think of my Dad, I grow wearier and feel like I’m losing him more and more. I’m always trying to find ways to cope, but I’ve been largely unsuccessful. The joy, albeit stressful, of giving my Dad a gift is gone. The tradition is extinguished. And it’s really, really tough to admit that.

So, this year, I’ll start a new tradition, but I’ll still buy for Dad. A few months ago, I started a new job in Downtown Cincinnati. I have to park about fifteen minutes away from my office building, which gives me some time to pay attention to the city around me. As I exit the building and start to walk down Main, the sights of the city hit my square in the face. The ballpark, the skyscrapers, the streetcar…and then, the homelessness.

There is a man who leans against a light pole on most days as I walk by. I’ll confess—I’ve never spoken to him. I’ve made eye contact a few times, but his glazed and vacant expression never connects with mine. He holds a sign, which I’ve never taken the time to read. And as the Cincinnati winter settles in, I notice his coat always looks a little thinner than all the other streetwalkers. He never chats with anyone, but stands with his sign and a few belongings in a backpack. I never see him eating, even though I usually walk by him with an apple in my hand for the ride home. I never see him drinking a Starbucks coffee like so many of the other pedestrians. He is the city that the city doesn’t see. A man loved by Jesus but ignored by the world—including me.

This man deserves a Christmas. This man deserves a Christmas as much as I ever will or my Dad ever did.

So, this Christmas, I’ll still buy for my Dad—but I’ll give it to this man. I’ll pick up a coat or some gloves that my Dad would have loved. I’ll get him a gift card for a local restaurant. I’ll box this all up and wrap it with the same love and attention to detail that my Dad always wrapped his gifts with. And a couple days before Christmas, I’ll stop and have Christmas with this man. I don’t know if I’ll tell him about my Dad, or just hand him the gift and let him know that I want him to have a merry Christmas. And although I know that a coat and a gift card can’t change the world, I hope they give this man an ounce of brightness in his seemingly difficult life.

But let’s remember—Christmas gifts can change the world. Think of the one that was given over 2,000 years ago in the form of God’s only Son. Think about the difference that gift made. Who knows where this one will go, but I’ll just trust that God wants me to give it—I’ll let him figure out the rest.

I’ll give this gift because I’m thankful for the one that was given to me—the gift of a Heavenly Father who loves me every day, and the gift of an earthly Father who made that love tangible to me for so many years. I believe that God sends Dads to this world with a very special mission—to have them exemplify the type of love he shows us in an earthly body. Not every Father answers the call; but for 26 years, my Dad answered it each and every day. I’m so thankful that I had a Dad who made Christmas special, but more importantly, a Dad who took the spirit of Christmas and lived it out throughout the year. I want to be more like him this Christmas, and this new tradition will be a big step in that direction.

I know the joy that I get when I open a Christmas present, and I know the joy my Dad used to get as well—even if he was opening yet another set of TV infomercial screwdrivers. But I don’t know the pain this man on the street experiences in his everyday life. I don’t know if he’ll even be able to enjoy opening that gift because of all the overwhelming things that make up his life. But this is something my Dad would’ve done. And I just trust that God wouldn’t be putting this on my heart if He didn’t have a plan for it.

As much as I’ve tried to make the Christmases stay the same after Dad, I’m learning that a more appropriate response (for me at least) has been to change them into new traditions. My Dad changed my life for the better, and his memory should do that as well. My life should be a testament to the man he was, and so should my Christmas traditions. So I’ll hold onto as many traditions as I can without him, and I’ll make new ones in his absence that honor his legacy. I’ll make traditions inspired by his love for all of us, and I’ll continue to shop for him even though I’ll give the gift to someone else.

As much as I hope this gift to the man I walk by will help him, selfishly I hope it will also help me. When I make my Christmas shopping list, I can still have a category for “Dad”. When I go out into the stores and have that “Oh, Dad would really like this” moment, I can still make a purchase. I can buy a gift for Dad. I can wrap a gift for Dad. And I can give it to someone who could really, really use it.

I’ve learned that new traditions aren’t all about missing my Dad; instead, new traditions are about doing things that he would have done. My Dad was the type of guy who would have bought a few gifts for a homeless man he didn’t know. My Dad was the type of guy who would have wrapped that gift delicately and put a unique tag on it. My Dad was the type of guy who would have walked right up to someone he didn’t know, but someone who he knew needed a hand-up, and given it to him without hesitation. I’m not that type of guy, but because my Dad was, I’ll try to be.

For those of you who miss your loved one this Christmas, I hope you’ll go out and shop for them. I hope you’ll find a way to give your loved one’s gift to someone who could really use it.

“Dad would’ve liked this,” I say to myself as I shop. “He really would’ve enjoyed opening this gift.” Now, in the eyes of another man, I hope I’ll get to see a glimmer of the same glistening sparkle I always saw in my Dad’s eyes on Christmas morning. I may be saying goodbye to him again this Christmas, but I’ll say hello to someone else who just might need it.

Dad, It’s so hard to believe that another Christmas has gone by and you’re not here to experience it. You always made the holidays so special for Mom and I, and the tree is always a bit emptier when you’re not around it. There were so many things you enjoyed around Christmas—especially watching our family dogs open gifts and tear them apart. We were all joyful around the holidays because you made it that way for us. In your absence, I hope we are keeping the spirit alive that you always gave to us. And, I’m sorry for all the screwdrivers. Merry Christmas, Dad, and until we celebrate together again, seeya Bub.

“They went quickly and found Mary and Joseph with the baby, who was lying in a manger. When they saw the child, they repeated what they had been told about him. Everyone who heard the shepherds’ story was amazed. Mary treasured all these things in her heart and always thought about them.” Luke 2:16-19 (GW)