Jealous

A few days after my Dad’s death, I found myself roaming around a clothing store at the outlet malls. It sounds like a rather trivial thing to do after a traumatic loss, but I needed something, anything to find temporary relief from the sadness I felt. Attempting to escape from my grief, I was doing anything and everything to just keep my mind off of the horror that had filled the past week. I was trying to do little things, step by step, that I had done in my life before losing Dad, even though I experienced unrelenting guilt anytime I engaged in an activity that felt like I was “moving on.” Life was moving on to a new, emptier normal as much as I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t like it, but I couldn’t stop it.

As I walked around the clothing store attempting to distract myself with shirts and hats and things that felt absolutely pointless now, I realized that my mind was super attuned to the many fathers and sons inside the store. They had always been there, but my mind had never had a reason to pay much attention to them before. Today, however, was different. Today, there were fathers and sons seemingly everywhere inside the store, and I was fatherless for the first time in my life. No matter which way I turned, they were constantly in my face.

I watched them all—closely and intently. I noticed how they interacted with one another. I watched as they showed one another different pieces of apparel. I saw how they joked together. I listened to their conversations, from the seemingly mundane to the more serious and complicated.

Realizing that I was without my Father in a public setting for one of the first times in my life, I did my best to try and get away from the different groups of fathers and sons that I saw throughout the store; but no matter where I moved, I couldn’t escape them. Everywhere I went, I seemed to encounter another father and son.

After a few unsuccessful dodging attempts, I found myself standing at a t-shirt rack with a father and his teenage son nearby, and I began to listen to their conversation back and forth, as much as I really didn’t want to. I knew, immediately upon looking at them, that his son was extremely disinterested—in both the activity of shopping, but more painfully, disinterested in his father.

To his credit, this particular father was doing everything he could to engage his son in a conversation; and his son, as some teenagers are prone to do, looked like he wanted to be hanging out with anyone else but his dad in that moment. Although he was trying to mask it, I could tell that this father was deeply hurt by the way his son was acting. I could see a level of longing for a previous chapter in life—a chapter during which his son had once adored him. There was a longing to be a father of a young, innocent boy again—a longing that would never be resolved. I could tell that this father, as unsuccessful as his efforts might have been, refused to give up on recapturing his son’s love and adoration. His efforts, however, were largely fruitless, and his son did everything he could to escape his dad’s presence.

I kept watching, and as the dad attempted to engage his son more and more, the son grew angrier and more hurtful. He began rolling his eyes at his dad behind his back. He snapped at his dad whenever he was asked a question that he perceived to be ridiculous—which just happened to be every question that his dad asked. Eventually, the young man started disrespecting his father at a level that was unconscionable and uncomfortable for those of us standing nearby—especially me.

And I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Without even realizing what was happening, I found myself getting emotional. My face was red and hot, and tears were forming at the corners of my eyes. I wanted to get away from them, but I also couldn’t stop watching them and wishing that this young boy would just shut up. I was anxious and uncomfortable and angry all at the same time.

I hung the shirt I was holding back on the rack and briskly walked out of the store, leaving the disrespected father and his disrespectful son in the rearview mirror.

I walked quickly through the parking lot, making a beeline towards my car as I felt more tears coming on. Within a few seconds, I got in the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut, and I began sobbing hysterically and pathetically. I sat there, slamming my fist against the steering wheel multiple times and letting out more than one anger-laced yells. It was embarrassing and humiliating, but these were raw emotions that I just couldn’t hide in that moment, just a few days removed from my Father’s tragic death. I was furious. I was deeply saddened.

More than anything, I was jealous.

After losing Dad, jealously was not one of the emotions I expected to struggle with, but it had hit me hard just a few days after Dad’s death. I didn’t realize how cognizant I would be of all the fathers and sons in the world around me. I didn’t expect that every single time I saw a father and son walking around a mall doing something as simple as shopping could well up deep-rooted feelings of grief-induced jealousy—but it did. I was going to the mall that day to try to escape from my grief, and the mere sight of a father and his son together made that impossible. I wondered when this would start to fade, but I knew that although the frequency might lessen, the feelings themselves would likely never entirely disappear.

My Dad was gone. It was a new, horrible reality that hadn’t yet sunk in, but I kept saying it to myself that day in the car, as if repeating it over and over again would make the reality of my new life less emotional. “Dad is gone. Dad is gone.” Over and over again, I found myself repeating what I had lost in my life—my Father, my mentor, my friend. My heart filled with despair as I thought about all of the great times that we had together during his life—times that would never, ever be repeated.

And I admit it—I was extremely jealous of those young men I had seen throughout the mall that day. Many of the fathers and sons I saw in the mall that day were happy. I saw young children laughing as their fathers chased them between stores or made funny noises. In the food court, I saw dads sharing meals with their children just like Dad and I had done so many times before. I saw fathers with their adolescent children talking and chatting and carrying on good conversations. I saw older fathers with their adult children (and even grandchildren) just appreciating one another’s company.

And I was really, really jealous of those families and what they had together.

I was longing for moments that I felt were stolen from me. My Dad was a loving Father, and we deserved to have more time with one another. True, no amount of time with a man like my Dad would ever be enough, but I just knew that I wanted—and deserved—more. We deserved to be able to enjoy different phases of life together that were still to come. I wanted to see him on my wedding day (and the look of disbelief that would be on his face when I would tell him that I was getting married). I wanted to be able to, someday, tell him that he was going to be a grandfather. I wanted to watch his childlike antics as a grandfather, and I would have appreciated everything he would have done to be silly and goofy and funny with little ones running around him. I wanted to be able to see him get a promotion—which he so desperately deserved—at work, and I wanted to be able to honor him when he eventually celebrated his retirement. And yes, I wanted to watch him grow old.

That day at the mall was like a flash-forward into the life I could have had, the life that would never be but should have. With every father and son I observed, I was reminded of those moments of life that had either passed too quickly or were stolen from us too hastily. With every father and son, I saw a vignette into the world that, for some reason, I would not be blessed with.

I sat in the car trying to process my feelings. It was tough to admit, but in those moments, some of the nastiest emotions of jealousy bubbled to the surface, and I wondered why an undeserving brat like the young man I had witnessed was still allowed to have his father while mine was buried just a few days earlier. I found myself wanting to say something to that young man. I wanted to walk up to him and tell him to quit acting like such a little jerk, because he had no idea how lucky he was to still have his father in his life. I wanted to tell him that he should think twice about being so disrespectful to a man he had likely once idolized and would someday miss. I wanted him to feel a sense of regret for his despicable, thoughtless, self-centered behavior.

I also wanted to tell him that I spoke from experience, because I now found myself regretting all of the moments when I had treated my Dad similarly; and in that moment, I realized that I wasn’t as angry at that young man as I was angry at myself for not always giving my own Father the respect he rightfully earned.

I was a largely respectful kid, but I was also a teenager. As most teenagers do, I went through my “too cool for parents” phase. Although my Dad was fairly non-intrusive compared to most parents I had seen, he definitely enjoyed being around me and my friends, even when I didn’t always enjoy or appreciate his company. There were times when my Dad would be around, innocently and joyfully, and I just wanted to be with my friends—not him. It’s so painful to admit this; especially considering the fact that, now that he’s gone, I would give up just about anything to have a few more precious minutes and moments with him.

Time teaches us important and sometimes painful lessons, and it took losing my Dad to realize the true gifts of life, albeit too late to appreciate it with him. Losing my Dad has taught me to appreciate those who are in our lives while they are here. It’s a simple lesson, and I’m definitely not the first person who had to learn it the hard way. Unfortunately, it is a life lesson that many of us learn entirely too late because we don’t often learn it until the pain of loss sets in.

Although I’ve grown in many ways since losing Dad, those feelings of jealousy are still just as real almost six years removed from his death. I still have moments similar to that day at the outlet mall when I will spot a father and son and those feelings of jealousy will creep to the surface. I still observe interactions—mostly beautiful ones—between fathers and sons that will bring me to inexplicable tears. I want what they have, and I don’t understand why God felt that calling my Dad home to heaven so prematurely was necessary. There are many days when I long to be a little boy again. I wish desperately for those moments when I could swim in the backyard pool with my Dad, or ride bikes with him, or laugh at television shows with him, or just be with him.

But I know that whatever that ultimate plan may be, and no matter how jealous I might feel of other fathers and sons at times, I cannot lose sight of the fact that I spent 26 wonderful years with a simply amazing Father in my life.

I remember talking with one of my Pastors, Dave Hicks, shortly after losing Dad. At the time of our phone conversation, I was worried about going back to work. My job requires me to meet with lots of students and families who come to campus. Oftentimes, those meetings are pleasant, but on occasion, there will be instances where students grow visibly frustrated with their parents asking embarrassing questions—as all parents are prone to do in the college admission process. Students will roll their eyes, or sometimes even admonish their parents when they grow extremely frustrated with their actions. In my early career, I became rather accustomed to these types of meetings; but now, things were different. I had lost my Father, and I knew that I would likely react differently when I observed these interactions. I was worried that I might start to get inside my own head when I saw students treating their fathers with disrespect, and I was afraid that these scenarios would trigger unpleasant memories, making it hard for me to do my job. On the flip side, it was also difficult for me to watch parents who might come in and are disinterested in their children, because I lost a Father who was always, always interested in my life.

I was sharing these concerns with Dave, and I finally broke down and told him what was at the heart of my worry and anxiety.

“What am I going to do when I interact with a student being mean to their Dad? I know that I’m going to be jealous and it’s really going to upset me,” I said.

“You’re going to rejoice in the fact that, for 26 fantastic years, you had the best Father the world has ever seen—and no one, not even death, can take that away,” Dave responded.

That comment shifted my perspective on that day, and it’s been an important reminder in the years of recovery after his death. Although jealousy is a natural feeling when losing a loved one, we also can’t lose sight of what we were fortunate enough to have. Although natural, I also realize how selfish my primal feelings of jealousy were after losing Dad. It was true—I didn’t deserve to lose my Dad at such a young age. But Dad didn’t deserve to die the way he did. And the father I saw in the store didn’t deserve to be treated the way he was. And, in most every situation of life, none of us deserve the pain we are subjected to.

But we also don’t deserve God’s love—yet He still continues to love us anyway. Our actions often run counter to the life He designed and taught us about through his Son, Jesus Christ. No matter how undeserving we might be, God continues to pursue us—and I will always be thankful for that message. When it comes to loving God, there have been sinful times in my life when I’ve been absolutely no different than that punk in the clothing store. In spite of all my transgressions and selfish attitudes, God has kept loving me; and it’s a reminder that not time, not space, and not even death by suicide can separate me from the love my Father gave me while he was here on earth.

I’m thankful that, albeit shorter than I would have liked, I had a Dad who loved me unconditionally each and every day of his life. I’m fortunate that I had a Father who took an active interest in everything I did, even though there were times when I didn’t give him the respect that he deserved. And I’m thankful, more than anything, that my Father’s memory and legacy continue to guide and teach me each and every day of my life. My heart is hurt, and it’s still hurting years removed from the day that the pain of losing him was inflicted; but my heart is only full of jealousy because of the magnitude of my loss. I lost my Father on that day, but I’ll never, ever lose my love for him.

Dad and Me Stump Picture with SB LogoDad, Of all the difficult things that have happened since losing you, watching other fathers and sons has likely been the hardest. I still get jealous when I see other fathers and sons enjoying life together, because deep down I feel that you and I were robbed of precious time spent with one another. I don’t always know how to deal with these feelings, but you taught me to appreciate what we have in life more than longing for what we don’t have. And for all the experiences and moments that we might not have been able to share with one another, the 26 years that we did spend together as Father and Son here on earth were always filled with life, adventure, appreciation, and love. You taught me that it’s okay to be hurt and to not know all of the answers, but that in spite of that hurt, we should strive to love others at all times. And Dad, in spite of the pain I still feel to this day, I often ask God to teach me how to love others like you did. Although I still experience jealousy, it’s always coupled with an unfailing sense of longing for what is to come—a heavenly reunion in which I’ll be able to tell you, again, how much I loved you. Thank you, Dad, for always modeling hope. Thank you for giving me indelible memories that will never, ever be erased by the pain of jealousy. And thank you for loving me and everyone in your life with gusto. I love you, Dad, and until we can enjoy the gift of being near one another again, seeya Bub.

“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.” Proverbs 14:30 (NIV)

Peter

Peter Headshot

This piece is dedicated to Dr. Peter Magolda:

A man who taught me that the written word offers tremendous power to those who can command it.

Peter, you taught me that writing can soothe deep hurts and wounds, but your lessons on brevity have yet to sink in.


 The doorbell rang at 8am. On most days, this would have been unusual; but it was July 25, 2013—the day after Dad’s death, the day after unusual and unexpected became our new normal. I gathered my strength after an evening full of futile attempts to find any semblance of rest. I opened the door, and standing on the other side, in a button down denim shirt with a wax-paper bag of donuts in hand, was Peter Magolda.

I smiled when I saw him, which wasn’t unusual. And then, I broke down because my life was anything but usual at that moment.


My friendship with Peter began only two years before losing Dad when I applied to Miami University’s graduate program in Student Affairs in Higher Education (SAHE). Although I had many people pushing me to go on to graduate school, I was reluctant to do it. Even though I had been a successful undergraduate student, I had an underlying fear that I wasn’t enough. I didn’t think I could handle the caliber of work that graduate school required. I wasn’t smart enough. I couldn’t work hard enough. I couldn’t be enough to get a Master’s degree. I was full of anxiety and trepidation as I wrote my essay for the application, constantly revising and resketching and reorganizing, scrapping the essay multiple times and starting again, hoping more than anything that I’d have the brilliant breakthrough that never came.

In my feverish anxiety, I told many people at Miami that I was in the process of applying for a graduate program at Miami, and whenever I mentioned that I was applying to the SAHE program, the response was usually the same: “Oh! Have you met Peter and Marcia?”

Peter Magolda Early CareerIt’s rare in the world of academia that a program is defined by the people who design and manage it, but Peter and Marcia were intellectual celebrities that earned every bit of that recognition and respect. Peter Magolda had been a faculty member at Miami since 1994, having earned a B.A. in Psychology from LaSalle College, an M.A. in Student Affairs from The Ohio State University, and a Ph.D. in Higher Education Administration from Indiana University. Peter’s work was ingenious. With respect and inventiveness, Peter was able to take anthropological tools and concepts usually associated with studying foreign cultures, and he applied those cultural study techniques in college settings. Prior to coming to graduate school, I would have never thought of that approach as a real or viable option for research; but Peter was exceptional at taking something that seemed undoable and bringing it to life.

Peter and Marcia BicycleHis intellectual acumen was only matched by that of his wife, Dr. Marcia Baxter Magolda. Marcia’s name was everywhere within the field of higher education. To this day, her work on student development theory and self-authorship serves as the cornerstone of many graduate programs in education, and many colleges and universities use her findings as their primary pedagogical foundation. That she and Peter were able to find one another and grow together as partners was always so wonderful to me.

I always answered the question about Peter and Marcia the same way: “No, I haven’t met them yet, but I sure have heard a lot about them!” In reality, I didn’t know a thing about Peter or Marcia before I came to graduate school. I felt like one of the few people in my cohort who had not familiarized myself with the readings of the field before coming to graduate school, so their names and academic accomplishments were completely foreign to me.

Nonetheless, I submitted my application to start in the SAHE program as a part-time student, and I was fortunate enough to receive an interview. The anxiety of the application process and essay writing faded only temporarily, and I was paralyzed by worry when thinking about taking that next step. “Surely, they’ll see through the act in person,” I thought to myself, still believing that my success in the application was a complete fluke. I was full of doubt and dread as I thought about the interview. In my best suit and tie, I made my way into the office at McGuffey Hall in Oxford, and prayed I could find the strength to get through the day.

This was the day I first met Peter. I wasn’t actually scheduled to meet with him, but his office just happened to be right next to the room we were interviewing in. In typical, inquisitive, Peter fashion, he poked his head into the room to see what was going on. I looked up and was a bit surprised to see a man with glasses and long, gray hair asking in an East-coast accent “So, what’s going on in here?” He wasn’t at all what I expected.

And in the years that I got to know Peter, I always loved that he was never, ever what I expected. As a teacher, as a mentor, and as a friend, Peter was always much, much more than I could have ever imagined.

On that interview day, Peter moseyed into the room and shook hands with the three of us who were interviewing to become part time students, nodding curtly as he repeated our first names and shook each of our hands. With the same curiosity that he applied in all of his intellectual pursuits, Peter started asking questions about each of us. He joked about my tie and said I was entirely too professional to be in the program, and I laughed and wondered if I should run out at exactly that moment and buy a button down, drab green sweater like the one he was wearing…

After Peter left the room, I continued with the rest of my day, considerably more at ease than I was before meeting him without knowing quite why. And a few days later, I got a call from Peter delivering the good news—I had been admitted to the program! Peter told me to take some time to think about whether or not I would like to accept a spot in the program. I took his advice and waited about 14 seconds before letting him know that I was definitely in. He laughed and said he looked forward to being my advisor, and I felt overjoyed as I hung up the phone. I was a first-generation college student who had never thought about graduate school as a realistic opportunity. In a few months, I would begin working on a graduate degree at Miami. Life takes many wonderfully beautiful and surprising turns. I was glad that this turn led me where it did.

My first semester in the program was difficult because that was also the time when my own struggle with anxiety began and when I first started seeking out help from a counselor to manage my mental illness. My anxiety wasn’t fully caused by starting graduate school, but it did contribute to the feeling of being overwhelmed and insignificant. As the semester wore on, I began to feel like I was finally on an upward trajectory, personally and academically, but I was still suffering from a healthy dose of impostor’s syndrome. In each class period, I had multiple instances of self-doubt where I thought to myself “I’m not smart enough to be here,” or “I can’t stack up against the intellect of many of my classmates.” It was a nauseating feeling, and it constantly kept me on edge in my classes and when I was working on assignments.

The other thing keeping me on edge that first semester? Knowing that I would be taking EDL 666 in the Spring.

Any graduate of the SAHE program from the Peter Magolda era will certainly know about EDL 666. The course went by many names. The official name on the course bulletin at Miami was Student Cultures in the University Environment. Most of the students in the program just called it “Cultures” or “The Cultures Course.” Some people had other not-so-family-friendly names for it, depending on how close they were to the midterm or finals being due. But more than anything else, I heard people call the course “Peter’s Course.” Everyone knew that this course was Peter’s baby.

The gist of the course was simple yet powerful. Peter wanted future student affairs professionals to take the principles of anthropology and ethnographic research that were typically used to study unfamiliar people and apply those in our study of college students. He wanted us to take what we thought we understood—what we thought to be familiar—and look at it through an entirely different lens. Peter wanted students in his course to understand the different subcultures that existed within the university environment, avoiding the tendency of lumping all college learners into stereotypical categories or generational molds. Masterfully, Peter was able to take very important, often difficult readings about cultural studies and anthropological fieldwork, and apply those to our study of and practice with the students on our campus. It was a brilliant approach—and I don’t think I realized just how brilliant it actually was at the time because I was so freaked out about actually having to take the class.

Peter always loved the frenzy and hysteria that his course created. Not in a sadistic way or anything, but he did find it fascinating that people were so worked up about something that seemed so natural to him. Although, Peter did love the fact that the most challenging course in the program was given the course number “666.” He laughed about that many times throughout the semester, and I often wondered if he indeed went to the University Registrar to request this number for the course rather than having it assigned. Aside from the number, however, Peter didn’t understand why people lost their minds about this particular course. Yes, it was challenging—but aren’t the most important things to learn in life often challenging, difficult, and complex?

I’d love to say I understood this, but when I started in Peter’s course in the Spring of 2012, I completely bought into the hysteria. I was a nervous wreck. The topics looked intense. The readings were extensive. The assignments were hefty. THE COURSE NUMBER WAS THE NUMEROLOGICAL REPRESENTATION OF THE DEVIL! For someone who already felt he didn’t have the intellectual chops to hack it in graduate school, the looming danger of this course was real and paralyzing.

Nervously, I waded into Peter’s course in a corner classroom at McGuffey Hall, and my first experience with Peter in the classroom was not what I had expected. My classmates had filled me in on the academic rigor of the course and how Peter challenged his students to really grapple with the material to understand it and apply it. I had expected Peter to be this expert, this fountain of knowledge, spewing information for two hours and forty minutes every Thursday afternoon in the hopes that we could just retain an ounce of his brilliance. That wasn’t Peter—at all. Peter would often come into class, throw out a quote from a reading we had done, and then he would sit back in his chair with crossed legs and a hand on his chin, saying very little throughout our discussions, and sporadically brushing his long, gray hair behind his ears. On occasion, Peter might probe or push someone on a particular idea or thought if it was unclear. But most of the time, Peter just wanted to sit back and watch the action. There was never a day in all the classes I spent with Peter in which I felt like I was simply and passively absorbing knowledge that he was giving. He was helping us to discover it on our own, always present, gently guiding and shepherding us along.

As comforting as his presence in the classroom was, however, this didn’t ease my trepidation as the midterm due date loomed on the horizon. Peter had given us our midterm questions very early—and they were doozies. Each question was a paragraph long and required us to synthesize multiple readings and apply them within real life scenarios we observed in our work at Miami. Peter asked us to limit the first two responses—to six pages each! The last response need only be three pages, and I had never been so excited to only have to write a three-page paper in my entire life.

As I began to write my midterm, my anxiety got the best of me. I began to panic as sentences refused to form. I would scan highlighted passages from our course materials that I had read and understood in class, and my breath would draw very tight when those concepts no longer made any sense to me. Before I knew it, I was spiraling. I would write a paragraph, read it back to myself, realize it was incoherent, and delete the entire thing, only to repeat this vicious cycle for hours on end. Before I knew it, an entire day had gone by and I had only two pages of a fourteen-page midterm complete. I remember laying on the ground near the desk in my parent’s home and starting to tear up. The voice inside my head just kept saying “See, I told you you aren’t good enough.” It had only taken one course to expose me for what I was—an academic fraud.

I’m glad the voice in my head was overridden by Peter’s voice just one day later. In my panic, I dashed out an e-mail to Peter letting him know that I was struggling extensively with the midterm. He called me the next day, as the due date for the exam was quickly approaching, and Peter talked with me on the phone for nearly an hour, helping me walk through the questions on the midterm and process my thoughts. He didn’t give me the answers. He didn’t tell me what I should write. He just asked me important questions that helped me put my own disconnected thoughts into a more coherent argument. What readings stood out to me as being important? What were those readings saying? Did I see evidence of that in the students that I interacted with as an admission counselor? How could I connect one reading with another and find relevance and common ground between the two? On that day (and many more to follow) Peter did what only the best teachers are able to master: he took complex, seemingly unrelated concepts and showed me why they were important to my work and my own life.

I wrote the midterm essays—not easily, not quickly—but I wrote them. And I submitted them to him. A week or so later, I got Peter’s feedback on the essay. His notes were extensive. Sometimes, they were illegible (Handwriting was not his strongest asset), but once deciphered, they were extremely valuable. Peter gave me positive feedback in the areas where I had earned it, but he also pointed out sections and passages where I might have been able to improve the quality of my work. He gave me this feedback not because it was his job to find holes in my arguments, but because he wanted me to be the best student affairs professional and educator I possibly could be.

I laughed when I saw his comments on the last page of my exam: “Exam Grade: A-. Well done. If this represents your confused state, I look forward to reading your paper on topics you claim to understand.”

Midterm GradeWith just fourteen pages of thoughtful, handwritten notes that were altogether positive, sometimes critical, and always constructive, Peter helped chip away at the feelings of doubt and insecurity that had been holding me captive for that first year of graduate school. For the rest of that semester, I reminded myself of the faith Peter had in me. Anytime a reading was incomprehensible, I read through it twice. If a concept didn’t make sense to me, I asked Peter about it outside of class. I wasn’t trying to impress Peter—I was just trying to live up to whatever he saw in me that I could not see in myself.

I did my best to keep that positive attitude throughout the biggest obstacle of the semester: the infamous Cultures fieldwork team assignment. Peter didn’t just want us to learn about anthropological principles and the value they held in working with and researching college students—he wanted us to live it, and to experience it firsthand. With that charge, Peter divided our class into teams based on the functional areas we showed interest in, and we were tasked with conducting a fieldwork project that ran the entirety of the semester. In our fieldwork teams, we would serve as participant-observers and write a hefty narrative and cultural analysis of the student groups we studied. Fortunately, my group was granted access to the Division I basketball team at Miami thanks to the connections of one of my classmates, and we spent the entire semester attending practices, sitting courtside at games, interviewing coaches and players, hearing post-game talks in the locker room, and trying to make sense of the unique dynamics that characterized this college subculture.

Before graduate school, I don’t think I ever had the desire to write a 60-page paper with two of my classmates. During the process, I don’t think I always enjoyed writing a 60-page paper about the basketball team. I especially didn’t enjoy the night that I locked myself in my office at Miami Middletown putting my finishing touches on the paper until 5:00am the next day—one of only three all-nighters I ever pulled in my entire student career at Miami. But looking back with the perspective I have now, I don’t think I’ve ever learned so much from an assignment in my entire life.

Through that assignment, Peter taught us more than what it takes to write a lengthy and coherent paper. He taught us that we should refuse to accept everyday, ordinary things at face value. He taught us that we should always dig deeper. He taught us that we should take things that we thought we understood and ask a lot of questions about them, because nearly every we would learn that we never knew as much as we thought we did. It was the goal of a masterful teacher, and Peter was that…and so much more.

As much as I remember learning from the intellectual challenge of that course, however, I remember Peter’s hilariously quirky and snarky personality making those nearly-three hour meetings memorable and fun. Peter would do and say things that he likely didn’t intend to be funny, and those things would often put all of us in the class in stitches. Like the day he declared that he was boycotting the Jimmy John’s in Oxford.

Our class started at 12:45 each Thursday, and on most days Peter would order a sandwich from the Jimmy John’s in Oxford as he ran between classes, meetings, and his third floor office in McGuffey Hall. Peter typically ordered a #5 (The Vito, probably just because he liked the name), and even though he ordered a sandwich to be delivered multiple times a week to the same exact location, the driver was continuously getting lost.

“I just don’t understand how you get lost coming to the same place multiple times a week,” Peter exhaled after meandering into our class one afternoon. “I don’t want to have to do this, but I think I’m going to have to boycott Jimmy John.”

“Like, the restaurant?” one of my classmates asked. “Or the guy himself?”

“In essence, I’m doing both. But I hope he takes it personally,” Peter said.

I don’t know how long his boycott lasted, but my classmates and I couldn’t resist trying to serve as peace negotiators. The following week, we went to the Jimmy John’s uptown and ordered a Vito to go. As we walked to McGuffey Hall, we took out a permanent marker and wrote a note on the sandwich paper.

“Dear Peter, This is Jimmy. I miss you. And I’m sorry. Please forgive me for the wrong I’ve done. I promise I’ll never get lost again. Love, Jimmy John.”

When we handed the sandwich to Peter, we got to hear that all-too familiar chuckle as he threw his long hair back, and his face turned red as he laughed about the note. He opened the sandwich and took a few bites. And then, he just turned to us and said he wasn’t sure if the boycott would end, but he’d think about it. One of my classmates, Ashley Korn, even kept the joke going when she introduced Peter at our program’s graduation ceremony

“Okay, Peter,” she said, “I know you hate people talking about you, so I’ll try to make this freaky fast…unlike your Jimmy John’s deliveries to class.”

It was that type of fun-loving, carefree personality that caused students to adore Peter, even though the last thing he cared about or craved was the adoration of others. Only Peter could get students to write 60-page papers about observing the Ultimate Frisbee team or the Secular Students organization at Miami. Only Peter could get students to willingly read books about hegemony and privilege and the principles of ethnographic fieldwork and have meaningful, thoughtful conversations about those topics for hours on end. Only Peter could launch a boycott on a national sandwich chain and make a semester-long running joke of it.

Only Peter.

Only Peter could get me to take a summer course on qualitative research at Miami during the precious months of May and June. My fifteen classmates and I knew we were in for a wild ride when Peter suggested we meet for 8 hours on a Saturday to kick of the class in an effort to knock out a few weeknight sessions. On that long, dreaded Saturday while reviewing the syllabus, Peter informed us of his philosophy on summer courses.

“So, this is a three credit hour course that lasts for four weeks. And some professors here at Miami think that during the summer, you should take it easy and pare down the curriculum and workload to fit within those four weeks. I don’t believe that. So, we are going to do sixteen weeks worth of work; we are just going to do it in four weeks. Sound good?”

For some unknown reason, my classmates and I all nodded our heads yes as our hearts sunk into our large intestines.

Peter was right. Those four weeks were absolutely jam packed. We did four different assignments in that short class, including a participant-observation analysis, a midterm examination, and a 25-page research assignment that walked us through as many phases of the research process as humanly possible in a short amount of time. His reading list for the four-week class was even longer than the list for the Cultures class! I nearly admitted myself for psychiatric evaluation when I found myself thinking that I wanted to go back to EDL 666….

Those four weeks, however, were some of the most important and entertaining weeks of my time in the graduate program. I learned more about the different types of qualitative research methodologies and research paradigms than I ever knew existed. Prior to that class, I had always wondered whether or not I could be an effective researcher; Peter showed me that I could. He took complex and mundane readings about research guidelines and paradigms and showed us how they applied to our everyday lives and the work we were all going to be doing with college students.

Even with Peter’s break-neck curricular pace and expectations for such a quick course, we all found ourselves laughing together on most nights. Specifically, I remember Peter needling one of my classmates over his laptop. My classmate, Travis, had a Toshiba laptop that was a bit…vintage and out of date. On occasion during our class, Travis’ laptop fan would start to buzz and whir, and each time it did, Peter couldn’t resist. He would look at the laptop with a pained expression, like he was afraid it was getting ready to cause the classroom damage.

“Is that your laptop?” Peter exclaimed. “What is that thing?”

I remember him making jokes about Travis’ laptop getting ready to take off or explode; but Peter’s humor was never meanspirited. It was always fun and enjoyable, and he knew how to bring levity to each and every interaction.

Peter had an uncanny way of making the simplest moments fun. During that same course, myself and a group of classmates had to facilitate a portion of the class and share our understanding of the case study methodology. For our task, we decided to do an activity that involved poster boards and markers. I grabbed my markers from the house before leaving for class, and one of the marker packs happened to be a 10-pack of scented Mr. Sketch markers.

Mr Sketch MarkersUpon starting the activity, Peter spotted the Mr. Sketch markers. “Hey. Are these those markers that smell?” he said, not intending to be funny at all, but causing all of us to laugh. He grabbed the markers and went through each one, taking the cap off and waving it under his nose, giving us a play-by-play commentary of each scent. “What the hell is that supposed to be? Lime? I’ve never smelled a lime like that,” he said.

Our class activity continued, and Peter continued to sample and sniff each marker. When my classmates and I were up in front of the class trying to facilitate the discussion, I nearly doubled over laughing when I looked back at Peter in the back of the room. He was in his typical thinking position—leaned back in a chair, legs crossed, and hair thrown back. But this time, he was sniffing a blueberry Mr. Sketch marker with reckless abandon. For our entire class meeting, Peter huffed Mr. Sketch markers while simultaneously teaching us the principles of qualitative research.

And I’ll never forget it—the lesson, or the way in which it was delivered. And if it took me getting my professor high on a Mr. Sketch blueberry marker to get an “A” in a summer course on qualitative research, it was worth it.

To celebrate the end of the grueling four-week course, Peter invited our entire class to his and Marcia’s home in Oxford for a grillout and final class meeting—something that Peter and Marcia did rather regularly when they taught at Miami. We spent a few hours in Peter’s basement study talking about the lessons we had learned about qualitative research over the last few weeks, and then we moved to the back patio where we watched Peter grill hamburgers while he asked us questions about our plans for the rest of the summer. We enjoyed the conversation, and we definitely enjoyed the meal, but there was one thing Peter was looking forward to more than anything else on that evening. He had been talking about it for weeks.

Snow cones.

Of all the things I expected Peter Magolda to be obsessed with, snow cones were not at the top of the list. But he had informed us that he loved snow cones, and that he loved them so much that he had bought a snow cone machine, and all the flavorings, and all the paper supplies, and he intended to make snow cones for anyone who wanted one. And if you didn’t want a snow cone in June in Oxford, Ohio, according to Peter, there was likely something wrong with you.

After plugging in the machine, Peter stood in his kitchen and joked that he wasn’t allowed to make snow cones when Marcia was home because the machine was too loud. With unanticipated glee, Peter then proceeded to make snow cones for each of us, and he was supremely interested in the flavor combinations we all chose and what they said about our personalities. After he made himself a large snow cone with cherry and blue raspberry flavoring, he led us out of the house to return home. One of my favorite images of Peter Magolda is looking back over my shoulder on that night. Peter was sitting on his front porch, in a denim button down and jeans with brown boots, leaning back on his left arm with a snow cone in his right hand, soaking in the rays of a beautiful Oxford summer sunset with a mischievous grin on his face.

There was absolutely no one in this entire world like Peter.

I went on to do a few independent studies with Peter as my advisor, but that summer course on qualitative research was the last time that I had Peter as a teacher in a formal classroom setting. Nonetheless, I learned more from Peter in the years that followed as a mentor, colleague, and friend than I ever thought was possible. He taught me just as much about life outside the classroom as he did when I was in it.

And then, my life shattered on July 24, 2013. Everything I thought I knew and understood came crashing down when I found out that my Father, Scott Bradshaw, had died—a victim of suicide at age 50.

Dad, Lucy, and MeI had heard the news of Dad’s death and collapsed in the front yard before being whisked away by my neighbor, Billie. She took me into her home and sat me on her couch, tending to my grief with love and thoughtfulness. I was trying to process my thoughts and come to terms with the tragedy that was my life without the man who had been my hero, all while our family and the authorities were trying to get a handle on the crisis. After meeting with a detective and answering his questions to the best of my knowledge, Billie asked me who I needed to get in touch with immediately to inform them of the news. I said that I needed to talk with my pastor, Harville, and to my undergraduate mentor and Dean of Students, Dr. Bob Rusbosin. And when I talked with Bob, I asked him to get in touch with Peter to relay the message. I knew that I was going to need a good teacher to help me navigate the valleys of desperation I was headed towards.

Thank God for Dr. Peter Magolda.

Within minutes, I had a call from Peter. And it renewed and refreshed my soul in a time of complete and utter desperation. Peter had a way of doing that, and I thank God for him in that moment and all the moments that followed.

Peter knew that we didn’t have much time, but he expressed how sorry he was. He told me that he knew how much my Dad meant to me and my entire family, and that his heart was broken for the magnitude of our loss. He talked about the interactions he had with my Dad when he and Marcia attended my housewarming party just one year ago, and how friendly and caring my Dad was to him. He apologized that he couldn’t get to the house on that day, because he was in the process of traveling home.

But the next morning, Peter arrived. And I’ll always remember those hours we spent together.

When I opened the door on that morning, Peter walked into the house and wrapped me into one of his familiar bear hugs that I always got upon meeting him or parting ways. When I first met him, Peter never struck me as the hugging type—but when I look back on our interactions together, I remember getting a hug from him every time we parted ways. After walking into the house that morning, he handed me the bag of donuts, and I feebly ushered him into the living room where we both sat on the couch. The blinds were open, and the morning sun illuminated the golden walls of my small living room; but my heart was completely darkened. I was lost, baffled, confused, and reeling from the pain of losing my Father.

Thank God for Peter Magolda.

Peter and I sat there together, and like he had done in so many classes, and in so many research projects, and in so many genuine and loving conversations he had with thousands of students and colleagues in his career as an educator, Peter listened. Intently. With purpose. Free of judgement. Peter just let me talk. And sometimes, he let me sit there silently, collecting my thoughts. When it was appropriate, he asked me questions. He offered encouraging words.

And in that moment, even though the wounds of grief were still fresh and new, I remembered thinking that life would eventually be livable again—so long as I had people like Peter to help me get through it.

Peter stayed at the house that day, not just for an hour or so, but for five hours, and his presence was calming and full of a grace that human words can’t fully articulate. That isn’t an easy thing for anyone to do. A house full of grief and inconsolable loss, riddled with inexplicable tragedy is not a fun and welcoming place to be. It’s depressing and sad; but Peter didn’t care about any of that. He was there for me—and for all of us—when we needed him most.

Peter had met my parents and some of my family before, but his interactions on that day would have led outside observers to believe he had known the Bradshaws for years and years. When my Mom entered the house and saw him, she broke down in tears as she made her way towards him. With a tenderness that I’ll never understand, Peter, a rather tall man, wrapped my tiny, grieving Mother in his loving arms, and told her how sorry he was for her loss. Mom and I sat together and talked with Peter, and when we couldn’t talk because we didn’t know what to say, Peter didn’t try to force or speed along our grief. He didn’t try to give us any quick solutions. He just sat there with us, with the patient understanding that goes beyond all understanding. As more and more family members and friends made their way to my house, Peter had conversations with everyone. He talked with my Grandfather, Vern, for a long time and gave him valuable encouragement. He talked to one of our family pastors, Dave, and they got to know each other in spite of the horrible circumstances that brought them together.

Despite the uncomfortable nature of a house stricken with grief, Peter was there. He was just there. And he stayed there. And him being there on that terrible, terrible day was one of the greatest gifts God gave me in the aftermath of losing Dad.

By the time Peter had gone for the day, many members of my family and close inner circle felt they had known him for years. That was the type of man Peter Magolda was. He was a gentle but memorable presence, and he made people feel loved, valued, important, and listened to. And every bit of that—every single bit—was 100% genuine. That was Peter Magolda, and I’m so thankful for him.

Peter wasn’t just there in that one, crucial, critical moment, however; he was there in all the important, difficult moments that followed, especially during that first year after losing Dad. Although I’ll never forget Peter’s service to me and my entire family on that horrible July morning, it was his compassion and constant attention in the days and years after Dad’s death that left an impression on my heart and soul that still carries me forward. Immediately upon leaving, Peter took it upon himself to communicate with our entire cohort of SAHE students, the faculty on campus, and other individuals I knew at Miami to let them know about the tragedy and the forthcoming services. Peter orchestrated a network of support that enveloped me within days of losing my Dad. He took care of all the things that he could to help to remove a burden from me—and he helped me carry that burden through the weeks and months to come so I didn’t have to do it all myself.

After the funeral services, life started to fall into a new, different, and often painful normal for me. Peter and I had a heart to heart discussion about whether I should continue with my scheduled classes for the Fall or take a semester off, and we both agreed that it was worth a shot. Peter and I both believed that getting back into the classroom, a place that had been very comfortable for me for as long as I could remember, could actually be a healthy coping mechanism—and he was exactly right.

Throughout that first challenging semester (along with the other faculty members in the SAHE program), Peter made it a point to check in on me regularly. Often at the most unexpected times, I would get a phone call from Peter. After hearing the cadence of his familiar greeting (always a simple salutation, saying my name as “TY-ler” with a higher emphasis on the first syllable), Peter would ask me the most basic but important questions that so many other failed to ask during that phase of life. How was I doing? How was my family? Was I taking care of myself? What things were working, and what things made my grieving more difficult? Peter would often talk with me about my church family and how helpful it must have been to have a community of fellow believers as built-in support during those difficult moments, and I would explore some of my biggest fears and doubts with Peter because I felt safe and secure in those moments. I would tell him about my sorrow. I would tell him about my anger towards depression. I would tell him about the guilt I felt in moving on and enjoying life again in spite of losing Dad. All the while, Peter would sit and listen—something that made him famous in both his academic life and his vast personal relationships—and I always, always felt better after talking with Peter.

We spent many an hour on the phone or at a local Oxford restaurant catching up and talking with one another, and in those moments Peter showed me how valuable it was to a grieving soul to be vulnerable. It was over one of those meals when Peter shared his own feelings of grief over losing his Father. He shared how difficult it was to go through some of his personal possessions, but how much those things meant to him—something I had been struggling with tremendously at the time. Peter had an uncanny way of knowing exactly what needed to be said at the exactly right moment.

It was during one of those discussions when Peter had shared with me the influence his Father had made in his love for photography. As if being a stellar, world-renowned academician wasn’t enough, Peter had a talented eye through the lens of a camera. Whenever there was an event, big or small, formal or informal, Peter was always there to snap a picture or seventy of the festivities and all the people he loved. In fact, it was Peter who insisted on taking a few pictures of me in the parking lot of a Frisch’s in Hamilton after breakfast one morning.

2015Holidays-298On that morning, I had shared the miraculous story of recovering and buying my Dad’s truck that had been sold after his death. Peter could not believe that my Dad’s truck had been returned to the dealer on the exact day I had inquired about purchasing a new vehicle, and he couldn’t wait to get a few pictures of me with the truck. He sent those pictures along to me and told me how thankful he was that I had posed for them and shared the story. I had no idea how valuable those pictures would be to me. I cherish them now because of the story they represent and because of the kind-hearted artist who captured them.

Peter Taking a PhotoOf all the pictures he took, however, he would rarely pose for a photograph himself. If you did ask for a photo with Peter, he would often make jokes about how he would only take one, and he would scramble and squirm to get out from in front of the lens as quickly as possible. I look back on those moments, however, and his anxiety over being photographed and preference for being the photographer make perfect sense because Peter Magolda was one of the most humble, other-centered men I have ever met in my entire life. Peter’s academic career was spent observing and telling the stories of others. His works—which were vast and impressive in both quality and quantity—were never braggadocious. Peter wanted to shine a light on those who he felt were overlooked and undervalued. His photography was just an extension of this life calling. He spent an entire life snapping pictures of the people he loved because he knew it made them feel the love they deserved.

The loving heart of Peter Magolda is one of the main reasons I was able to graduate with my Master’s degree less than a year after losing my Father to suicide. Peter’s calls, lunch meetings, and continual encouragement helped push me towards the finish line when my grief was telling me to lay down, to stop fighting, and to give up.

Especially when it came to the phase of our study that every student in the SAHE program dreads and fears: Comps season.

Our program required the completion of a comprehensive exam: a 35-page, 3-question written exploration of our pedagogical philosophy and vision for the future. The examination’s varied questions required that we dig deep into the knowledge we had developed during our entire residency in the program, drawing upon the theories and studies that would inform our practice working with college students moving forward. We were all given about a month to complete this assignment, which often induced more panic because of the extended timeframe. More time to work often meant more time to freak out in the fetal position in the corner of the room. Students in our program talked about comps as if they were a 35-foot monster looming on the horizon, just waiting to tear us limb for limb. “Comps” took on a life all their own. Care packages were sent to one another. I’m sure tears were shed. Laptop computers were smashed in frustration (although I’m sure the whirring Toshiba withstood the punishment). I had seen the anxiety over “comps” take down many a capable and determined student.

Peter never, never understood the hysteria. He and I talked often about the madness that comps seem to create within the cohort, and Peter was baffled. “If you’re reading what we ask you to read and thinking about the material critically,” I remember him saying, “this should be easy.”

Once I started writing the examination, I realized how right Peter was (I realized this about a lot of things in life that Peter had discussed with me). The exam wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, and I found myself remembering more about the readings than I thought I could. It was difficult, yes, but Peter had taught me that difficult assignments could also be extremely valuable. I submitted the examination with a sense of relief and pride, but also with a nagging seed of doubt that maybe, just maybe, I would be the student that completely missed the mark.

The worst part about the comprehensive examination was not the assignment itself, but the waiting game between submission and getting word from your faculty advisor that you had passed and would, indeed, graduate in a few weeks. On one April evening, word got out amongst the members of our cohort that calls were being made. Within a few minutes, while doing some landscaping work in my backyard, I saw my phone light up with the name “Peter Magolda” across the screen. I threw off my work gloves and leaned against the greenhouse in my backyard.

“Hi Peter!” I said, mixing my excitement with the anxiety of big news to come.

“TY-ler,” he replied. “How’s it going?”

“I’ll let you know in a second,” I replied.

“Oh yeah, that comps thing,” Peter said with feigned interest. “Yeah, you passed. You did a really good job, and I enjoyed reading it. Now, let’s talk about stuff that actually matters. How are you doing? Work okay? How’s your Mom holding up?”

That was classic Peter Magolda—and I loved it. Peter knew what mattered. Although it was a big accomplishment, at the end of my life, I doubt I will be all that proud of having my faculty approve of a 35-page paper that I wrote. But I will be proud of the legacy I left behind. I’ll be proud that, in spite of it all, my family grew closer together during a time of tremendous heartache. I’ll be proud that my Mom and I overcame the grief of losing my Dad to suicide. That’s what will matter most, and that’s what Peter wanted to hear about. On that night, we talked for nearly an hour, just as we did with nearly every phone call we ever shared, and Peter reminded me of the need to connect with one another on a human level.

Graduation day brought many, many mixed emotions for me and for my entire family. Although I was looking forward to the excitement and finality of earning a graduate degree—something I never thought I’d be able to accomplish—this new marker also represented another phase of life completed without my Dad. I felt proud and guilty all at the same time. That guilt was constantly nagging away at me, and as much as I looked forward to the day itself, I was also dreading the ceremony of the entire moment without my Dad.

I walked into Yager Stadium on that windy May afternoon in 2014, and my mind instantly flashed back to my first college graduation in that same stadium in 2009. On that day, I remembered looking back into the stands and eventually locating my family —Mom and Dad and the rest of my family, standing in the stands, waving at me amongst the sea of red caps and gowns. I could picture my Dad—clad in his favorite khaki suit—smiling from ear to ear. I don’t know what he was saying on that day, but I wanted to believe he just kept saying “That’s my boy, my son.”

Now, just five years from that moment, I looked back into the stands and saw my mother, wiping tears from her eyes, no doubt feeling the same painful absence that I was.

I was happy, and I was proud; but above everything, I just wanted to have my Dad back.

After the large commencement ceremony at Yager Stadium, my family and I went to a smaller graduation ceremony that was held for students in the SAHE program. As wonderful as the pomp and circumstance of the big ceremony was for me, it was this ceremony that I was more excited to participate in. During the SAHE ceremony, each graduate got to pick an important person in their life who would deliver a graduation speech to recognize their accomplishments.

Without hesitation, I chose Peter.

Before the ceremony started, Peter came up to me and wrapped me into one of his usual bear hugs. He said hello to my Mother, my grandparents, and my great Aunt, and then he pulled me aside for a second.

“Hey, I thought I should check with you. I’ve got your speech written up here. I was planning to talk about your Dad. That okay?”

“Of course,” I said to Peter.

“Good, because I guess I can’t really change it now anyway,” he said through a chuckle.

Peter Magolda Graduation 2When Peter called my name (same cadence as always), I stood next to the podium, and tried as hard as I could to hold back tears as he talked and shared my story. He talked about how proud he was that I had worked part time at Miami University Middletown all while earning my graduate degree. He talked about my ability to deal with adversity, recounting a story from shortly before Dad’s death when I had extinguished a severe electrical fire in my home that could have caused me to lose my entire house less than a year into owning it.

And then, he told the story of my Father—beautifully, eloquently, and with compassion and love. Peter shared how much my Father had meant to me and our entire family, and how his loss had affected us deeply. He said that my Father would have been proud that, in spite of the trauma, I had still worked hard to earn my degree. And Peter shared how proud he was of me.

Hearing that two of the men whom I deeply idolized—my Father and Peter Magolda—were proud of me was more valuable than any piece of paper the University could bestow.

He stepped back from the podium and gave me a tender hug as tears streamed down my cheeks, and in that moment I knew that I’d never, ever have a professor and teacher as special as Peter Magolda as long as I lived.

Peter Magolda Graduation


I had the honor of being one of Peter’s last advisees. Peter gleefully retired from his faculty role at Miami shortly after I graduated, and he would often joke about how I had driven him into retirement sooner than he had planned. Although I knew that Peter would miss the people that he worked with at Miami, I also knew that he would not miss the bureaucracy, the politics, and the drudgery that can accompany even the most exciting jobs. I always loved it when people asked if Peter was excited about retiring. “Excited?” he’d respond, and then he would pull out his cell phone and open the countdown app that showed—to the minute—how much longer he had until reaching the finish line. He would then make a joke about a number of people at Miami who probably had the same countdown clock on their phones anticipating the moment that they’d never have to deal with him again.

I laughed to amuse Peter, but in my heart I kept thinking the same thing over and over again: Miami University would just not be the same without Peter Magolda. Yes, Peter would definitely miss some aspects of Miami after retiring; but there was no doubt that Miami University would miss him more. His teaching skill, his intellectual greatness, his capacity to think deeply, and his quintessential kindness had all made Miami University a much better place.

Peter did retire from Miami, doing his best to shun the well-deserved attention that folks all across campus tried to shower upon him. He and Marcia moved to a beautiful home in Blacksburg, Virginia, and although our face to face visits grew less and less frequent, they never became less meaningful.

Peter helped me in so many ways, even after his retirement from Miami freed him of that obligation. I’ll never forget his wisdom when I navigated a career crisis in 2016 which caused me to leave Miami, only to return less than four months later. After briefly diagnosing me with Stockholm Syndrome, Peter gave me the confidence I needed to swallow my pride, admit I had made a mistake, and return to a place that had been and would always be home in spite of its faults and my own faults. Peter helped me work through all of those confidence issues, and he reminded me that my work was about the meaning I made of it, not the means that came from it.

Whenever Peter was back in town, we always did our best to get together for a meal and reconnect. Although his dodgy cell reception in the mountains of Virginia could often make it difficult to connect for a phone call, he always found time take an hour or two out of his day to catch up. I so enjoyed hearing about his retirement escapades—his family get togethers, his travels to speaking engagements, his continued research, and his love of spending more and more time with Marcia. We would text and catch up, promising to stay in touch and inquiring about one another’s family. And most importantly, even though years were passing along at a rapid pace, Peter never, ever quit asking me how I was coping with my Dad’s death.

Because of his reception issues, Peter and I had been communicating through e-mail more and more as of late. Through e-mail, Peter and I would trade greetings, articles we thought would interest one another, and I always anxiously awaited each December when Peter would send along his infamous holiday newsletter.

Peter always joked with me about the newsletter and how, each year, he did his best to find the most uninteresting and ordinary things to include in the newsletter. “I mean, who the hell would ever want to read this thing?!” he would say to me every year, laughing about how he had done his very best to include even the most mundane snippets of his life in the newest edition. He would include photos he had taken, conferences and workshops he and Marcia had attended, and well-wishes to everyone who received the letter. He often told me that, although I had always viewed it as a blessing to receive the newsletter, it was probably a horrible, terrible punishment for something I had done in a previous life. “People are probably trying to get me to their Spam folders every year they see it!” he would joke.

As much as he joked about preparing the newsletter, I think Peter actually loved putting it together. Not because of the stories that he shared within it, but because it was an impetus for connection. Without a doubt, Peter’s inbox would be inundated within days of sending out the newsletter, and it gave him an excuse to do what he loved most: to talk with other people and hear about their lives.

This past year, I received Peter’s newsletter, and on the day I returned to work after the holiday break, I read through it with the same frivolity I did each and every year upon its arrival. Among pictures of family and friends who had visited Peter and Marcia in the past year, Peter also included a picture of a black bear captioned “Our Bear” and told readers that this was a neighborhood bear that was currently hibernating. He told stories of Marcia decorating their beautiful home with seven full size Christmas trees, his trip to Jazz Fest and an annual Reds game, and other highlights of the year. I hammered out an e-mail to Peter and let him know how much I always enjoyed reading this newsletter, even if he didn’t understand why people were interested in his life. I told him that I hoped he fed the bear daily, and that it was likely still more friendly than some of his former colleagues in Oxford, and I asked him if he might have time to chat in the coming week.

That evening, I got a phone call—not the call from Peter that I had anticipated, but a call about him. Tyler Wade, a dear friend of mine from our days as fellow graduate students in the SAHE program, was on the other end of the line.

“Tyler,” he said, “I have some horrible news. Peter died today.”

The news of Peter’s death sucked the air out of my lungs. I didn’t even know how to respond. Hours earlier, I had been emailing him to let him know how much I enjoyed hearing updates of his life, and now I was hearing that his life had ended. Peter had passed away, unexpectedly, at his home with Marcia at his side. I was reeling, unable to string together a coherent sentence. It wasn’t just the rug that was pulled out from under me with that phone call; the foundation itself was crumbling. After thanking Tyler for calling, I shared the horrible news with Paige. Then, I sat down at our kitchen table. As the magnitude of losing someone whose life was so important began to wash over me, I began to cry and weep uncontrollably.

And now, nearly two months after his death, I still find myself crying when I think about Peter. I will walk by McGuffey Hall and think of sitting with him in a classroom or his office, and I will immediately tear up. I see his handwriting on the papers that he graded, and I fall apart. I see pictures of him that hundreds of former students posted online after news of his death began to spread, and I wonder why a man so caring, so gentle, and so important is gone from a world that desperately needs people like him.

Peter Headshot 2Peter’s death has not felt real to me; and now, nearly two months after hearing the news, it still doesn’t seem real that he’s gone. I can still hear his voice, his chuckle as he told amusing stories, and his unmistakable dialect. Over the past two months, I can’t begin to count the times when I’ve wanted to call Peter and seek his wisdom. As I continue to work on my doctorate, I want his advice about research topics and resources and dissertation committees. As I navigate challenging circumstances professionally, I desperately want to hear his perspective and vent with him. I want to tell him about my upcoming wedding, and I want to hear all about how much he is enjoying a retirement that he deserved more than anyone I know. I cry when I talk to others about Peter because I already feel the deep pain of his absence, and I feel an unrelenting guilt that I should have done more to connect with him and make our friendship a priority.

But I can’t share those things with Peter, and the finality of his loss hurts at a soul level. Peter’s death still hangs over me because he lived a ridiculously impactful and significant life; and now that he is gone, there is an emptiness to my world that only he could have filled.

My pain is also magnified, however, because of the vital role Peter played in helping me grieve the loss of my Father. There were so many wonderful people that were absolutely essential to surviving my Dad’s suicide and death—and Peter Magolda was one of those central pillars.

I have often said that the God I serve, all-knowing and omniscient, began to surround me with people that I would need to help me grieve and survive long before Dad’s death actually occurred. I firmly believe that God didn’t try to replace my Dad with a single individual, but instead, He created a team of people who each kept a certain element of Dad’s personality alive in my life.

Peter at ConcertPeter was my encourager. Peter was my jokester. Peter was the man, just like my Dad, who reminded me that I didn’t always need to take life so seriously, and that I should enjoy those little moments. Peter was my conversationalist—the person I could talk to for hours on end, never feeling weary or bored because he was so engaged and so interesting. Peter was my processor and my wise mentor. His perspective, advice, and words of wisdom were a beacon of maturity and thoughtfulness to me—a young, often brash, emotionally charged rookie in the world of student affairs and college administration. Peter was my teacher—just like my Dad—giving me guideposts for how to live an authentic, significant life. That was who Peter Magolda was for me, and losing him feels like I’m losing another piece of my Dad all over again; and although Peter never claimed to be a replacement for my Father, he was surely there to be a Father-figure when I needed one most. And Peter, I will never, ever be able to say thank you enough.

That is who Peter Magolda was for me, and I have no doubt that he was that and more to the thousands of family members, friends, students, colleagues, and research participants that he spent his entire life loving and connecting with. My story is unique, but it is not uncommon or atypical—and that is because Peter Magolda was a humble man of influence who would deny he ever made a difference.


Campus Custodians Book CoverIt’s fitting that Peter’s last book—and in my opinion one of his greatest legacies—was an ethnographic study of campus custodians. Peter spent years working side-by-side campus custodians at different institutions across the country, and he wrote a brilliant analysis of the many ways that college campuses overlook, ignore, and diminish the contributions and value these individuals bring to the academic community. Peter believed that custodians were the lifeblood and true loyalists within most college campuses, and he was upset at their lack of recognition as educators and sources of organizational knowledge. Peter believed this because he had worked side-by-side with many custodians doing research for his book, and I believe he wrote this book to give voice to their stories. By the same token, those of you who are interested in supporting Peter’s legacy can contribute to the Peter M. Magolda Custodian Emergency Fund at Miami University (click the “Give Online” link near the bottom of the memorial).

I read the book shortly after it came out, and I found myself smiling and laughing from the moment I started to read. Peter’s opening to that book—which is classic Peter—reminds me why I love him so much:

“For the past 39 years I have worked on college campuses as a student, student affairs educator, and faculty member. Needless to say, I have participated in thousands of icebreakers and acquaintanceship activities, and I abhor them. Revealing my favorite color is hardly the way I forge meaningful relationships with strangers. A common getting-acquainted activity involves answering the question, “Who do you most admire in the world?” I especially dislike this question for two reasons. First, I struggle to pay attention to participants’ responses because I am too busy brainstorming a list of likely responses, like “Gandhi,” “parents,” “Rosa Parks,” or a third-grade teacher. Second, sharing my true response, “Juanita ‘Pat’ Denton,” who was a campus custodian, could mistakenly convey I am mocking this activity. Although I seldom seriously analyze others’ responses to this question, I am intensely serious about my response.”

I think there was likely a third reason why Peter hated these ice-breaker activities. I think that Peter likely hated these types of ice-breaker activities because they forced him to talk about himself when all he really wanted to do in this life was tell the stories of others. That’s what made Peter Magolda so special—a rare treasure. In a world focused on “me,” Peter Magolda led a life that was focused on others. Peter was a storyteller, advocate, and voice for those who deserved to have their stories told. I hope, in some small way, I’m able to tell his story in this new phase of life without him, because Peter’s life matters, and it was tremendously significant because of the choices he made.

In one of the first articles I ever read written by Peter Magolda (“Using Ethnographic Fieldwork and Case Studies to Guide Student Affairs Practice, 1999), he outlined a perspective of his work (which I heard him repeat quite often) that characterized his perspective on intellectual pursuit. The goal of Peter’s work, which he credited to Michael Quinn Patton (1990), was to make the obvious obvious, make the obvious dubious, and make the hidden obvious. When Peter first tried to explain this concept to me, my head spun. As I look back on his life, however, it makes all the sense in the world. In his work and the way he treated others, Peter refused to simply accept what he saw at face value. He wanted to dig deep, trying to affirm the things he knew, question the things that we thought we knew but likely didn’t, and reveal underlying insights that were often hidden from a face value interpretation.

Peter didn’t do this with abstract research subjects; he did this with people. Colleagues, friends, family members, students. Students like me.

And I am a better person because of Peter Magolda.

I’m glad that Peter Magolda saw me as more than what I represented on the surface-level all those years back. I am a better person—and thousands of others are better people as well—because Peter wanted to know more about us. He wanted to learn about our lives, and to see behind our masks into our most personal motivations, doubts, and fears.

Peter had another mantra that he lived his life by, and one that will stick with me for as long as I live. Peter always encouraged us to look at the espoused values of any individual or organization and ask whether or not those espoused values aligned with the enacted values. Did what a person said match what they did? Did they walk the talk they put into the world, and if not, why? Did mission statements actually reflect what was happening in the organization? Were people “doing” instead of simply “saying”?

Each day, I think about that lesson that Peter taught me in my own life. I claim to be a loving, caring individual…but do my actions fully represent that value? Did the terse response I gave at work seem loving? Did my neglect of a loved one represent a caring heart? Did my less-than-loving-gesture to a fellow driver—albeit entirely deserved—reflect the grace and forgiveness I hope to receive from others?

Peter Magolda, even in his death, is challenging me to be a better educator, a better eventual-husband, a better son, a better colleague, a better writer—and a better human being. Peter’s contribution to the world is magnified because he instilled this character calling into the lives of all the students he educated.

And above all, I am thankful that all of the values Peter Magolda espoused—namely love, care, and compassion for his fellow man—were enacted in every single moment of his all-too-short but insanely consequential life.

The legacy of Dr. Peter Magolda lives on in my heart because he put his convictions and espoused beliefs into action, and that life consistency was my most indelible educational moment. He may have spent an entire career telling the stories of others, but for me, Peter’s story is one that will always be worth telling for as long as I live.

Peter Magolda Hug with SB LogoPeter, I know exactly what you would say had I been privileged to share this post with you: “This is entirely too long, and you make me sound entirely more important than I actually am.” I feel as if I could have written many, many more pages, however. Even then I would have been unable to capture the impact your life made upon mine. Peter, you were an educator in every sense of the word. In the classroom, you taught me to analyze, and to examine, and to criticize and better the world around me. In our friendship, you taught me to enjoy life and spend less time worrying about the things that didn’t matter. And in the depths of my despair, in the darkest moment of my life, you helped me see through the walls of grief and loss that threatened to consume me. Peter, I will never be able to say thank you enough for the value you brought to my life and my journey. After losing my Dad, you were a Fatherly figure in my life. You helped council me and offered advice during difficult decisions, just as my Dad had always done. You encouraged me and pushed me with a perfect balance of compassion and motivation, just as my Dad had always done. And just like my Dad, you helped me laugh again. Peter, losing you has felt like losing another piece of my Dad, and even though you taught me how to be resilient and courageous, I’ll always be deeply saddened when I think of a life without you. Peter, your loss has already left a void in my life that is hard to articulate, and there are so many others who loved you that feel the same way. We wish you were still here, because we were all better people when you were in this life. In your honor, Peter, I hope we are all able to carry on the things you taught us. And Peter, thank you for never giving up on me.

“We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us…[If your gift] is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach.” Romans 12:6-7 (NIV)


Writer’s Note: I would like to offer a special thank you to my former classmate and colleague (and former student and friend of Peter’s) Dave Sheehan for reviewing, editing, and ultimately improving this narrative. Dave’s advice, authentic reactions, and suggestions helped to dramatically enhance my writing and recollections of a man we both loved and cared for deeply. I am deeply appreciative for Dave’s time, his generosity, and most of all, his brilliant intellect and kind friendship. Dave, thank you for fighting through your own grief to share stories and important moments from your last conversation with Peter; they’ve helped me grieve positively more than I could ever thank you for.

A Pat On The Head

Life’s treasures are held in the simplest moments, the everyday routines of uncomplicated love. I miss those expressions of love from my Dad the most, and I’d give anything to find those treasures again, because there is indescribable joy wrapped up in those moments.

My Dad was not a man driven by routine—but there was one routine that drove his mornings, and it’s a routine that I dearly, deeply miss.

Out of necessity, my Dad was mostly an early riser on work days. Working as a maintenance technician in a few different steel plants throughout his career, Dad was always required to get up and get going at often odd hours of the day. If he found himself working a first shift job (which he always appreciated), he was often at work by 7, leaving the house around 6:30 or so. During those horrible second or third shift years, he found himself sleeping and rising at very odd hours. As a maintenance technician, however, the hours weren’t always so predictable. Machines often choose to break at the worst time of the day or night, and there were many times when Dad’s cell phone would ring at 2 or 3 in the morning, beckoning him to work for a long shift to make a repair. I really hated the moments when Dad’s phone would ring shortly after he had gone to bed. I knew how tired he must’ve been, and I can only imagine how frustrating it must be to get a phone call only fifteen minutes into your slumber that you have to come into work.

Those odd hours often put us on opposite sleep schedules. Whether he was on day shift or night shift, it always seemed that he would have to rise and shine at a time when I was sound asleep. If he went in during the morning hours, it was too early for me to get up; and if he worked a third shift, his departure usually occurred long after my bedtime. While Dad was ready to work, I was already asleep—or at least he thought I was.

I was a fairly light sleeper as a child, and there were occasions when my Dad’s relatively simple and rapid pre-work routine would disrupt my sweet dreams. It didn’t take Dad long to get ready, as he would always lay out the familiar navy coveralls with his stitched name that he wore the night before. He would dress, brush his teeth, rub his hand across the now shiny head where his thick hair used to be, eat a small breakfast, grab his keys, and lumber out the door. It was a rather simple routine that reflected the life of a beautifully simple man.

But before he left the house, there was always one part of his routine that was my absolute favorite. Every morning, after he was dressed and right before he left to get into his truck, Dad would quietly make his way into my room. Never turning on the light, Dad would delicately tread across my royal blue carpet, attempting to dodge any stray toys I might have left out from the night before. Finding my bed, Dad would reach down, rub my hair from side to side, and quietly whisper “Seeya, bub.”

Even though I was a light sleeper, I’m sure there were many days in which Dad said goodbye to me this way that I didn’t notice. But some mornings, if he had made a little extra noise downstairs in our kitchen, or maybe dropped something on the floor in the bathroom down the hall, I was awake for the daily hair tussling, even if still dozing in and out. Some mornings, I would return the greeting with a simple “Seeya, Daddy” or “Bye Dad” just to let him know that I loved him and appreciated him saying goodbye to me. But other mornings, being the only little boy who loved attention from his parents, I would close my eyes, pretend I was asleep, and let Dad go on with his routine without letting him know I knew it was happening. There was something pleasant about pretending to be asleep, because it showed me that Dad wasn’t doing this for my approval—he was truly saying “Seeya, bub” to me every morning because he loved me, whether I was able to reciprocate that love or not.

I craved this greeting, even if I didn’t know how much I craved it at the time. On the mornings that I was awake, I would often lay calmly in my bed and wait for it to happen, knowing Dad would leave the house about 25 minutes before his shift was to begin. As a kid, the morning minutes felt like an eternity. But finally, like I knew he would, Dad always made sure he came to say goodbye to me. And it was so special, and so full of love. I used to jokingly think he only came in to rub his hand through my hair because his own hair had disappeared so many years before, but I knew better. It had nothing to do with my healthy head of hair, but everything to do with his overflowing heart.

And then, one day, it didn’t happen.

Every now and then, we all slip from our routines. We forget to floss one morning, or we forget to take a multi-vitamin. We forget to grab our lunchbox, or we leave the garage door open. It happens to the best of us. But there was one day that Dad faltered in his routine that I never let him live down. And to my knowledge, he never did it again after that.

Around the time I started high school, Dad’s morning routine had to be slightly adjusted when we welcomed our new dog into the household. Willow was an Airedale Terrier given to us by our neighbors. They were moving to a condominium in Florida, and knew a nearly 90-pound pooch wouldn’t be happy cooped up in a crowded space. So as much as it broke their hearts to leave their dog behind, it made ours soar because we were able to have a new family member.

Willow brought a lot of joy to our house. She was a lively dog—curious and intelligent, loving but mischievous. I called her “Honey Bear” and she answered to that nickname just as much as her actual name. Oftentimes, I was the first one home each day to greet her after an afternoon of lonely solitude. As I would go to unlock the door, I’d jiggle the handle and wait for a response. Willow, wagging uncontrollably on the other side of the door, would bang her nose into the handle so it would jiggle back on the other side. The clunk-clunk of that golden handle still plays in my mind anytime I open the front door, even though she hasn’t jiggled back for many years. I loved that dog.

But she loved my Dad more. No question about it. I’m almost positive the word “slobbering love affair” was created after watching how the two of them loved one another. Yes, I was the one who let Willow outside after a long, boring day inside the house. Yes, I was the one who fed her every night around 5 ‘o clock, trying not to gag as I dumped horrible, reeking canned dog food into her bowl. She loved me well-enough for those things, but when my Dad came home, it was like I never even existed.

My Mom and I would always comment about how horrible it was to not be the favorite of your family pet. No matter how much we tried to hide it, it hurt deep down when my Dad would get home, because Willow wanted nothing to do with us. Like I often did as a child, Willow would run to the door, wagging more than she ever did with me, jiggling the door knob so viciously that I thought her wet dog nose would be permanently damaged. Dad would throw open the door and go crazy petting her, laying down on the floor so Willow could place her two paws right above my Dad’s shoulder. Then, in something I’ve rarely seen a dog do, she would bend down, nuzzle her long snout underneath his neck, and lay there in her own version of a doggy hug. She showed him such wonderful affection, and he never failed to give it right back.

For the rest of any evening after Dad had arrived home, Willow’s entire attention was focused solely on my Dad. If he moved, she moved with him. If he laid down, so did she. If he went into the restroom, she waited patiently outside the door. And if he went into the garage or outside, there was a form of doggy depression that would set over her entire body. I had never seen a dog worship its owner the way she did. Remember—I was the one who fed her!

My Dad loved to joke that Willow was the favorite child. And one morning, I seriously questioned if he was joking. Willow’s bed was positioned right outside my door and right in front of my parents’ bedroom. A watchdog at heart, it was a perfect watch tower. She could keep an eye on my Mom and me, but most importantly, she could be alerted the second my Dad would wake up in the morning.

In most cases, no matter how early his alarm clock sounded, Willow would follow my Dad around. She became a part of his morning routine. He would let her outside while he ate a small breakfast in the kitchen, and she would come bounding in the house shortly after, often the recipient of his leftovers. Eventually, as he continued to ready himself for the day, Willow would make her way back to her bed, still watching my Dad’s every move.

When Willow joined the family and became my four-legged, Father-adoring sister, she also got a “head pat” in the morning before Dad left for work. He would crouch over her as she lay on her bed in the hallway, rub her head a few times, and say “Bye, pretty girl” or “Bye, honey” or “Bye, favorite child” (okay, that last one was probably made up). Then, as he’d always done, he would make his way into my room, toss my hair around, and give me the familiar “Seeya, bub.”

I loved this routine because it was steady, reliable, predictable.

Until the day it wasn’t, that is.

On the morning in question, Dad’s routine was a little louder than it had been normally. I think the favorite child got distracted by a squirrel in the backyard a few minutes earlier, waking me from deep sleep before I left for school. I heard Dad continuing his routine downstairs as I feigned sleep in my upstairs bedroom. I heard the familiar clang-clang of dishes as he pulled a cereal bowl out of our jam-packed kitchen cabinets. I heard the shoosh-shoosh-shoosh-shoosh of his toothbrushing in the bathroom down the hall. I heard the rustling of denim as he pulled on his coveralls, and the jingle-jangle of keys as he neared the end of his morning rituals. All the while, I laid in my bed, eyes closed but fully conscious, pretending I heard none of his early-morning antics and eagerly waiting for his visit.

The finale was coming—the familiar Head Rubbing of the Children ceremony where the village chief blessed his offspring (human and canine alike). Eyes still closed but mind wide awake, I heard the floorboards creek as Dad crouched down to pet Willow’s head and bid her adieu. Then, pretending to be asleep with the acumen of a seasoned actor, I heard a noise from the routine that was unfamiliar, out of place, and in the wrong sequence. It was the thud/creak, thud/creak, thud/creak, thud/creak of Dad going down the stairs. My eyes flew open and I stared at the red ambient glow of the alarm clock in horror.

“Wait a second!” my mind screamed. “Where’s my hair tousle? Where’s my ‘Seeya, bub’? Where’s my morning goodbye?” I couldn’t go back to sleep! For the first time that I had ever noticed, Dad had forgotten about his only son, and his only child with opposable thumbs at that! I was starting to think this whole favorite child thing might be more than a joke…

I obsessed over it at school, thinking of ways I could get back at him. After getting home from school that day, I stewed a little bit, thinking of how I would bring up this egregious treason with my Dad when the workday concluded. “Stewing” might be a bit of an exaggeration, as I wasn’t really mad. But my Dad and I had playfully teased each other for years about Willow being the preferred child, and I knew that I would have the upper hand for quite some time with this story.

Dad and I loved picking on one another, and this opportunity was too perfect to pass up!

In the midst of my scheming that evening, I heard the familiar click-click-creeeek of the front door. All Willow had to do was hear the first click, and she was off. Her ears would perk up, her head would snap forward, and suddenly she would explode from whatever resting position she had been in, lunge up the stairs, and attack my Dad at the front door. I followed her this time, and stood right around the corner from our front door. I heard him loving all over Willow. “Hi puppy! Are you excited to see me? Yeah? Are you excited to see me? Oh that’s a good girl! Goooooood girl!”

He came around the corner, with Willow tagging along at his feet, and when he saw me he instinctively said “Hey, bub” as he continued to roll through his after-work rituals—sitting his keys on the bench, unlacing his steel-toed work boots, emptying his pockets, and of course, continuing his love fest with Willow.

“Oh, you’ve got time to say that now, do you?” I said with feigned anger. My arms were crossed as I stared at him, doing everything I could not to break character. I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t let my face show it.

“Do what?” he said, realizing it wasn’t our typical exchange.

“You heard me” I said, with the severity of a Wild West standoff.

“What are you talking about, boy?”

“You forget to do anything this morning before you left for work?”

“Shampoo my hair?” he said with a smile. I had to admit, this was a solid comeback. He had gone bald at least ten years before.

“Don’t try to be cute. You know what you did.” I was playing my part really, really well.

“I honestly don’t,” he said, “but it must have been pretty bad.”

I turned up the heat. “You honestly don’t remember forgetting to do anything this morning?”

“No! What are you talking about?” I could tell he was starting to get really confused. I had him right where I wanted him. Vengeance was mine, and it was going to be sweet. And unrelenting.

“Well you remembered to tell some of us goodbye, but that must be reserved for favorite children only.”

He was starting to connect the dots, but I could tell the moment of realization was still a few steps away. His mouth was agape, and he just stared at me.

“This morning, I’m laying in my bed as you’re getting ready for work. You came down the hallway, and told Willow goodbye, and patted her head, and probably kissed her, maybe even on the mouth because you two are sick like that. And then, while the least favorite child is waiting patiently in his bed for a little goodbye, you just take off down the hallway like I didn’t even exist. You said goodbye to the dog and not me!” Boom.

He threw his shiny head back and laughed hysterically. When Dad was really amused, he got a higher pitch to his laugh. It was something I had to work hard to earn—only the funniest of jokes would bring out the high-pitch laugh, and I had just done it in record time. I couldn’t help but crack a smile, while still continuing in my role as the offended and overlooked child.

“Are you sure I didn’t say goodbye? I thought you were asleep!” he said, trying to outrun his forgetfulness.

“Oh, so now you want to try and deny your treason? I can’t believe this!” I threw my hands into the air in an exasperated fashion and stormed into the kitchen while his laughter still filled our living room. “You’re not even trying to deny that she’s your favorite! You’re just trying to get off the hook! Not this time, buddy boy. I’m gonna remember this for a long, long time. The first chance I get, you’re going in one of those bad nursing homes. I’m never letting you live this down.”

“Well, she is a lot cuter than you are” he said, and I couldn’t help but laugh back.

It became a recurring joke between Dad and I, the infamous day when he patted the pet and circumvented the son. I even started telling the story at big family events to try and embarrass him, and the high-pitched laugh never dissipated. He laughed with the same intensity each and every time. It was one of my absolute favorite moments, even if there was a kernel of envy rooted deep within me that was jealous of my “baby sister.”

The next morning, Dad returned to my room with a “Seeya, bub” and an added chuckle, and I made it a point to be awake for that one. I acted as if I was asleep, but right after Dad offered his familiar farewell, I kept my eyes closed and grumbled under my breath “Glad to see you remembered I exist today.” He laughed again, rubbed my hair with a little more vigor than usual, and left my room. As long as I lived in their house, which was longer than most kids, Dad never forgot to come say goodbye to me in the morning. And as difficult as it was for me to wake up early, I loved hearing him call me “Bub” and say goodbye to me because I knew it was love in its purest form.

For years, this became a running joke in the Bradshaw home. I never let Dad live down the fact that he had said goodbye to the dog and not me on that morning, even though he never failed again. We would still joke about it and laugh together thinking about that morning, and I’m glad that we found humor in that moment. We only found humor in it, however, because I never, ever questioned how much my Dad loved me.

As life moves on and tragedies, like my Dad’s death, inevitably happen, you start to appreciate all of the little things you took for granted in life. The simple dinners. The afternoon truck rides. The arguments over television shows. The moments of laughter. The hugs. The head pats. The morning goodbyes. At the time, these things don’t seem as valuable; but as life changes and loss occurs, you realize that life’s true treasures lie in those very moments, those simple interactions.

I desperately miss those morning goodbyes. I think about how impatient I was as an adolescent. I think about all the times that I wished life would move faster. I wanted the wheel to turn faster towards graduation, and then another graduation, and the next job, and the next fun moment; and in those moments, I see now that I was so often looking forward to the “next” moment instead of appreciating the “now” moments for what they were. I’m trying to learn from my Dad’s death, and I’m trying to find ways to give those little expressions of love to others because I know how much they mean—and how much I miss them once they’re gone. I’ll spend a lot more time cherishing the treasures wrapped up in those everyday expressions of love, all the while wishing for just another pat on the head and a “Seeya, Bub” from the man who continues to teach me about life, even in his death.

Sitting in Dad's Lap with SB LogoDad, I know you were a busy man, but it meant so much to me that you would come into my room each and every morning to say goodbye before you went off to work. I don’t know if I told you at the time, but I look back on those moments and realize how lucky I was to be able to start each and every morning knowing that I was loved. I’m so glad that we can laugh about the time that you forgot about me (I’m going to tease you about this on the other side, too), but more importantly I’m glad that the absence of a morning goodbye wasn’t routine for you. Dad, your life routines were based in love for other people. Your interactions with those around you were always rooted in care, grace, and a desire to let people know how you felt about them. I know that I don’t always live this lesson out, Dad, and I’m thankful that I have your life and plenty of those little moments to continue teaching me how to live in love with others. Dad, I pray that you never stop teaching me through your example. I pray that your life is a beacon to me and the multitude of people who knew you, and I hope that we never forget the ways in which you showed love to others. More importantly, I pray that we have a greeting rooted in love when Eternity calls, because I’ve missed you so very much. Thank you, Dad, for living a life led by love. Until I can get another pat on the head (after Willow, of course), seeya Bub.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” 1 Peter 4:8 (NIV)

The Should Haves

I live my life with a perpetual and terribly unrelenting case of The Should Haves.

It’s been over five years since my Dad’s death, but I was fortunate enough to spend 26 amazing years with him on this Earth. In those 26 years, I’m blessed to say that we experienced lots of wonderful, amazing moments together as Father and Son. We swam in our backyard pool nearly every evening during the summer, jumping and diving and splashing late into the night. We wore our arms out tossing a baseball on the sandy beaches of Gulf Shores, Alabama while the sun browned our shoulders. We went to Reds Opening Day together and weathered the cold that always accompanies the early-April debut, and he was right by my side as we suffered through the agony of watching our Redlegs get their hindquarters handed to them in a playoff sweep by the Phillies. We watched movies together, biked together, went to church together, and rode in trucks together.

But no matter how much time we spent together, and no matter how many memories we made, I’m still left wanting more. I’m left with a case of The Should Haves—a nagging voice that constantly reminds me that although our story as Father and Son was vibrant and full, there was more story left to be written. There was more to do together that we never got the chance to do because of his premature and avoidable death.

I rarely live a day in this life without thinking of something we could have done together had he not died on that July morning in 2013. It’s hard for me to experience the beauty of my own life without recognizing that Dad should still be experiencing it as well.

There are always the things that we didn’t have the chance to do—things that only exist with the passing of time, and things that weren’t available to Dad and I when he was alive. New restaurants always evoke this feeling. I’m a self-identified foodie, and I definitely inherited this love for food from my Dad. Dad always enjoyed a great meal, and he and I shared a lot of them together. Since his death, new restaurants have opened and I’ve discovered more great places to gradually expand my waistline. There are countless burger places and barbecue joints and other hole-in-the-wall dives that I know Dad would have enjoyed, and when I’m savoring a great meal, there’s usually an endless thought that loops through my head: “Boy, Dad really would have loved this place…” Each and every time, it pains me to know I can’t enjoy it with him.

And then, there are roller coasters. My Dad loved roller coasters—the wilder and more insane, the better. Even though it took me longer than I’d like to admit to overcome my fear of thrill rides, I eventually did and got to ride a lot of them alongside my Dad. Our extended family always spent a summer day at King’s Island, and I always looked forward to that day of the year. Together, Dad and I got to experience the weightlessness of the first drop on Diamondback, the seemingly-incomprehensible height of Delirium, and I can’t even begin to count the number of nighttime shrieks of excitement we let out as The Beast tore through the woods.

But new coasters have popped up since he died. There are new adventures to be had, and new memories to be made at Kings Island and lots of other theme parks across the country. I remember riding Banshee for the first time and thinking how much Dad would have loved the seemingly never-ending loops and twists. After riding Mystic Timbers, I wondered what Dad would have thought of the surprise in The Shed (I hear you’re not supposed to go in there, by the way…). I can still envision his huge smile at the end of a great ride. I can still hear his laugh, yells of “YEEHAW!”, and jokes about how the wind of the ride had thoroughly ruined his hairdo. I miss those moments. I miss those memories.

These moments, these desires to keep living life with Dad, are painful. But these aren’t really “Should Haves” when it comes down to it; these are “Wish I Could Have” moments. It’s inevitable that life will go on and the Earth will continue to spin after a loved one leaves us. There was more life for us to live together, and things were naturally going to happen that I wished I could have done alongside my Dad. My Dad was a victim of suicide at only age 50, and regardless of the mechanism of death, leaving this Earth unnaturally with (likely) many, many more years to live leaves many chapters unfinished. But deeper than the truth of life continuing to go on, there is a reality that haunts me night in and night out. There is a nagging feeling of guilt that will likely follow me to my grave—a feeling that hinges on the things we could have done while he was alive but we failed to do. It is the idea that I took time with my Dad for granted. It is the belief that there were things I should have done with my Dad while he was still here. Things that I likely told myself I would get around to. Things that, had I known then what I know now about the fragility of life, I should have done with my Dad. It feels awful to think that I squandered time with my Dad, but I know

The “Wish I Could Haves” are painful; but the “Should Haves” are much, much worse.

If Dad had a bucket list, I never knew about it. I often attribute this to the fact that he lived life to the fullest every chance he had, so there was no need to keep a list of things he wanted to do—he just did them. But I do know there were things that Dad mentioned to me that he hoped, someday, we’d have the chance to do together. He wanted to go to a Luke Bryan concert together (please note, this was when Luke Bryan sang actual country music and before he became a complete sellout). There were other beaches I’m sure he wanted to see. There were other air shows I’m sure he wanted to attend. But for the most part, Dad lived his life free of any regrets.

However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t live with many, many regrets now that he’s gone.

For his entire life, Dad was a nature lover. He was constantly hiking and biking and traversing the woods of nearby Rentschler Forest Preserve, and he didn’t need headphones or even the company of others to keep him entertained. He didn’t just love nature—he was in awe of it, bewildered by it. His sense of adventure was something I was always envious of, and for the last few years of his life, he always talked about another adventure he wanted to take up: kayaking. Dad knew of a number of waterways that were nearby our house, and he would often talk to me about wanting to grab a kayak and a paddle to see how far he could take himself. Dad often talked about this desire around me, mostly in the hopes that I might reciprocate his excitement. I’m ashamed to say I never did, and there were many times when Dad asked me to spend time outdoors with him and I declined his invitation. I hate to think of the times when I could have taken a bike ride with him but decided to stay on the couch watching yet another mindless sitcom rerun. I think of all the nights that he asked me to sit with him near a backyard bonfire and I decided to stay inside for no reason while Dad sat there by himself, likely a bit lonely but still happy to be outside. I had many opportunities to appreciate nature and my Dad together that I didn’t take him up on. But I should have.

Then there were the chances to share my feelings with Dad that I failed to lean into. I think of the song we played at Dad’s funeral, a deeply-powerful country song by Will Hoge called “Strong.” It was the perfect song to play at Dad’s funeral—a testament to a life well lived—but it was a song I discovered well before his death. Although it provided a lot of healing to those of us who heard it at Dad’s service, I desperately wish I had played that song for Dad while he was alive. I should have played it for him and told him how the lyrics about a loving, devoted, hardworking, and strong father made me think of him every time. I often wonder if it would have made a difference. Would hearing that song and the way I felt helped to heal his feelings of depression and inadequacy? I should have played the song when it could have warmed his heart, but my desire to avoid emotional vulnerability kept me from doing this until he was already gone. I didn’t share my feelings with him. But I should have.

The moments when purely stupid pride and arrogance kept me from just being around him, however, are the most sickening. I think of all the times, especially as a teenager, when I avoided spending time with my Dad. I’m disgusted by the lame excuses I fabricated, and I wish I could take each and every one of them back. There were so many times when Dad would ask me to hangout or do something that I didn’t want to do. Being a typical, moody teenager, I found lots of reasons to close my Dad out of my life. Too tired, too busy, perceived to be too-cool. And yes, those times when I thought I was too cool to hang out with my Pops haunt me most. I should have spent more time being with him. I should have spent more time realizing that my Dad deserved my time more than anyone else. I didn’t do that, but I should have.

The should haves plague my soul. I remember sitting awake one night after Dad’s death. It was rare for me to find sleep in those immediate nights after losing him, and my mind would race with doubts; concerns that I had missed easily-perceptible signs about Dad’s illness and the feelings that were high jacking his mind. On one of those nights when I couldn’t get the thought of losing Dad out of my mind, I began to think back to all the moments when I had failed to spend time with him. I thought of all the dinner invites I had declined. All the phone calls I had ignored. I even thought of all the times over the past year when Dad had stayed at my house later than expected, and I, being so selfishly-consumed with my own schedule and routine, had silently wished that he would leave.

And on that night, a few nights after losing him, I sobbed and said “I’m sorry, Dad,” in the hopes that my apologies and grief could carry themselves up through the clouds to Heaven.

I stood at Dad’s casket just a few nights later and tried my best to express my love to the people who had loved my Dad in this life, and among many wonderful condolences I heard from those who came to grieve and show their support to Mom and I, I heard “Don’t feel guilty, Tyler,” over and over again. I listened intently to those family members, friends, and loved ones, and I assured them that I wouldn’t feel guilty. I assured them that I wouldn’t let regrets take my mind captive.

But I didn’t for a second believe I would actually be able to live free of guilt; and now that Dad has been gone for over five years, I’ve begun to understand how the Should Haves can actually be a confirmation that my grief is justified and natural.

Even though it ended prematurely, my Dad lived a big, full, exciting life. He treated each day as a gift as best he could, just as God directs all of us to do. As I’ve experienced my own grief and suffering, I’ve realized that the gaping hole my Dad left behind in this world could only be filled by his big heart; and although I’m in severe pain because of this loss, I would take the pain for a hundred eternities to spare the alternative. Had Dad invested minimally in the people that he loved and life in general, his loss would have been easier to overcome. But that isn’t my Dad, and that wouldn’t have been an authentic life. I feel my Dad’s loss more because he made life that much better while he was in it. I would rather experience the pain of losing him knowing that he lived a life that made a difference. The pain is worth the love I experienced for 26 years while he was here. I’d much rather have that love, even if only for a short time, and experience the pain of losing it than the alternative of never having him at all.

Although it’s difficult, I’m also learning to cope with the Should Haves better because they are showing me that I’ve learned something from my Dad’s death. They are showing me that, although he shouldn’t have died, his death was not in vain. They show me that, even in death, my Dad is still my greatest teacher. Dad’s absence has taught me the importance of never taking time for granted. Dad’s death has taught me that time is my most valuable resource. It is the only resource in this live that can never regenerate. Dad’s death has taught me an important lesson: By the time I get to the end of my own life (which will be a very, very long time from now), I want to be able to look back and say that I made a wise investment with the days God gave me. I want to be left with very few instances of things I should have done.

In my grief, I decided that one of the best ways to fight back against the Should Haves was to go out and do the things I should have done with Dad, even if he’s not around to do them with me. A summer or two after losing Dad, I decided to do something that I likely wouldn’t have done while he was alive. With my friend, Steve, I went out and bought a kayak. We each bought one, and shortly after buying them we decided to take them out on the water. We dipped the kayaks into the Great Miami River at Rentschler Park—the same exact spot my Dad had vowed to kayak but never got the chance to.

The kayaking excursion was filled with lots of things that Dad would have appreciated. Namely, he would have really enjoyed the fact that my kayak tipped and tossed me into the water the exact second I stepped into it (Note to self: always step into the middle of the kayak, not the side). I flopped around in the mud and water while Steve laughed, and all I could see was an image of my Dad laughing hysterically as I tried to regroup. After I recovered from the capsizing, we paddled up the beautiful, wooded shoreline and soaked up the rays of sun as they beat down upon our shoulders. After paddling upstream for an hour or so, we turned around, kicked our feet up, and floated back to our drop in location. All the while, tears streamed out slowly underneath my sunglasses as I wished, deeply, that I had had the opportunity to enjoy this moment alongside my Dad. I should have done this with him. In the actual moment, he wasn’t there; but in a spiritual sense, he was right by my side.

I know that the Should Haves are a natural part of grief, which is why I try not to avoid them. No matter when my Dad would have died, I would have always been left wanting more time with him. More experience, more adventure was what I always would have wanted and what he always deserved. Had he died at 117, I would have wanted him to be around for another 117 years. And in my mind, that overcompensates for any guilt I might feel. In my mind, a life that feels too short and a life that induces “should haves” is the sign of a life well lived.

Dad, Jeff and I at Kings Island with SB LogoDad, I’m sorry for all of those moments that we should have spent together. I’m sorry for all of those times that I wasted when we had the opportunity to just be together, but I didn’t realize the value of those moments. Ultimately, I’m just sorry we didn’t have more time. Dad, you brought such joy to my life—and to everyone’s life that you interacted with. Any amount of time with you would have failed to be enough. There are so many things we should have done together, and I’m sorry I didn’t make a more genuine effort to make those things happen. Dad, I hope that I’m still learning from your life. I hope that I am taking the time that God has given me and using it more wisely than I did before you died. It still doesn’t erase the pain of losing you and the desire to have more of you in my life, but I hope that I’m realizing the fragility of life and the need to invest my time in the things that matter—the things associated with loving God and loving other people. Dad, please continue teaching me. Thank you for living a vivid life that still feels important each and every day. And Dad, I’m keeping a list of all those things we should have done. Someday, we will have the opportunity to do them all, and I can’t wait. Until that day and the glorious reunion that awaits, seeya Bub.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” James 4:14 (NIV)

Waiting

If you’re an impatient kid, the wait for Christmas can always be a bit of a struggle. If you have a parent who is slow to get out of bed on Christmas morning, however, that struggle escalates to an epic, herculean test of the human will.

For as long as I can remember, Christmas morning in our family home was always tremendously special. As an only child, Christmas was particularly fun because…I didn’t have to share it with anyone else! Nothing says “Season of Giving” like relishing in the fact that you get to keep everything for yourself, am I right?! As an only child, there was never that moment of frantically grabbing a package only to have the smile fade from my face after seeing a sibling’s name. On occasion, our family dogs might have got an interesting package, but because my parents wanted to make Christmas so special, they always had plenty of gifts around the tree for me. I felt like a little prince on Christmas, but in all honesty, my parents made me feel loved and valued every day.

In my childhood, I was always a bit of an early riser. I would often wake around 6:30 or 7 on most days—what I wouldn’t give to rise with that same ease and energy as I had as a child. Nonetheless, I learned early on that it was always best to let my parents—both of whom had jobs and worked hard—sleep in a little later if they wanted to, especially on those precious Saturday mornings. Being an only child often teaches you how to entertain yourself, and I got pretty good at that on those early Saturdays. I would turn on the TV and watch Saturday morning cartoons, play with toys, draw and color, or entertain myself with any other activity that was quiet enough to not disrupt my slumbering parents. I was a good kid, and I knew my parents worked hard and deserved as much time to rest as they wanted, so I tried my best to make as little noise as possible.

On Christmas morning, however, there was no chance I would ever sleep in to a reasonable hour, and there was an even lesser chance that I would let my parents sleep in either. The excitement and nervous anticipation would wake me up long before the sun would rise in the hopes I might catch a glimpse of Santa’s sleigh has he scurried to the next home. Sometimes, I’d lay in bed and try to force myself to go back to sleep so the hours wouldn’t drag on at a soul-crushingly slow pace. On most Christmas mornings, I would give up and head downstairs immediately. I would turn on the TV and watch Christmas shows and movies until I heard movement from my parents.

Let me rephrase that: I stayed out of their hair (or the spot where Dad’s hair should have been) until I heard the slightest movement from my parents, and that would serve as excuse enough to wake them up. If I heard a cough, a tussle, or a snore that I could mistake for a parental foot stepping out of the bed, I would bounce up the stairs, stand in the doorway, and stare at my parents as they lay there, still sleeping. Then, after a few minutes of realizing they were still asleep, I would make some type of innocuous noise that I thought might be enough to wake them up. Oftentimes, a repeated heavy sigh was my course of action. I’d fake a cough, or a sneeze if I was feeling particularly ambitious. I might be able to get a door or floorboard to creak loudly to create enough noise that I couldn’t be blamed for.

No matter what mechanism of noise-creation I used, Mom was always the first to wake up. She would always come down the stairs, wish me a Merry Christmas, and kiss me on the forehead or on the cheek as I played in the family room and pretended not to know where all those disruptive noises had come from. For as long as I can remember, Mom would usually head straight to the kitchen on Christmas mornings to whip up a special breakfast for all of us. Her famous breakfast quiche was always a tradition, with a nice big glass of sparkling cider poured into our family Christmas glasses that were decorated with red and green holly berry. Meals which are that good always leave an impression, and those flavors will always taste like Christmas morning to me.

But after she got a good start on breakfast, the waiting game would often continue because Dad was always the last one up on Christmas morning. Always. I can’t think of a single Christmas when my Dad was the first person to wake up. Don’t get me wrong—my Dad wasn’t lazy, and he wasn’t usually a late sleeper. When it came to work, my Dad worked very difficult schedules his entire life, laboring as a steel plant maintenance technician. His shifts would change from first to third and back again, yet he never complained about having to rise or fall at these different hours. But when Dad did have the opportunity to sleep, he savored it—just like he savored everything in his life. He enjoyed sleep, and if he had the opportunity to sleep a little later, he was going to enjoy it, Christmas morning or not.

The mind of a child, however, doesn’t recognize that perspective on Christmas morning. The mind of a six-year-old child is screaming “Why are you not waking up?! There are presents to be torn apart and insanely complex toys that need to be put together and broken within minutes of receiving them!” Dad’s leisurely pace on Christmas was infuriating for a child who enjoyed opening presents.

On Christmas, and in life generally though, Dad operated on his own clock. Dad reserved speed for the times when he was behind the wheel in his truck; in most other segments of life, Dad rarely sped things along. He took his time doing the things he loved, because why rush happiness to simply get on to something else? If Dad ate a good meal, he ate it slowly and drank a second can of Coke so he could linger a bit longer. If Dad was at a family get-together, he was always one of the last ones to leave the company of a family he loved. If Dad was at a baseball game, there was rarely a time when he left before the last pitch was thrown. And especially when wrapping Christmas gifts, Dad took all the time he needed to make sure the gifts were intricately wrapped, creatively inspired, and adorned with just the right mix of bows, ribbons, and other decorative elements. In all things, Dad took his time—and on Christmas morning, he took his time to make his way down to the tree, which drove me absolutely bonkers.

Dad would sleep in for a bit on Christmas morning. Looking back, I realize just how few days he had to actually sleep in, but Christmas creates an unbridled impatience within the heart of a child that is difficult to squelch. On those Christmas mornings when he slept in past 8:00, I would sit on the couch with my arms folded, huffing and puffing as loud as my young lungs would allow, hoping my sighs of frustration would drift up the stairs and cause such guilt that my Dad would immediately come downstairs and encourage me to rip open every gift and a few of his while I was at it. When the aggressive breathing technique failed to work, I’d simply yell up the stairs. “Dad! Are you ever going to come down here?”

“Maybe by next Christmas,” he’d joke back, turning over to see if he could squeeze out another few minutes of rest.

As the minutes ticked on, each one seemingly more painful than the one before, I would roll my eyes and shake my head with fury, channeling the impatience of a man 80 years my senior. Even as a child, I was a bit of an old soul—an old, cranky, impatient little soul.

Eventually, after much pestering that didn’t affect him whatsoever, Dad would eventually come down the stairs. Every year, regardless of how much pestering I had done, it was largely the same image. Same dark, matching sweatsuit. Same thick, woolly socks. Same oval-rimmed glasses. Same wide smile when he saw the tree, his wife, his dog, and his red-faced, annoyed son eager to become a human gift-paper shredder. Dad would hug us, and he would keep smiling, and he would soak up every single moment of time we spent together on Christmas morning.

And then, after all of those presents were open, I’d start waiting for the next Christmas.

And now, here I am, many years removed from those Christmases of my childhood, and I’m still waiting. I’m waiting on something I know I’ll never have on this Earth again.

It’s strange to wait on a Christmas that I know will never come. I’m waiting on a Christmas when my Dad comes down the stairs in his elastic-ankled sweatpants and takes way too many pictures on his camera. I’m waiting on a Christmas that occurred so many years ago—a Christmas I likely took for granted as a child. A Christmas that I likely thought would occur forever and ever and ever, but was suddenly and unfairly ripped from my life forever. It’s absolutely maddening to know that, when we are young, we beg for time to move on; but once we age and lose the things that really matter in this world, we beg for God to turn back the clock.

That guilt of taking those Christmases for granted tears my heart into pieces every time I think about it. I think of all those Christmas mornings where I would get annoyed with Dad’s extra 15 minutes of sleep, or his obnoxious obsession with taking pictures of our family dog opening gifts. I would give just about anything to spend another Christmas with him, and even though we had 26 wonderful holiday mornings together, I desperately yearn for 26 more.

This will be my sixth Christmas without my Dad. I keep thinking that Christmas without him will get easier, and more normal, but it never does. There’s always an awkward absence when he doesn’t come down the stairs. There’s always a longing to give him another gift, to share another laugh, to just be in his presence once more. On certain years, that sadness and waiting for Christmas with him again has completely overtaken and overwhelmed me to the point when I couldn’t enjoy the things that were right in front of me. During certain years, those moments of sadness have paralyzed me.

But there are also beautiful, loving moments when I’m able to remember him again and smile happily as I think back on those splendid Christmas mornings we spent together. Mom still uses tags that my Dad wrote out in his precise, all-capital print, so I still get a gift labeled from my Dad every Christmas. Just seeing his handwriting soothes my soul in ways that are hard to describe because it reminds me how real he was. I’ll look around the tree and see ornaments that he always hung, like the Elf Carpenter, and it reminds me how much humor and personality he brought to all of our lives. I’ll hear a song from the Christina Aguilera Christmas album—yes, you read that right—and I’ll laugh thinking about how much he enjoyed listening to that while he decorated the tree (he said he just listened to it because Mom liked it, but somehow he mysteriously knew all the words and ridiculous runs in every single song). There are lots of wonderful memories around this time of the year that, fortunately for me, have yet to fade.

Coupled with those happy recollections, however, is an extreme pain. There is a pain every time I look at the staircase leading to my parents’ bedroom, knowing that he won’t come bouncing down the stairs on this morning or any other. There is a pain knowing that I won’t be able to watch A Christmas Story six or seven times with him, and knowing I won’t hear his bellowing laughter every time Flick sticks his tongue to the flagpole. There’s a pain knowing that I won’t be able to see him unwrap gifts and eat Christmas cookies and nap on the couch. There’s a pain knowing that, no matter how many gifts might be under the tree, the only gift I really want is one that I’ll never have in this life.

There’s joy, however, in knowing that we will celebrate a more perfect Christmas once this life is over. That day is a long, long time away, and I won’t let the anticipation of a Christmas to come completely overtake my desire to experience the life I’m living. My Dad’s death has taught me that I can live in the moment, simultaneously experiencing happiness with the people I have in my life and sadness with he ones who are gone. I can know that there is a joy to be experienced in the life to come and joy in the here and now. Life is not divided into purely happy and purely sad—and neither is Christmas. Life after losing a loved one is perpetually characterized by that dichotomy: a happiness rooted in the memories that fill our hearts, and a sadness that those same memories will fail to come to life again. That balance between legitimate joy and deep despair has been difficult for me to navigate in the years since losing my Dad, but it’s especially tough on Christmas morning.

For these past six Christmases, I’ve tried to slow down. Partly to honor my Dad, and partly to give myself the time to experience Christmas in the moment, just like my Dad always did. I know that Dad wouldn’t want Christmas to be less enjoyable for his family, but the reality is, he lived a life that was so big that it inevitably leaves a gaping hole now that he’s gone. There will always be a tremendous sadness in a season known for joy, but joy will always prevail. And joy will prevail because, although I’m waiting for a Christmas with my Dad now, there is a promise in Heaven that, someday, I’ll never have to wait again.

Dad Lucy and Me at Christmas with SB LogoDad, I really miss Christmas with you. I miss so many things about the Christmas mornings and holiday seasons we spent together. I miss seeing your smile as you opened tools and other gifts that Mom and I bought you. I miss watching you laugh at and take videos of Willow or Lucy as they tore open dog bones and puppy toys wrapped in shiny paper. I miss the elaborate and precise details of your gift wrapping, and I really miss watching you try to explain why you bought Mom certain gifts that puzzled us all. You showed all of us how to find joy on Christmas, and you never took a moment for granted on those special holiday celebrations. For that matter, you never took any moment in life for granted, and I’m trying to do that more and more each day. Thank you for teaching me, in the way you lived your life, how I should live my own. Thank you for helping me remember, even in your death, that the moments we have in this life are meant to be savored and enjoyed. Dad, I’m really looking forward to that first Christmas that we will have together in the life after. I’m looking forward to a reunion unlike any other. And I’m so excited to see you again, that I might even let you sleep in an extra fifteen minutes. Thank you for being a great Dad on Christmas, and a great Dad every single day of the year. Thank you for continuing to watch over me, and thank you for always reminding me what matters most. Love for God, love for family, and love for life are lessons you’ll never let me forget. One of the best Christmas gifts I’ve ever received is having a Father who made life count each and every day. I love you, Dad. Merry Christmas, and until we can celebrate again, seeya Bub.

“As the angel choir withdrew into heaven, the sheepherders talked it over. ‘Let’s get over toe Bethlehem as fast as we can and see for ourselves what God has revealed to us.’ They left, running, and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby living in the manger. Seeing was believing. They told everyone they met what the angels had said about this child. All who heard the sheepherders were impressed. But Mary kept all these things to herself, holding them dear, deep within herself.” Luke 2:15-19 (MSG)

What’s In A Name

Believe it or not, my Dad did not want to name me Tyler.

As I’m sure most males do after watching their wives go through hours and hours of tremendous pain during delivery, Dad lost out on the infamous parental game of “Name Your Offspring.” Family legend has it that Dad wanted to name me “Kurt.”

Kurt? Really?

Maybe it was just an 80’s thing, or maybe it was a desire to give his son a name that gave off a certain coolness. Kurt does give off a particular air of confidence, smoothness, unshakableness. Or maybe Kurt Bradshaw had an athlete’s ring to it (and for those who have seen me take part in athletic activity, you know that name would have been a horrible choice). Either way, “Kurt” had a lot of potential. Dad liked it.

Alas, my name is Tyler. As is the case in most baby-naming situations, the Mother can pull the trump card of “I carried this baby inside me for nine months thanks to you,” cutting her spouse off at the knees and taking away any say he might have in the naming of his child. Maybe by child three or four, after the promise of a future generation has been secured, the mother might be willing to let her husband try his hand at this whole “baby-naming game.” But on the first child (and in my case the only child), the husband‘s life is much more comfortable if he learns to step back and let his wife select the moniker. My Dad was 0-1.

At the desire of my mother, I became Tyler—and I’ve been Tyler ever since. According to most baby-naming books and websites, the name means dominance, historic beauty, and is typically bestowed upon one with a God-like physique.

Just kidding. It means “maker of tiles”. I couldn’t make this up, and I also can’t make a tile. I’ve never even installed a tile, let alone make one from…what do you even make a tile from anyway?!

Don’t get me wrong, I like my name. It’s a good name, which my family and closest friends eventually shortened to “Ty”. Maybe they shortened it to avoid the embarrassment over my lack of tile-making-ability. Or maybe because they had an obsession for beanie babies. Either way, I became “Ty” to most everyone I knew.

Everyone except my Dad, that is. Yes, he would call me “Ty” as often as anyone else, but most of the time, he called me something else—“Bub”. Hence the name of the blog you’re visiting. And nearly every time I saw him, talked to him on the phone, or received a text message from him, the conversations he initiated started with the same familiar salutation: “Hey, bub.”

I’m not really sure where it started, or why he chose those particular words. But I was glad he did. So many parents can choose nicknames for their children that humiliate them as they grow into adulthood. Nothing humiliates a child more than being dropped off at middle school by his Mother, who in that moment forgets her little man is growing up and accidentally says goodbye to “her little pookie bear”. Or that angsty adolescent being dropped off at the mall for a night of teenage semi-debauchery and hearing her Dad bid farewell to his “little sweetums”. Early on in a child’s life, they ought to have the ability to sit down and negotiate with their parents, choosing a nickname that is both affection-laden but not detrimental to the child’s social possibilities. “Little buddy? Okay, I can deal with that. Sugar butt? No. Absolutely not. Baby boy? Okay, but only at family get-togethers. My wittle cuddle monster? You’ve got to be kidding me. Aren’t you people supposed to be mature?”

I even saw an article online where a fellow Tyler was given the nickname of “Booby Cakes” by his Mother. Is this real life?

I’d like to think that Dad was very intentional when he chose “Bub” for me. I’d like to think that he sat down, trying his hardest to think of a word that would not induce embarrassment or public humiliation, but would also show a deep-seated affection for his son. I’d like to think he went through hundreds of potential nicknames, discarding each one for its lack of manliness and potential for damaging my delicate social standing. And then, in a moment of frustration, Dad realized he was overthinking the entire thing, making it more complicated than it needed to be. And in a desire for simplicity, he settled on “Bub”, the perfect combination of love and social respectability.

But in reality, it probably just came naturally when he first saw me—which, in all actuality, is just as beautiful as the process I just envisioned. Like most expecting parents who say they just won’t know what name is right until they actually see the baby, most nicknames probably are created organically. I wonder what it was about me that made my Dad think I had “Bub” qualities? Maybe as Dad got to know me, I just had a “Bub-worthy” personality. Or maybe it was one of the babbling phrases I uttered as a baby toddling around our little house. Maybe Dad just started calling me that without giving it a moment’s thought. Or maybe it was his revenge—his way of renaming me since he hadn’t picked the name Tyler. Either way, the nickname stuck. To me, Scott Bradshaw was “Dad”, and to him, I was “Bub”, and everything in the world was right.

Dad would call me Bub no matter the situation—good or bad. That reliability, that dependability became something that was warm and authentic. He could be angry or joyful, distressed or at ease, nervous or cool as a cucumber. No matter the emotions, his feelings towards me never changed. He was a Father who never grew tired of being one, and it showed in the way he treated me, even down to the ever-present nickname.

Even when he was upset with me, which happens even in the rosiest of parent-child relationships, he rarely called me anything but Bub. My Mom and Dad always said I was a “good kid”—the type of kid who gave his parents very little trouble. The kind of kid who doesn’t give his parents a lot of reason to worry. I was typically home by 10 or 11 every night (usually not by choice, but by a lack of social options, but hey…I was okay watching Letterman every night instead of making friends). But every kid pushes the envelope and tests the waters of disobedience—even the well-behaved and socially anxious. And on occasion, those tempting waters felt warm enough to dive right in.

If Dad was forced to identify my most frustrating behavior, it would have probably been my lack of organization (Mom would be able to name this in a heartbeat, as she’s one of the cleanest people I know). I was a pretty creative kid, and organization is often an impediment to the creative mind…at least that’s what I told my Mom when I didn’t want to clean my room. My parents were often fans of putting the right things in the right places where they belonged, which makes sense to most. I, on the other hand, took a more artistic, free-range approach. I was a fan of throwing and scattering toys all over the place, giving them the freedom to not be defined by a particular box or shelf. I admired the sometimes apocalyptic view of my toys and belongings.

In reality, no amount of word-wrangling is going to justify this—plain and simple, I was a messy kid.

To my Dad’s distress, my messiness wasn’t just limited to the confines of our impeccable home. My toy terror, many times, would spread to the yard. I had all the toys and outdoor playthings a boy needed. Buckets, dumptrucks, shovels, sand molds, baseballs, sidewalk chalk, and water balloons. I would use the freedom of the wild outdoors as an excuse to go crazy in our spacious backyard in the middle of Suburbia, and when it was time to call it a night, I rarely worried about putting these toys back where they belonged.

My Dad, on the other hand, always kept a well-maintained yard. Like most Dads, he fought an ongoing war with crabgrass and dandelions. He was constantly mulching or trimming or mowing. Planting and weeding were standard activities. Our yard was always beautiful. Mom and Dad did a tremendous job of selecting pots and vibrant flowers to bring personality and cheerfulness to our house. I chose to decorate the yard with toys instead. And as much as those toys may have reminded Dad of the fun-loving nature of his adorable son, they were also a distraction or impediment to the yardwork he often needed to complete.

He didn’t like the fact that I couldn’t put those toys in a bin in the garage or underneath the deck, but it never got through to me that I should start cleaning these things up on a regular basis without being asked. I always remember that Dad had a huge, black lockbox in our carport/eventual garage where I was supposed to put all of my toys and other outdoor belongings every night as the sun began to set. I don’t know what it is, but my personality just wasn’t hardwired to follow this command, and I rarely put my yard toys away.

And although I thought I could really wear Dad down, I don’t think I ever did. I was a pretty crafty kid, so I would even monitor where Dad was in the yard as the sun would start to set, thinking I could go in one of the other doors in the house, hop in the shower, and use that as an excuse to not have to go back out and pick up the toys.

Alas, he persisted.

Even if I was freshly-showered and pajama-clad, Dad would come in the house to locate the perpetrator. And where most parents might yell or explode at their child’s lack of organizational capacity, my Dad, calmly yet sternly, would tell me it was time to go out back and pick up the yard so he could mow or landscape. He never shrieked hysterically about my thoughtlessness or lack of concern. He never lost his mind, like most Dads on TV sitcoms. He never ridiculed me for being a thoughtless little punk whose playfulness was an impediment to his calling to be a master caretaker and gardener. Instead, he would look down the stairs, and greet me the way he would any other time “Hey bub, I need you to get out back and clean up those toys.”

I’m sure I grumbled. I’m sure I rolled my eyes. I’m sure I put up a fight, and in some scenarios even acted like the bratty stereotypical teen you envision in these scenarios. And yes, there were even times where I’m sure I shrieked like an insolent little brat who deserved much less respect than my Dad gave me.

But to my Dad, I was Bub—and I always would be. And you don’t give up on your Bub. You don’t give up on your child. And my Dad never did.

Even if the sun had set.

There were times where my elusiveness worked to avoid Dad, who often worked late into the night in our yard, and then continued his work in the garage even after the lights had gone out on the world.

On a few occasions, albeit rare, I remember Dad making me go into the yard with a flash light to pick up the toys I left in the yard. He never raised his voice. He never threatened me with physical violence. But he stood his ground. Or, on the occasion that he didn’t want to make me go in the yard, he would work out an alternate compromise.

“Okay, Bub. So you didn’t pick up your toys tonight, but I need to cut grass first thing in the morning. So even though it’s Saturday, you’re going to get up at 8 and go outside first thing and pick them up so I can mow. Okay?”

I would pleasantly agree, and then when Dad would come to wake me up at 8am, I would try to feign every illness in the world, including the plague, to get Dad to let me out of the chore. But he wouldn’t. He would sit on the bed next to me and continue to try and wake me up, until I eventually realized that he was never going to cave. I would then lumber out into the yard and grumble and call my Dad all kinds of horrible names while I picked up toys and slammed them with a childlike fury into the lockbox.

But even though I called him names, Dad never called me anything but Bub. He never let my poor attitude or actions frustrate him—and I’m ashamed of the way I acted. No matter how bratty I became, Dad had this cool-under-pressure consistency that, to this day, I’m still envious of. He’s one of very few parents I know of that could actually discipline his child through being disappointed in them—has that ever worked in the history of parenting?! Well, it did for my Dad, because he was the type of man whose disappointment spoke more than any anger he might have felt.

Dad’s decision to call me “Bub” in nearly every situation, pleasant or unpleasant, says something amazing about his parenting skill. Frustration and anger could not deter his goal of raising a son the way he knew that boy should be raised. Dad got more out of me because of his high expectation. He didn’t need anger to parent, and somehow it worked.

Looking back, I appreciate my Dad’s consistency more and more each day, and it’s a trait I admire in him. He didn’t have a dual view of his son. He didn’t see me as Bub when I was doing things right and Tyler when I was doing things wrong. I was Bub no matter what, because he understood that kids need to be taught—they need direction, guidance, and more than anything, they need a consistent and reliable father figure to push me down this road of maturity. And the fact that he greeted me the same way, no matter the circumstances, was refreshing, sending a subtle signal that he loved me unconditionally. My Dad was the dictionary definition of unconditional love—and I miss this about him tremendously.

Ultimately, in light of his death from suicide, I wish Dad could have had this same, consistent, unconditional view of himself. As I’ve tried to make sense of my Dad’s death (and I’ll never be able to actually “make sense” of it), I’ve speculated about what might have been going on inside my Dad’s head at different points in his life. Although I can’t be certain, and because of his mental illness, I think my Dad saw himself in two different lights. At times, I think he was able to see the positive impact he made on others; and at other times, unfortunately, I think he saw himself through an unlovable lens. I think he saw his imagined weaknesses as things that people defined him by.

But that was simply not the case—and it still isn’t the case today. My Dad, whether he was mentally healthy or mentally ill, was always, always worthy of love. His mental illness did not define him, and most importantly, it did not change the way anyone felt about him. I wish I could have shown him more of that unconditional love throughout his life. I wish I would have told him, more often, that he mattered. That I loved him. That in the good times, and in the bad, he was important to me.

My middle name, thankfully, is Scott. And I’m tremendously proud of that fact. In a sense, I feel like I’m carrying on a piece of my Dad just by carrying on his name. And because of that, I’ll continue to hold myself to those high standards that my Dad had for me. I’ll do my best to show unconditional love, like he did, to everyone I encounter. I’ll carry on the piece of him that was fun-loving and childlike and strong, and because I have a part of his name, I’ll continue to tell his story, and to spread his message. I’ll continue to define others by the good in their hearts. I’ll try my best to be patient and kind and even-keeled, just like he was. At times, it feels like a heavy burden to carry because my Dad truly was a great, great man; but if he believed in me enough to give me part of his name, I’ll trust that he knew what he was doing. He always did.

There’s a lot in a name, and I’m glad a third of mine is also my Dad’s.

And I’m thankful that Mom didn’t let him name me Kurt.

Dad Holding Me Upsdie Down with SB LogoDad, I’m sorry that you didn’t get to name me Kurt. Just kidding. I’m really glad you didn’t win that fight, because I don’t seem like much of a Kurt—even though I’m still not a maker of tiles. But to you, I was Bub, and I’ll always be that. You called me Bub all the time—whether I was an angel or a brat—and I don’t think I ever told you how much I appreciated that consistency. I want to tell you now. Bub was a term of endearment and affection to you, and the fact that you called me that—no matter the situation—meant you always, always loved me. I don’t know how you did it, but you always kept your patience with me, even when I tried to test it to the limits. Even though you’ve been gone for five years now, I can still hear you saying “Hey, Bub” and “Seeya, Bub” in that calm, familiar voice of yours; and the fact that I can still hear it is a reminder that, even though you’re gone, you still love me. You still love all of us. And you’re still helping us grow and love one another more through the example you left for us. I wish you were still here with us, though. I wish I could hear you call me Bub just once more—but I know, deep down, that I’ll hear it again, Dad. It’s going to be a tremendous greeting in Eternity when I see you again for the first time. I’m thankful to know that you’ll be there, and I’m thankful to know that you’ll still be calling me “Bub,” even in Heaven. Until then, there’s a lot of work to be done and love to be spread down here in your name, Dad. Keep watching over us, and in your subtle reminders, keep telling us that you loved us. We need it more and more. I love you, Dad. I’ll see you again someday—and until that glorious day, seeya Bub.

“A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.” Proverbs 22:1 (KJV)

Suicide & The Line of No Reasoning: Guest Blog by Rev. Dan Walters

Ty: I often wonder what my Dad was thinking in the final moments of his life.

I’ve mentioned many times that I suffer from anxiety. There have been times in my life when the intensity of anxiety is so real that it completely shuts me down—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. It has caused me to call in sick to work. It has caused me to lock myself in my room and turn off all the lights.

But it has never, ever caused me to be suicidal.

Even in the darkest depths of my anxiety, I’ve never had a suicidal thought or temptation. I’ve never had the urge—conscious or subconscious—that I should run towards death. Mental illness manifests itself differently within the mind, body, and spirit of each sufferer; and those manifestations are widely varied.

Which is what makes my Dad’s death so difficult to understand, and explains my curiosity about his thoughts in those final, desperate moments. My Dad suffered from depression, which is entirely different from the mental illness I’ve combated. Because of this difference, it’s hard for me to understand how my Dad could have died from suicide. As someone who has never had that urge or temptation, it’s hard for me to understand how my Dad’s mind could have become so ill that it told him to take his own life—even though I’ve never blamed him for his death. I want to understand the incomprehensible so I can sympathize with my Dad for the years and years that he suffered.

Which is why I’m so thankful for Reverend Dan Walters.

This is Pastor Dan’s third installment at SeeyaBub.com, and in this extremely vulnerable post, my friend does something that very few men (and especially ministry-leading men) have been unable to do—he speaks honestly and courageously about his own suicidal temptations and urges. Reverend Walters also tells the stories of the distraught individuals that he ministered to throughout his journey—some of which were saved, and some who were not. Personally, Dan Walters has done for me in this post what I thought I’d never be able to achieve—he’s given me a snapshot into the mind of someone who has been tempted to die from suicide.

I’m glad that Pastor Dan is still here. I’m glad that he’s here to write this important message. I’m glad that he’s here because he matters. And you matter. And more than anything, his words will help those of you who (thankfully) don’t suffer from mental illness recognize its destructive power.


Rev. Dan Walters: It is said that a man can live about 40 days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope.

The causes for suicide are many. However, one thing that is common among all suicidal victims is the feeling of hopelessness. The apostle Paul wrote “If we have hope in this life only, we are of all men, most miserable,” (1 Corinthians 15:19). The apostle Peter wrote, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By His great mercy He has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead,” (1 Peter 1:3). It is only because of God’s grace and this living hope that many more of us do not become victims to this dark, mentally unstable state of mind called suicide.

Sometimes we feel hopeless as a result of making a major mistake, suffering a big disappointment or loss, or when we have to deal with an overwhelming situation which leads us to despair—which is the feeling of not having any hope left. That which leads an individual to this kind of “hopeless despair” is very complex and difficult to understand to say the least. However, a person who has experienced this kind of despair, and lived to tell about it, indeed is a person who has been plucked from the grip of suicidal death—That would be me!

In my own experience with the temptation of suicide, I came so close to crossing over what I call the “black line of no reasoning,” where I could not distinguish between the “conscious mind” which deals with the present reality, and the “unconscious mind” which deals with things that it perceives to be true. According to many psychologists, the unconscious mind influences our feelings and our judgements and ultimately becomes the driving source of our behavior, which will eventually conquer the conscious mind and affect how we perceive reality. I read somewhere, and I believe to be true, all of us have the capacity to practice brainwashing on ourselves. If we do not or cannot find our way back into that state of mind which deals with the reality of the present, we can ultimately find ourselves without hope – and as I said earlier, no one can live one second without hope!

The “black line of no reasoning” is the line of demarcation between the “conscious mind” and the “unconscious mind.” This is the place where the battle for hope is fought and the will to live is won or lost. It is here where the victim crosses over into the total darkness of despair where hope is diminished and there’s no way back. It is here where suicide and death appear to be a friend and the only solution from unbearable mental pain. While I cannot explain it in professional terms, I can say that I was there and felt the coldness of total darkness and experienced the lure of suicide—which appeared to be the only victory over my mental war.

I wrote in my book The Trap of Silent Depression that I could not openly reveal my battle with depression to anyone for fear that they would not understand and label me as sick and unfit to pastor my church congregation. This ultimately led me deeper into a state of “emotional isolation.” I had this feeling of being cut-off and alone, and at times even forsaken by God, and it was this aloneness in the intense darkness that I could not bear, and it was tempting me to cross over the “black line of no reasoning” from where there could be no return.

As a pastor, I had dealt with so many families who suffered losing a loved one to the terrible act of suicide, and in some strange way these experiences may have been a factor in keeping me in touch with reality when suicide came luring me into its darkness. When I cried out for mercy, I could hear the many voices that cried out to me across the past many years, and it would shock me back into reality—at least for the time being.

My first memory of a suicide victim was a man in his late forties who had a beautiful wife and teenage daughter. He was a Christian man who loved God and his church. One day I received a call that he, without warning, had taken his life and the family was overwhelmed with grief. His mental pain was finally over, but the family’s pain had just begun.

The Bible says in Romans 14:7 “For none of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself.” This is especially true in the case of a loved one who dies from suicide. The act itself may be a self-inflicted wound on just one person, but the after effects will be long lasting wounds that will be inflicted on many who are left behind. More often than not they will deal with the painful thoughts, the negative feelings, and unanswerable questions such as: What could they have done to prevent it? Whose fault was it? Should I have said or done something different? And the blame game begins as we think to ourselves “if I would just have been there,” or “was it something I said or did?” The questions never go away, and it’s a difficult burden to bear.

The funeral service for this man was one of pain, sorrow and terrible guilt, especially for his teenage daughter. The last words she spoke to her father were unkind and hurtful. This would be the final conversation and lasting remembrance of her dad in this life. And now, reality had set in, and the father she had always taken for granted was gone forever. I will never forget the scene at the end of the funeral service. I’ll never forget that young woman becoming so emotionally overwhelmed, and laden down with guilt, that she literally tried to climb into the casket and pull her father up to herself as she cried “Daddy, Daddy please forgive me, Daddy, Daddy I’m so sorry, Please wake up Daddy, I want to tell you that I love you.” It was a horrible ending to a life otherwise well-lived. The truth is this—we must live each day as if it is the last and give our roses while we are still living. The Proverb writer reminds us “Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring,” (Proverbs 27:1).

Several years ago, there was man who had checked into a Holiday Inn in Ft. Mitchell Kentucky. My name plate sat on the bedroom dresser which read, Rev. Dan Walters – Chaplain – and my phone number. I received a phone call after midnight from this man who was holding a gun in his hand. He had just left his wife and children and he said to me “Do you know of any reason why I should not kill myself tonight?” I consoled him and pleaded with the man to allow me to come to him and talk about his troubles. After a while, he agreed that he would not shoot himself until he heard me out. I nervously arrived at the motel at approximately 1:30 in the morning, and there he sat on the bed in his room with a loaded pistol in his hand.

I first prayed for my own protection and then I pulled from the dresser drawer a Gideon’s Bible and began to read scriptures about God’s love for him from John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” The “unconscious mind” that was losing touch with reality slowly surrendered to the “conscious mind” and he returned to reality and now was seeing things through the eyes of hope. We prayed together and he repented before the Lord and accepted Christ into his heart. Christ restored his hope, and he packed up his suitcase, got into his car, and went back home to his wife and family and reconciled. Suicide was defeated and death was cheated—all because of the hope he found in Christ Jesus—Good  ending!

God has a plan for each one of us. He says so in Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” However, we also have an adversary, our enemy Satan, whose desire is to destroy us. This is why so many become weak in their faith. In their weakness, they are lured to the “the dark line of no reasoning” and if hope can be dispelled just for one second it could be enough to cause them to cross that dark line where sense and logic has no reason.

In Ephesians 6:12, the apostle Paul writes, “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.” He warns us that we are in a “struggle” for life-and-death. That’s the kind of battle all humans face every day to varying  degrees; however, for the person who is fighting mental illness this struggle is magnified many times over!

Finally the lingering question is always this: “What about the Christian father who for some unknown reason took his own life?” Whatever the momentary weakness and brief lapse of hope that caused him to take his life remains a mystery. Why he lacked courage to face the future we may never know, but in his state of mental illness he crossed over the “dark line of no reasoning” and it finally proved to be too much. One thing I am sure of for the Christian who dies this way, no amount of good works can earn God’s salvation, and no amount of bad works, such as a mental illness, disqualifies a person from God’s saving grace. There is a great difference between Satan getting a temporary upper hand and Satan being the Lord of life. While the battle for this life may be tragically lost for some who unintentionally cross the line of no reasoning, let us remember that the war over death and the grave was won on the cross at Calvary when Jesus looked up to his Father and said “It is finished. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ,” (1 Corinthians 15:55-57).  This is our hope!


Ty: Just like the man in his story, I’m thankful for Dan Walters. I’m thankful that he can provide such clarity to the spiritual and psychological battle of suicidal ideations. To the outsider looking in, these battles might seem trivial; but they are complex, and the consequences of these struggles can be detrimental.

Ultimately, we must do what Reverend Walters has done in this post. We must share our burdens with one another. We have to refuse to live with our mental illnesses in isolation and solitude. We must speak our troubles into the light; first to God, and then to one another.

I have no doubt that Satan is real, and I have no doubt that he rejoices when we suffer from mental illness and suicidal temptations. And just like he did on the day Jesus was crucified, I’m sure he is satisfied when another child of God dies from a successful suicidal attempt. Ultimately, however, I would give anything to see the look of shock and bewilderment on his face when Jesus welcomes that suffering son or daughter through the gates of Eternity. On the cross, death was defeated—for everyone. And that includes the son or daughter who struggles with mental illness.

It gives me tremendous comfort to know that one of those sons is my Dad. It gives me unbelievable peace to know that my Dad, despite his faults and failings, will be welcomed into the everlasting love and mercy of a God who forgives and understands. It gives me hope that I’ll see him again—I’ll hug him, and touch his face, and hear his laugh once more. That reunion is coming—not because of anything I’ve done, but because of what Jesus does.

But it’s just as important that we not use God’s mercy or forgiveness as an excuse to stop fighting to prevent suicide. Mark my words—suicide is never, never a part of our loving God’s plan. Everything I’ve read in the Bible and learned from spiritual counselors tells me that suicide is not a desire for a loving God. In fact, suicide occurs, in part, because of a lack of love for oneself, and God tells us over and over again that he cherishes us as his most prized possessions. Suicide disrupts love and life, and it leaves too much collateral damage amongst those who are left behind to pick up the pieces, just like the young daughter from Reverend Walters’ story.

But our God redeems bad endings. Our God finds fertile ground within the soil of destruction. He doesn’t ever wish for suicide; but He redeems the awful pain that occur when it happens.

I’m thankful that He’s offered redemption to Pastor Walters. I’m thankful that He’s offered redemption to my Dad. And as I struggle to navigate the difficulties of life without my Father, I’m thankful that he continues to redeem my own pain day by day.

Sitting in Dad's Lap with SB LogoDad, There are many moments when I think about your last day here on Earth and wish, desperately, that it would have ended differently. I can’t even begin to fathom or understand the pain and despair you must have felt in those moments. You loved life so much, which shows me how much hopelessness you were experiencing to believe that life wasn’t worth living any longer. I cry when I think of those moments because, Dad, you were so loved by so many. You should be here, right now, living life and loving every step along the way. You deserved that type of hope. But Dad, even in the midst of the pain you probably felt in those last few minutes, I’m grateful that you aren’t experiencing that pain any longer. You now reside in an everlasting paradise of joy, hope, comfort, and eternal fellowship with the God who loves you and loves all of us. Dad, I wake up every day wishing I could see you again. I picture your face and I can see your smile, and I just want you to be back here with us. But because you’re not, I’ll take comfort in the fact that I know where you are. And that I know I’ll see you again. I love you Dad. Until that wonderful reunion, seeya Bub.

“No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.” 1 Corinthians 10:13 (NIV)

Dan Walters HeadshotReverend Dan Walters

Dan Walters answered the call to preach in 1977 at age 31. He left secular employment in 1979 after fourteen years with the Ford Motor Company to enter full-time ministry. In 1982 Dan was ordained as an elder in the Church of the Nazarene and graduated from Mount Vernon Nazarene College that same year. He pastored churches in eastern Kentucky and southwestern Ohio. He retired in 2017 after almost 33 years as senior pastor of Tri-County Church of the Nazarene in West Chester, Ohio. Dan has been married to his childhood sweetheart, Darlene, for 53 years. They have three grown sons, Danny Scot and his wife Jenny; Darren Joel and his wife, Jody; and Devon Paul. They also have two wonderful grandchildren, Makenzie and Silas, who round out the Walters family. The family still resides in West Chester. Dan is co-author, with the late Stan Toler and Dan Casey, of an all-church discipleship program titled Growing Disciples. He has also developed a church leadership and growth program called “The G.R.E.A.T. Church.” Reverend Walters’ first book The Trap of Silent Depression: My Untold Story of Rejection, Depression, and Deliverance was published in 2018 and is currently available at Amazon.

Lucy (Part 3)

This post marks the conclusion of a special, three-part series at SeeyaBub.com. Before continuing, be sure to read Part 1 and Part 2 of “Lucy”.

I couldn’t sleep. Insomnia was pretty typical in the immediate aftermath of losing Dad. He had been gone for only a few days, and although I desperately wanted to sleep, rest of any form completely eluded me. I would lay in the bed for hours on end, physically and mentally exhausted, and I would close my eyes as tightly as I could, hoping, praying that the pain of Dad’s death would fade. It rarely did. I didn’t know how life would ever feel normal again.

I tried to lay down on the mattress in my spare bedroom. Mom was staying at my house, and likely would be for the next few weeks. I was glad that I lived next door and could provide a place for Mom to stay. I knew she would eventually have to go back to the house, but I didn’t know how. Dad had died in the house, and I didn’t know how Mom would ever be able to go back in with the circumstances of his death. I knew that she eventually would; I just didn’t know how. Nonetheless, I was happy that Mom could stay here with me. Even if it just provided a temporary relief from the heartache of losing her husband, it was worth it.

While she stayed, I relocated myself to the twin mattress in my spare bedroom to let Mom stay in my room. At night, I would lay flat on my back in the dark and stare upwards towards the ceiling. On most nights, I would lay there helplessly for hours, wondering how my Dad—a happy, jovial, loving man—could have possibly become a victim of suicide. There wasn’t much I could do to stop my racing thoughts. They would swirl around and consume me, and on many nights I’d find myself drenched in a flood of tears.

There was always one thing I could count on to help, however. Always one thing that I knew could make the pain slightly recede.

And that help came from Lucy, who would poke her snout through the partially-opened door at just the right moment.

IMG_0399Most nights, Lucy would make her way into my room, usually at just the right moment. She would push the door open with her snout, tail wagging feverishly, and climb up onto the bed. After arriving, Lucy would place a paw on either side of my shoulders and lick my face until I begged her to stop. A twin mattress doesn’t provide much room for a grown man and a 70-pound dog, but Lucy made a way. She would curl up alongside me and lay her head across my chest. And in those moments, even though she was a dog and might not have understood human emotions, Lucy soothed my heart in ways I’ll never be able to describe.

Having Lucy there alongside me was like I had a living, breathing piece of my Dad still with me. When you tragically lose a loved one, you hold onto anything—big or small—that reminds you of that person. I held onto many of my Dad’s things, especially thanks to my Mom’s thoughtfulness. Scratchpads with his handwriting, t-shirts, tools, baseball equipment, his cologne—they all became precious treasures.

But having Lucy was different. Lucy was like an extension of my Dad because her personality was so similar to his. Lucy was fun-loving and playful and hilarious—just like Dad. She reminded me of him in so many ways, and every time I looked at her, my mind forgot about the pain of losing Dad and instead recalled images of the two of them playing together in the backyard. Her presence alone helped distract my mind from the disaster that had been the last few days. My focus shifted from the terror and heartache to the 26 wonderful years I had enjoyed with my Father in my life.

DSCF0842Lucy also helped soothe my pain because of the fact that Dad had wanted her so badly in the first place, despite my stubborn protests. Dad had insisted we get another dog after losing our family pet, Willow, and even though I felt it was too soon, Dad knew that the time was right to bring another puppy into our house. Looking back, it was easy to see how wrong I was to claim we shouldn’t get another dog. Having Lucy was a reminder that life does move on—if you let it. In a sense, her presence alone was reassurance that I would get through this difficult, disastrous storm, even if I couldn’t see the entire journey.

On that night, and on many other nights, Lucy would stay with me until I fell asleep. Other nights, she stayed with Mom. It’s uncanny, but it was like she knew which one of us needed her most. I never knew what people meant when they talked about dogs having an unusual knack for picking up on human emotions until I saw Lucy helping our family heal after losing Dad. Seeing how much that puppy loved us was a reminder that, even in the darkest moments, love still prevails—especially from our four-legged companions.

DSCF0797It was that puppy companionship, along with many other wonderful people and things, that helped me heal and grieve my Dad properly. I had so many wonderful people who knew exactly how to minister to me after losing Dad—my Mom, my grandparents, my church family, my friends, my coworkers, my neighbors, and even complete strangers. I also found little things I could do to help me grieve for Dad properly—things to help me forget about the pain of losing him. I read my Bible frequently in my study. I wrote feverishly—some of those scrawlings eventually turning into the foundations of this project. I exercised frequently, although the Ryan Gosling physique (or anything IMG_0133remotely close) still eluded me.

But being around Lucy was a more powerful salve than I ever thought it would be. Among other things, being around Lucy saved my life and helped me see that life was always worth living.

Lucy and I would take long walks together quite often, just as she had done with Dad on so many occasions. We would escape to Rentschler Park near our home and, surrounded by the beautiful natural setting that my Dad had loved so much, we were able to find peace and joy, even if only for a few moments. I would let Lucy off the leash in the soccer fields and toss a Frisbee over and over and over again until she grew too weary to continue. Then, I would sit next to her in the summer-scorched grass, petting her gently as she would pant and slurp water.

IMG_0848On other days, I would let Lucy hop up into the passenger seat of my car and we would take a drive together. Lucy really enjoyed driving around town, and her excitement created smiles and laughter in neighboring vehicles as she sat calmly next to me in the car with her seatbelt on. I would make a conscious effort to go through drive-thrus with Lucy to show her off to anyone who would remark about what a cute pup she was. She was cute—she deserved the adoration!

And during most evenings, a long game of fetch or a bottle-rope-tugging battle in the backyard were enough to distract me from the pain of losing Dad. Lucy loved playing, and Mom and I loved watching her. It reminded us of the simplicity and joy that life provided. It reminded us of easier times when Dad was still alive and full of happiness. It reminded us how much he enjoyed life. It reminded us how much we loved him.

When you lose a loved one—to suicide or any other mechanism of death—there are lots of unpredictable emotional storms. In the months after losing Dad, I found myself suffering through a lot of those unpredictable and uncontrollable moments. Randomly, I would find myself suffering from flashbacks of Dad’s death that would hijack my mind. I would immediately retreat to the terror of finding out what had happened, and the feelings of loss—the feelings of having Dad’s life stolen away—would overcome me. As I would ruminate on these thoughts, I would begin to cry. That crying would well into sobbing, and before I would know it, I was deeply enmeshed within the throes of a full-blown fit. Sometimes, the storm would pass quickly. Other times, it might continue for hours into the night.

But no matter how long or short the attack, Lucy was always there when I needed her.

IMG_0627It’s hard to describe, but in those moments, Lucy would nervously saunter up to my side when she knew I was hurting. It was like she understood that she needed to be by my side. And that’s what she would do. She would hop on the couch and lay her head in my lap. She would leave all her toys (and boy did she love toys) to just lay near me. I would gently pat her head or her back, and slowly, her presence would help me escape from that immediate terror. She did more for me in those moments than I could ever tell her. Lucy showed me what it meant to be “man’s best friend.”

Whether she was playing, barking, frolicking, doing silly things, or simply sitting next to us, Lucy provided a steady companionship that helped all of us grieve. For me, Lucy provided stability. Her never-ceasing presence was a constant reminder of God’s love in the midst of difficult, turbulent times. It was an ever-present reminder that even dark days, the light finds a way to shine through.

I had no idea how quickly that light could be snuffed out.


Shortly after beginning my job at the Oxford Campus, about a year removed from Dad’s death, I felt my phone vibrating. I saw my Grandpa’s name flash across the screen, and I nonchalantly answered his call. Grandpa and I talked regularly, so his call didn’t seem out of the ordinary.

Everything I thought I knew about ordinary vanished in that moment.

“Ty,” Grandpa said. “I need to tell you something.”

I immediately knew this was bad. Grandpa was speaking in the same voice I had heard him use about a year earlier when he told me that Dad was gone. My chest tightened. My palms and forehead began to sweat. I started having flashbacks to that awful July morning, and I worried that something just as bad had happened again.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this,” he said with a boding despair, “but Lucy died.”

“What?” I said with controlled shock. “What do you mean she’s dead? What happened?”

Grandpa then began to tell me the horrible story of what had happened. Dad had always groomed our family dogs, but when he passed away, Mom had to begin taking Lucy to the groomers. Neither one of us were prepared to groom a dog, and Mom had no choice. She tried a few groomers in the area, and one day, I spotted a groomer on my way home from work called Ruff 2 Fluff. They were located in Liberty Township, and they had a number of signs advertising their services. I told Mom about the groomer and mentioned that she should try taking Lucy there.

Like she had done a few times before, Mom took Lucy to Ruff 2 Fluff for her somewhat-monthly haircut. Lucy had been to that groomer a few times, and although we had minor concerns about the attitude of her groomer, we still trusted them with our precious family pet. We shouldn’t have. On that day, Lucy’s grooming appointment had turned into an unnecessary disaster. The groomer—a negligent, inattentive individual named JJ—had tied Lucy to the grooming table. Like most dogs, Lucy was nervous and full of anxiety when she had to go to the groomer’s, just like humans often grow anxious when they have to go to a doctor’s appointment. At some point during the appointment, JJ neglected his responsibility to care for our dog, our family pet. He walked away from the table that Lucy was leashed to and she jumped, fatally injuring her neck. According to the groomer and the business owner, neither of whom deserve my trust, both tried to resuscitate her but were unsuccessful. They rushed Lucy to a nearby animal hospital, but there was nothing they could do to save her life. She was gone. The pet that my deceased Father had brought home to brighten our family, the four-legged friend that had been by our side since losing Dad, had passed. Lucy was only three years old—full of life, and full of love that my family desperately needed.

Grandpa grew more and more emotional as he told me what had happened. Even in the midst of my own loss, my heart broke for him. This was the second time in under a year that my Grandpa had needed to deliver devastating news to Mom and me. At the same time, I knew how much he was hurting in that moment as well. Grandpa had loved Lucy just as much as any of us. Oftentimes, he would come out to our house in the middle of the day when Mom was away at work just to spend a few hours playing with Lucy. My Grandpa is a strong man, but even the strongest of men have deep and important feelings of love and loss. I wished he didn’t have to be the bearer of awful news again, but he did it with a compassion and directness that I’ll always appreciate.

I shut my office door as Grandpa continued to try and explain the inexplicable. I ran my hand across my clammy forehead, trying to get my brain to process this awful news. After hanging up with Grandpa, I sat in my office and began to cry. Tears slowly streamed down my face as I tried to make sense of this heartache. Immediately, I began to reflect on the bigness of the situation. I called out to God pretty quickly. “Isn’t it enough that I’ve lost my Dad?” I questioned. “Now our dog? Is it ever going to stop?”

Weakly, I gathered my things and told my colleague at our front desk that I would need to leave for the day. I explained what happened, hopped in my car, and drove towards the animal hospital in Trenton. The drive was a silent, horrible experience where I kept trying to convince myself that my world was not real. I told myself that I would get to the hospital, and there’d be a miracle. Lucy would be there, tail wagging, ready to greet me. It was hard for me to believe the spunky dog I had just seen was now lifeless. I would escape the thought for a few seconds, and then the pain would immediately re-invade.

It felt like it took a few hours to make a twenty minute drive. When I arrived at the animal hospital, I could feel the sense of dread from the folks who worked there. They led me back to a private room, and I saw my Mom and Grandpa gathered in the corner, teary-eyed and full of dread. Mom walked to me, sobbing, and threw her arms around my neck. We both cried and tried to console one another, but there was just nothing we could say or do to make the other feel any better. This situation was bad, and as we had learned from Dad’s death that there were no shortcuts through grief.

Then, Mom turned, and I saw her. Lucy was lying on a nearby medical table, void of the spirited life that had made her so special.

I broke down. I walked over to her slowly, as if I could somehow avoid the inevitable sorrow that lay ahead. My hands were shaking, but I slowly stroked Lucy’s side. Lucy had always loved petting, but there was no response this time. My pain began to overwhelm me. I was fully of misery and sorrow that I can’t even articulate. The longer I saw her laying there lifeless, the more uncontrollable my sadness became. I spent a few minutes there next to Lucy, until I knew it was time to say goodbye forever.

I spoke to Lucy in that moment, and I told her how much I loved her. I told her how thankful I was that she had come into our lives. I thanked her for helping me during all of those difficult days after losing Dad. I told her how she had helped me get through so much, and that I couldn’t have done it without her. I apologized for my initial stubbornness when she came home as a pup. I told her how much I had enjoyed playing fetch with her, taking her on walks, and carrying her around the house. I told her that I wasn’t mad about her ripping my dress pants any longer. I told her how much I would miss her, and that life wouldn’t have the same brightness without her. I told her how much I loved her, and how I was sorry that I hadn’t protected her.

I pulled myself up from the table and walked out of the room, nauseous and completely overtaken by the emotion of the moment. I drove home to a darkened bedroom, and found myself reliving the nightmare of the past few hours.

I couldn’t believe she was gone.


Over the next few days, my grief took many different forms. Ultimately, I found myself in a deep depression—over losing Dad, and over losing Lucy. Every day was different and full of completely different emotions, but sadness was always at the root of it.

IMG_0941That sadness would often give way to anger. Lucy’s death was completely avoidable and unnecessary. A groomer that we had trusted—a groomer who knew the despair of our family situation—had cared so little about our family and our pet that he let her die as a result of his negligence. As you might imagine, the story of Lucy’s death attracted the attention of a local news station. Mom and I had agreed to talk with the reporter, mainly because we wanted to spread the word about this business’ carelessness to prevent a similar situation for other families. The callous, irresponsible, half-hearted apology from the business owner, Karen Eikens, complicated our grief even more. To this day, I don’t think she truly understands the pain she caused our family. To our dismay, we found out that Lucy wasn’t the first animal to die or be injured after visiting Ruff 2 Fluff. It’s clear that this business was soulless and callous when it came to understanding the trust their customers gave them.

Over the next few weeks, my anger would amplify as I drove by the groomer’s business and saw them still operating as if a precious family pet had not died in their care. Believe it or not, this business is still open and operating despite my attempts to spread the word about their carelessness. I’ll never quit trying to tell people about what happened to our dear, sweet Lucy. I feel like I owe that much to Lucy and her memory. It angers me that the business is still open. Deep down, I hope the owner of Ruff 2 Fluff reads my words and understands the severity of the pain she caused to my family. I’m not a vengeful person, but the lack of sympathy she showed to my family after losing Lucy scarred me and my entire family in ways I can’t describe. It complicated our grief and made the grieving process even more difficult than it already was. I hope Mrs. Eikens realizes the heartache she is directly responsible for, and although I’ve long since forgiven her for Lucy’s death and her cold insincerity after the incident, I’ll never stop doing everything I can to try and redeem Lucy’s death by spreading the word about her business’ negligence.

That anger consumed me early on, but it’s been easier to control as time has passed. Over time, that anger has been replaced with a love and appreciation for Lucy and the role she played in helping our family heal after losing Dad.

Sometimes, the sadness of losing her hits in unexpected ways.

Like when I’m eating licorice.

Those of you who know me well know that I’m quite the candy fanatic. I can down a box of Sour Patch Kids in 47 seconds flat. I’m constantly popping peppermints, and those little tiny boxes of Nerds are definitely my kryptonite. But I’ve always loved a good Twizzler.

Twizzlers are one of my favorites, and my Mom always knew this. Being a gracious and loving mother, Mom would always keep a bag of Twizzlers in a bowl on our family room coffee table. When I came home or when I was laying on the couch, I would reach into that bowl and grab a few sticks of licorice. It was always a delicious treat, and a bad habit I keep up with to this day.

Lucy always had the tendency to beg for human food, and one day I made the mistake of giving her a Twizzler of her own. Apparently, licorice addictions are contagious because Lucy went nuts. After downing that first Twizzler, she jumped onto the couch and tried to grab the remaining pieces of licorice that I had in my hand! I didn’t know dogs liked licorice—but Lucy loved it. Every time I had a Twizzler, I had to make sure that Lucy got one too.

Lucy’s addiction was so bad that her ears were even attuned to the candy. If Lucy was in another room of our house, all I had to do was give the Twizzler bag a slight touch. The crinkly plastic would crunch a bit, and before I knew it, Lucy was barreling down the stairs and jumping onto my lap. Lucy could even be asleep in my parents’ bedroom, and her ears would perk up at the slightest touch of the licorice bag. It was hilarious, and as a result, she often got to eat way more licorice than any dog ever should.

Just a few months ago, Paige and I visited a new retro candy store in Hamilton. I was in heaven for the fifteen minutes we spent perusing all of the amazing candy selections. Chocolate covered peanuts. Single-flavored gummy bears in a multitude of options. Sour belts. And my all-time favorite: Red Licorice Scottie Dogs.

Red Licorice Scottie Dogs.jpgI bought a pound of the licorice dogs (and a few other goodies, of course), and the second Paige and I got into the truck, I opened the bags and started chowing down. I tasted the licorice, and it brought back all the memories of Lucy and how funny it was to watch her eat licorice. I began recounting the story to Paige, and before I knew it, I was flashing back to the moment I lost her. All of the sadness and despair of her death was as real then as it was on the day I lost her—all because of a piece of licorice that reminded me of her.

A great dog has an unbelievable impact on your life—and when they’re gone, the pain lingers for a long, long time.

I grieve that dog every single day. She’s been gone for four years now, and I don’t think I’ve ever really gotten over losing her. I don’t know that I ever will.

When I lost Lucy that day, I also lost one of the last, living, tangible pieces of my Father. That’s what made her death so tragic and heart-wrenching. That’s what made the callousness and thoughtlessness of the Ruff 2 Fluff owner even more painful. My Dad had been the one to bring Lucy into our lives. My Dad had trained her and loved her and instilled many of his own unique quirks and personality traits into her. Dad had taught her how to play and how to catch a Frisbee, and after he died, a piece of him lived on through her. I think that was why it was so wonderful to be consoled by her. Because she reminded me of Dad, it was almost like he was there with me, telling me that it was okay. Telling me that I would get through his death. Telling me that he still loved me.

Over time, I began to think more about the happy moments than the day I lost her. Although I never forgot—and likely never will forget—the awful pain of losing her, I began to think of that less and started to think of her love more. Even though she wasn’t there to help us in the same way she did in the year after Dad’s death, she was always there. And every time I see a Frisbee or find a tennis ball, I think of her.

Mom eventually got a new dog—another Airedale Terrier named Sadie—who has been a wonderful addition to our family. She’ll never be able to replace Lucy, but she has her own unique spunk and character (and tendency to want to nip at you) that brings a great dose of happiness to our lives.

But even still, I think of Lucy. Even still, I think of how lucky we were to have her in our life.

Lucy and Ty on PatioOn occasion, I’ll put on that navy blue, pinstriped suit that Lucy bit a hole in…although I’ve got to squeeze into those pants with a lot more difficulty than ever before (maybe it’s the licorice?!). When I eventually stuff myself into that suit, I’ll look down at the left thigh and see a bit of a disruption in one of the light pinstripes. There’s a gap in that stripe with a bunch of navy-blue threading that one of our family friends sewed in as an attempt to repair the hole. It’s not a perfect fix, but enough to not be noticeable. It reminds me that life isn’t perfect, but sometimes the imperfections and disasters can blossom into beautiful memories. When I wear that suit, I often run my hands over that patch of thread and think happily of Lucy. I think about how much I loved her—I think about how much I still do.

I’ll always love Lucy—because she loved us all when we needed it most.

Dad Lucy and Me at Christmas with SB LogoDad, I need to tell you that I’m sorry and that I’m thankful. I’m sorry that I acted so stubborn when you chose to bring Lucy into our family. I’m sorry that I acted like a “little jerk” (your words…and mine) when you were just doing what was best for us. Ultimately, I’m so grateful that you chose Lucy. I’m grateful that you raised her and trained her and taught her to be a fun, family dog. We had no idea how much we were going to need her fun-loving, thoughtful companionship after losing her. In a way, I feel like Lucy carried on so many of your personality traits after you were gone. She was a constant reminder of the zest and excitement you had for life. She was there to help us grieve in so many ways after you left us. I think Lucy was your angel here on Earth for us. I think that she was your way of telling us that life, even when it’s painful, can still have a lot of joy and happiness. Losing her was like losing you all over again. It was as if another piece of you—a very important piece—was gone forever. But Dad, I know that we will never lose you entirely. Your memory will always live on in our hearts and in our minds because you made such an indelible mark on all of us. Dad, thank you for Lucy. Thank you for teaching her to love us when we needed it most. Although I miss you both dearly, I hope that you are together again in heaven—and I hope there are plenty of Frisbees to toss. You deserve paradise, Dad. You deserve the greatest things that God can offer, and I can’t wait to experience that joy alongside you. Until that day where you and I are together again in a life that knows no end, seeya Bub.

“And God said, ‘Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: the livestock, the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, each according to its kind.’ And it was so. 25 God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.” Genesis 1:24-25 (NIV)

Lucy (Part 2)

This is the second post in a special three-part series at SeeyaBub.com. Be sure to read “Lucy: Part 1” as a prelude to this installment.

After Dad and Mom brought Lucy home, I held firm in my commitment to be loyal to Willow and I resisted any sign of adoration for our newest puppy.

At least for a solid ten minutes or so.

dscf0377.jpgFrom the moment she came home, Lucy was impossible to resist. I have a weak-constitution for puppy cuteness, and Lucy melted my defenses rather quickly. Airedale terriers are adorable puppies. What will eventually grow into a 60 or 70-pound dog starts out as an eight-pound ball of fur with a shortened snout and gangly legs. Lucy looked like most Airedale pups I had seen in photographs, but there was one defining characteristic that was different. Lucy had a tiny little white patch of fur right on the middle of her chest. I had never seen an Airedale with any color fur other than black and brown. Immediately, she was different from the rest; and the more I got to know her, the more wonderfully different I discovered she was.

On the night of her arrival, Dad brought Lucy down into our family room, wrapped up like a baby in a fuzzy pink blanket. I tried to act like I wasn’t interested in her because I was so resistant to getting another dog after Willow’s recent death…but I was interested. Very interested. I had never had an actual puppy before. Muffin was older than I was, and Willow had come into our family when she was two. I had always wanted a little puppy, and now that we had one, I was acting like a stubborn jerk entirely because of my ego and pride.

DSCF0380Dad sat the blanket bundle down on his lap, and Lucy poked her head out from the blanket mound and peered around our family room. She looked straight at me with her dark eyes, and when she made her way down onto the carpet and slowly meandered towards me, I knew that I was done. My resistance would have to fall, because this pup was just too cute. With the pain of losing Willow momentarily fading, I reached down and scooped Lucy into my arms. For the rest of the night, she and I spent our time on the couch as she adjusted to her new surroundings. A few times, I glanced at Mom and Dad and saw them giving one another that familiar “I told you he’d cave” look. I tried my best to not let them get any satisfaction from defying my gutless order to not bring home another family dog, but it was useless.

Eventually, I decided to lay down on the couch. I laid on my stomach with arms tucked underneath my chest as I always did, and Lucy looked at me a bit confused about what she should be doing. That’s when she hopped up on my calves and nestled herself in between my ankles.

DSCF0407And from that moment on, I don’t think I ever quit loving Lucy. Even if my stubborn pride wouldn’t let me admit it.


I tried to find ways not to like Lucy, and early on she gave me plenty of ammunition. Anyone who has raised a puppy knows the pain of those first few weeks. Any cuteness they possess is outweighed by their inability to follow the simplest of instructions. You literally have to follow them around like a four-legged baby trying to prevent them from doing things that they shouldn’t be doing. Their razor-sharp baby teeth nibble and nibble and nibble—always on things they shouldn’t be nibbling.

And don’t even get me started on the potty training.

Even the best dogs start out as four-legged-terror-mongers that disrupt your home and your life, and Lucy was no different. As the newest member of our family, she did not always put her best paw forward—especially on the day when her puppy misbehavior caused me to erupt like Krakatoa.

Early on in my sports broadcasting career, I would regularly wear a suit and tie to announce a game. It was a bit of a trademark for me, and even as a young man I always enjoyed wearing suits. They made me feel like I knew what I was doing in life—when most of the time I had no idea what I was doing!

One blustery winter afternoon, I was headed to announce a basketball game and thought a suit was fitting for the occasion. I pulled one particular suit out of my closet, and looked at it with a smile. It was a suit I had just recently purchased—navy blue with a very subtle pinstripe. The fabric was silkier and smoother than most of the fabric on the other suits I owned, and apparently that silky fabric costs a whole lot more money because I had paid dearly for this one. I didn’t have much money to my name as a young professional, and I had spent quite a bit more than I had wanted to on this suit. I was proud of it, and this would only be my second time wearing it. I picked out a perfect light blue shirt, and a bright orange tie that would pop (I’ve always had a thing for those bright ties). After suiting up and tying the perfect knot, I made my way down the stairs, secretly hoping my parents would notice me and compliment me on my flashy style.

Instead, I heard Lucy bouncing up the stairs to meet me in the living room. As my Mom toiled away in the kitchen, Lucy noticed me and gleefully bounced towards me. I reached down to pet her, and she looked at me with a puppy-dog smile and a panting tongue.

And then, she did the unthinkable.

She looked right at me, cocked her head, ran up to me, and bit straight into the pant leg of my new suit, tearing a shred out of the expensive, silky fabric.

I exploded with fury. I yelled “YOU STUPID DOG!” as loud as I possibly could, and went in with a swipe to swat her away from doing any further damage. She moved away from me with a look of fright and confusion, and my Mom ran out from the kitchen.

“What happened?!” she said.

Your dumb dog just ripped a hole in my brand new suit!” I yelled back, being sure to emphasize the fact that Lucy was not my dog.

Mom looked on, not quite knowing what to do. My sun-deprived thigh was gleaming through the hole in my suit pants, and I could feel the heat of anger flooding my face. Meanwhile, Lucy stood in the corner, just far enough from me so I couldn’t make any sudden movements. My Mom just stood there, without saying much to her comically-angry son.

“WELL, AREN’T YOU GOING TO SAY ANYTHING?!” I shrieked. This was not a time for silence; this was a time for justice! Wrong had been done, and right would need to be swiftly restored! I wanted restitution! I wanted this four-pawed-perpetrator to pay for her crimes!

I don’t even remember what Mom said to me in that moment, because anger has a tendency to cloud your mind and your memory. I do remember storming up the stairs, changing into a suit that was older and stiffer, yet hole-free. I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the house as our tiny puppy cowered in the corner.

I seethed the entire day, and when I came home and saw Lucy playing with my Dad in the family room like nothing had ever happened, my fury grew even more intense.

And years later, when I look back on this moment, I’m ashamed at how foolish I acted. I’m embarrassed at my immaturity, my materialistic greed, and my pathetic self-righteousness.

Eventually, and taking much longer than it ever should have, my frustration gave way because…well, it’s simply impossible to resist a puppy, no matter what stupid thing they might do. And if a puppy has a special personality, it’s even more difficult.

IMG_0010Lucy had that in abundance. Lucy’s calm demeanor during the first 24 hours of her life in my family was a well-executed mirage delivered by a sneaky infiltrator. When I came home on Lucy’s second day in the Bradshaw house, the docile, pleasant pup that I had left that morning was replaced with a rambunctious, mischievous, four-legged fur-covered peddler of destruction. When I came home that day, my poor Mother looked like she had barely survived a hurricane. She looked at me with a frazzled exasperation as Lucy, with toys strewn all across our normally-clean family room, bounced and barked and bolted to every corner of the house. She was worse than a baby because she was faster. I couldn’t believe she had fooled us! Lucy had spunk—and a whole lot of it.

Over time, Lucy learned how to control that spunk, and we learned how to control her. But even with her spunk in-check, Lucy was just different—and we loved her because she was different.

From the moment she set foot (and foot and foot and foot) into our house, Lucy was treated differently than any other dog we had ever had—especially when it came to her presence in the home. Those of you who know my Mother know that she has many wonderful traits and talents. One of those talents which I’ve grown to appreciate since becoming a homeowner is my Mother’s ability to keep a clean home. From the time I was little, we always had the cleanest home imaginable—even if I didn’t always realize it as a child. My Mom is an immaculately-clean individual, and I think that one of the ways she showed love to Dad and I was by always giving us a clean house to come home to. I probably didn’t tell her how much I appreciated it then. In fact, I likely told her how much having to clean up my toys annoyed me. Now, I’m extremely thankful and gracious.

That’s why Lucy’s complete reign over our house surprised me so much!

Our first dog, Muffin, was only allowed inside the house during the winter months or particularly hot days. Even then, she was confined to stay only in the lower quarters of the house. When Willow came into our family, she had always been raised as an indoor-dog. Mom knew that she would have to let Willow into the house most of the time, but even then there were parameters. Under no circumstance whatsoever would Willow be allowed to be on the furniture; couches, beds, and chairs were for two-legged creatures only. (Mom, I can admit to you now that on summer days when I was home by myself, I would often let Willow onto the couch to sit next to me. And she absolutely loved it. And your couches are fine. And I love you!).

DSCF0396But with Lucy, it was different from the start. She was immediately allowed onto the couch—and I was shocked! And then, the unthinkable happened; Mom actually let Lucy sleep in the bed with her! What world was I living in?! Who had abducted my Mom and who was this woman that now gladly beckoned the dog onto the furniture?

If Lucy could turn my Mom, the master of cleanliness and housekeeping perfection, into a woman who allowed a dog onto the furniture…that meant she had powers I didn’t quite understand. And she used those special puppy powers to work her way into our hearts in some pretty unimaginable ways.

Lucy and Ty on PatioWhen Lucy was little, I used to carry her around the house quite often. And unlike most dogs, she really enjoyed being carried! After a little while, it got more and more difficult to carry her around as she continued to grow. And by the time she reached 40 pounds, our little puppy, who I affectionately called “Monkey”, was a bit to heavy to carry with one arm. So I did what any normal person would do.

I started carrying her around like a child.

DSCF0631I would actually pick Lucy up by her front legs and toss them over my shoulder. Then, Lucy would wrap her hind legs around my waist, and I would comfortably carry her around as she nuzzled her snout on my shoulder. Looking back, it’s the most ridiculous thing I could ever imagine doing as a dog owner.

And I loved it.

We all loved Lucy. I loved her, and my Mom loved her, and my Dad loved her. And she loved all of us equally, unlike the other family dogs we had owned that adored my Dad at Mom and I’s expense.

But Dad, just as he had done with all of our other dogs, absolutely loved Lucy and devoted as much energy to her as he possibly could. .

Dad with Baby LucyThankfully, my Dad, our dog-whisperer-in-residence, was there to take care of most of the discipline and direction when we first got Lucy. My Dad loved working with animals, even when the animals weren’t easy to work with. I think he saw teaching pets as a challenge that he wanted to conquer, and he had a way of showing love through firmness. Quickly and efficiently, Lucy was housebroken and learning how to sit, lay down, and yes…play hide and seek with Dad. My Dad had a special talent, and we all benefited from it.

That’s what I loved about watching Dad with a new dog. As frustrating as puppy-parenting might have been, he never let that frustration outweigh his joy and frivolity. Lucy and Dad truly were a match made in heaven because they both had such silly personalities. Early on, Dad discovered that Lucy really enjoyed chomping on plastic bottles. So, Dad did what any thoughtful, wise puppy Dad would do. He took a plastic bottle, tied it to a fishing pole, taped the bajeezus out of it, and cast it out into the yard for Lucy to retrieve.

I could watch Dad’s puppy-fishing expeditions for hours. Over and over again for hours into the evening, Dad would cast the bottle deep out into our yard. Lucy would sprint to retrieve the bottle, and just as she would get near it, Dad would start pulling the line in, jolting the bottle all over the yard just out of reach of her sharp little puppy teeth. The best part of the act was when Lucy would finally catch the bottle. Dad would start grunting and pulling on the fishing line, shouting “Oh boy! I got a big one this time! I bet it’s a 20-pounder!” Dad would then feign reeling the line in with difficulty until Lucy was eventually within his grasp. He would then throw down the line and start petting her and getting her all excited for the next round. Again, the bottle would go out, Lucy would retrieve, and Dad would laugh uncontrollably over and over until one of them was worn out. As Lucy grew, Dad had to abandon the fishing line. In its absence, he created a toy for Lucy that I still think he should have patented. Even dogs that visited our house were instantly attracted to this simple toy! He took a Pure Leaf tea bottle, filled it with rocks, drilled a hole through the cap, and threaded a heavy-duty rope through it that was tied with black electrical tape at both ends. Lucy would grab the bottle, and Dad would tug on the rope. This was a bit more strenuous, but Dad and Lucy could play with this toy for hours. Lucy would grunt, and Dad would shout out ridiculous taunts towards her. I can still picture them playing together and the fun they had with one another. When Dad wasn’t around, Lucy would grab the bottle and whip it around, spinning in circles and growling as she spun herself into dizziness.

Lucy was a puppy that played, and her playfulness made our home better.

Our entire family loved Lucy’s playfulness, and more than anything, I loved the fact that she would play fetch. My entire life, I had wished and prayed for a dog that would fetch. For the longest time, my prayers were unanswered. In the thirteen years I shared with our first dog, Muffin, I never saw her fetch anything. Willow would fetch…once or twice until she grew tired of it. But Lucy was the exact opposite. Thanks to my Dad’s conditioning, Lucy would fetch just about anything: bottles, Frisbees, tennis balls, household items that were not meant to be turned into playthings.

My Dad and I would both spend hours in the backyard playing fetch with Lucy. We especially enjoyed watching her fetch a Frisbee because of the suspense it created as it hung in the air. My Dad was an excellent Frisbee thrower, and Lucy was the perfect playmate. He loved throwing lofting, high tosses that would spiral in the air and hang over Lucy’s head, watching her spin and contort until she was within receiving distance.

And boy could Lucy catch. In all the years that she was in our home, I rarely saw her drop a Frisbee—even if it looked like it was going to be well out of her range to catch. Lucy could play fetch for hours and hours in the backyard, taking only short breaks every few minutes. But taking a break look it pained and personally annoyed her. Even if she was panting heavily, she would try to crawl towards you to hand you the Frisbee so she could run and play again. It was a joy to watch a dog who played the way she did.

DSCF0400Dad, being a playful guy, did everything with Lucy. If he was home, he wanted to be near her. If he had a bonfire in the backyard, Lucy was with him. If he was eating dinner, she was patiently waiting for a scrap nearby. If he was taking a nap, she was on the couch cuddled next to him. There were hour-long walks to the park, trips to the dog beach at Hueston Woods, and countless other memories that the two of them created together. They are memories filled with laughter and companionship, but joy more than anything else.

In fact, it was just a joy being around her. Lucy exuded joy. She spread it into our entire home. We had no idea how much we would need her joy, however, until a day that cold-cocked our entire family.


When July 24, 2013 came, I was standing on the front lawn of my family home with police cruisers to the left of me with lighted-sirens flashing across the concrete driveway. My Mom’s boss, Tom, was standing in the doorway of our home, holding open the screen door as an EMT rushed behind him. Minutes earlier, Tom had told me that there had been an accident in the house. An accident, involving my Dad. That accident had put his life in perilous danger. I didn’t know how close to or far away he was from death, but I knew from the urgency of the emergency responders that it couldn’t be good. Looking back, I’m sure my reaction looked peculiar to Tom because, on the surface, I reacted without much acknowledgement. My outward emotions did little to reflect my inner thoughts. On the outside, my shock looked like paralysis; on the inside, it looked like frenetic craziness.

After Tom went back into the home to help as best he could, I was in a world all by myself in the front yard. I began pacing back and forth, back and forth, as the summer-scorched grass crunched beneath my feet. I was beginning to sweat as my lungs grew tight and felt as if they were closing in. I tried to control my breathing, but there were no breathing exercises to help prepare me for this moment. Nor was there anything I could do to stop my racing mind. Horrible thoughts about the past and what could be my new reality in the future began to hijack my brain. I couldn’t see myself surviving if my Dad’s attempt at suicide was successful.

Tom had shared a little information about the nature of what had happened in the house when he gave me the news. I knew things were bad, but in the crisis moment, I believe my mind tried to hold onto any semblance of positivity that was within grasp. I knew that my Dad had been injured as a result of the suicide attempt, and even though there was a chance he wouldn’t survive, my mind still behaved as if he was going to pull through this—just as he had overcome every other challenge that he had ever faced. I began to think about what his recuperation process might look like, and how I would need to help. I told God, in that moment, that I would do anything to make sure Dad was well again.

I began to think about what life would look like in the next few hours, and the next few days, and then the next few years. Compounding thoughts of doubt and hope and confusion were already swirling in my brain. Using the little information that Tom had given me, I began to wonder about what had happened in the house over the last hour or so—between the time I had last seen Dad in the family room and now. I had gone home after talking with Dad, Mom had gone to work, and…

And then, it hit me. Lucy. My Dad and Lucy were in the house alone. And I worried that she had been caught up in the destruction.

Judge if you must, but let me first explain my grief-induced thoughts as best I can—even though I don’t understand them today and don’t know that I ever will. I know that some will read my words and wonder why or how I could even think of a dog when a human life was at stake.

At no point does thinking about the well-being of one life—human or animal—mean that I am automatically ignoring the status of the other. I was thinking about my Dad and praying for him feverishly and intensely—and I was simultaneously praying for Lucy. Not knowing about my Dad’s status created a panic within me; and not knowing about Lucy’s status also created a panic. It was okay for me to be concerned about my Dad and Lucy; and yes, my Dad was always my primary concern, but that didn’t diminish my love for Lucy. I was trying to hold onto the normal life as I had known it; and Lucy was part of that normalcy.

You might also judge my worries because, on the surface, they might have been accusatory towards my Father. My Dad had always been an animal over, and he especially loved Lucy. “How could you even think that Dad would do something to hurt one of our pets?” I’ve often thought to myself.

Let me present an imperfect defense. I never thought that my Dad would become a victim of suicide; but I stood there in that moment faced with the reality that his life was hanging in the balance because of a suicide attempt. I never, never would have thought that my Dad was so enmeshed within his depression that he could feel as if he wanted his life to end. If that thought could so feverishly consume my Dad, and if it could push him to do something this unthinkable, was it really so outlandish to think that something else could have happened in that moment of despair that Dad, in his right mind, would never have done? Mental illness had forced my Dad to do something unthinkable and completely out of his character, and there was always a chance that the mental illness could have forced my Dad to do other things that were unlike him. I didn’t know Lucy’s whereabouts when the attempt happened. It was completely feasible that she could have been hurt unintentionally.

Even writing these words is difficult because I don’t like what it implies about my Dad and his love for Lucy, but for better or for worse, it’s an accurate retelling of my inner thought processes.

Back and forth I continued to pace in the front yard, wondering about Dad. Wondering about Lucy. Wondering about what life was going to look like in this new, horrible normal. Even if Dad pulled through, life was going to be painfully different. There was no turning back.

And then, in the midst of my anxiety and prayers, I heard a familiar bark in the backyard. I walked towards the sunroom and glanced through the windows into the backyard, and I saw her. I saw Lucy, looking somewhat panicked herself, running from side to side in the backyard—completely healthy and looking for someone to love.

I breathed a short sigh of relief as one small wave subsided, and I prepared my mind and heart to face the tsunami that I feared would crash in moments later.

Lucy’s presence in that moment was a gift in the midst of a terrible, terrible storm. A few moments later, I would learn that my Father, my hero in this life, had died. Far too young, far too soon, far too unexpectedly. In that moment, I began life without Dad.

DSCF0516And Lucy was there to help me—and all of us—find a small ray of light in the midst of the dark clouds that enveloped our family. Lucy—sweet Lucy—would help to save us as best she could.

Stay tuned for the conclusion of “Lucy” in the coming weeks at SeeyaBub.com.

 

Lucy (Part 1)

“Dad, I told you. I don’t want another dog!”

Dad gave me a mocking smile and placed his hands on his hips to feign being an adolescent know-it-all. “Well guess what? We’re getting one anyway!”

Dad continued to smile, and I stomped out of the room with righteous indignation. It was the opposite image of what a grateful son who’s getting a new puppy should look like—but I played that part really well. And leave it to my Dad to do the thing I didn’t want—which ended up being the completely right thing to do.


My family has always been a dog family, mainly because my Dad was always a dog person. Don’t get me wrong—we all loved dogs; but Dad had a special connection with the canine world. Throughout our family life, we’ve always had dogs.

In fact, my parents got our first puppy, a dog named Muffin, before I was even born. Some of my earliest baby photos show Muffin trying to climb into my baby carrier to get a sniff of her new housemate. I don’t even remember what breed Muffin was, but she was one of the kindest and gentlest dogs I’ve ever met.

Muffin was definitely Dad’s dog. She loved him more than she loved any of us, and she would follow him around throughout the backyard any time he was home, always traipsing within a few steps of him everywhere he went. And Dad loved Muffin, and he always tried to make her feel special. Dad used his carpentry talent to build Muffin a beautiful, sturdy doghouse in our backyard—which I saw her use only a handful of times throughout her long life as the inaugural pup of the Bradshaw family. Muffin loved Dad, but if it was even possible, I think Dad loved her more.

Even though I am a dog person, I must admit that Muffin and I never had an extremely close connection. Maybe it was a function of my age and youth, and my failure to recognize any other needs outside of my own. Or maybe she didn’t like me because I was the human baby that knocked her off the pedestal of parental adoration. Muffin wasn’t an extremely active dog, which probably contributed to our lack of connection. She didn’t fetch or run, and all the dogs I saw on TV fetched and ran, so I was jealous. I still have great memories of Muffin, like seeing her pass our family room windows in the well-worn path that she repeated thousands of times in our backyard. Or the moments when I would entice her into the house on cold winter days using miniature Reese Cups (who knew chocolate was bad for dogs?!).

Muffin lived for an impressive 16 years (maybe that whole dog/chocolate thing is a myth…), and when I was in 8th grade, my parents had to face the difficult decision of having Muffin put to rest. Her hearing had completely disappeared, and a large tumor on her leg made it painful to walk and maneuver around. I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to make this decision. Muffin had been their first real “child” until my arrival disrupted the family two years later. She was their very first dog as a married couple. What an emotional loss it must have been to know that she was approaching the end of her life.

On the day she would be put to rest, I remember my Mom signing me out of school early so I could come see her one last time and say my goodbyes. When I got home, the scene that I witnessed is one that is still burned into my memory bank. I saw my Dad laying on the floor next to poor Muffin, tired and beleaguered, gently stroking her coat as the occasional tear rolled down his weathered cheek. Dad had decided to give Muffin the most perfect dog day she could ever have. Having taken an entire day from work (a rarity in Dad’s life), he had cooked her breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast and hand fed it to her from a plate in our family room. Dad had spent the entire day petting Muffin and combing her coat, telling her how much he loved her. Midway through the day, he grilled her a steak and fed it to her bite by bite. They had eaten snacks throughout the day and spent time resting nearby one another. My Dad wanted to be there next to her to let her know that he was there until the very end, in good times and in difficult times.

I said my goodbyes to Muffin and even told her how much I enjoyed giving her all those Reese Cups when my parents weren’t looking. But my memories of that day aren’t nearly as much about my own pain. Instead, I vividly remember seeing my Dad suffering more than I had ever seen him suffer before.

Dad was rarely helpless in his life, but in this moment I saw how much it pained him to know that there was truly nothing he could do to help. Dad just laid next to Muffin, staring at her and slowly patting her head. My Dad didn’t cry very often, which made it even more difficult to see tear after tear drip from his eye without him ever making a sound. I could tell that all of the pain about Muffin’s death was bottling up inside of him, and it broke my heart to see how affected he was about having to put Muffin to rest.

As the time for the veterinarian appointment approached, Dad eventually collected sweet Muffin in his arms. He put her in the front seat of the truck, and drove off down the street. The car vanished in the distance, and Mom and I cried back at the house, but I often wondered what that last ride was like. I wonder what Dad said to Muffin.

A few hours later, Dad returned home with Muffin’s lifeless body. For the next few hours and deep into the night, Dad toiled away digging a proper grave in one of our backyard gardens. In a way, I think that my Dad doing physical labor was his way of grieving, so Mom and I tried not to disturb him as he labored deep into the night. From an upstairs window, Mom and I watched Dad dig with work lights shining over his shoulders, and we talked about how sad he must have been. Long after the sun had set, Dad had buried his pup and said goodbye to the dog he loved so much. And I wondered if we would ever have another dog again after watching how hard it had been on him.

I don’t remember how soon it was after losing Muffin, but something very unusual had happened. Our neighbors, Jim and Deena, had recently approached us about their beautiful puppy—an Airedale terrier named Willow. Willow was a much bigger dog than Muffin was (around 80 pounds), and she had a very different spirit and personality as well. Our family had admired Willow from the fence line since Jim and Deena had brought her home. She was less than two years old, and she was one of the most beautiful, friendly, playful, intelligent pups we had ever interacted with. Numerous times while doing yardwork, I would see Dad reaching over the fence to pet Willow’s bristly coat. Or I would find him grabbing a tennis ball from her mouth and throwing it deep into her yard. Deena had trained Willow to sit and lay down and do other commands, which always impressed my Dad. In fact, Deena had even trained Willow to retrieve the newspaper from the end of the driveway each and every morning! Dad had always talked about how beautiful she was. Airedales were a breed we were unfamiliar with, and we loved watching Willow run and frolic in the yard adjacent to ours.

Jim and Deena—wonderful neighbors and even better dog parents—had approached us with a unique situation and one that no one in our family had expected. Jim was being transferred to Florida for a new job, and the family was planning to move. Knowing that Willow was used to having her space and plenty of room to play and be active, Jim and Deena were worried about confining her to their new Sunshine State residence—a smaller condo. So, completely unexpectedly, they asked my Mom and Dad if we would be interested in taking Willow. They wanted to give us their dog!

I honestly could not believe it! I was so excited about the thought of having another dog, and both of my parents were too after they thought it through. I think their hesitancy faded because they knew what a great dog Willow was and how perfectly behaved she appeared to be. My parents thought things over for a few days, but they excitedly told Jim and Deena that we would love to have her.

And boy am I glad they did.

Willow was a tremendous dog. We had a few “trial runs” before Jim and Deena moved to make sure Willow liked us and that we felt comfortable with her, and she took to our family quicker than anyone anticipated. In fact, I remember Deena feeling so saddened because, after only a few of our brief afternoons together, Willow began to sit at the back door of Jim and Deena’s home, staring towards our house and waiting for us to come get her again! It truly was treasonous behavior, even for a dog. Deena had even fed Willow with a bottle when she was a tiny puppy, so I can only imagine how that betrayal must have felt!

After Jim and Deena said goodbye and made their way down South, Willow immediately came into our family and changed it for the better in so many amazing ways. I enjoyed taking Willow for walks—except for that one time she saw a rabbit, pulled me face down onto the street, and took off running for what felt like 47 miles. After about 30 minutes of complete terror thinking I had just lost our new family dog, she eventually came back. Willow’s excitement when we arrived home each day was so memorable. Upon hearing us on the porch, she would begin slamming her nose into the doorknob repeatedly until we opened the door. Typically, we would stand on the other side of the door for a few seconds, jiggling the handle and waiting for her to jiggle it back. Her wiggles and waggles would bring a smile to anyone’s face. Willow was also very affectionate and always gave “hugs.” If you laid down on the floor and told Willow to come give you a hug, she would run over and put each of her front legs around your shoulders. Then, she would lay her head down and nuzzle her snout in your neck and give you kisses, all the while leaving her constantly-wagging tail high up in the air. Getting hugs from Willow was the best feeling ever. I can still picture it—I can still feel it.

Willow was a funny dog who was extremely intelligent and had unique little quirks that made her personality so charming. A reluctant fetcher, Willow always knew how to make me laugh while fetching one particular toy. She had an oversized, squeaking set of rubber dentures that she would fetch in the backyard. All of a sudden, you would have an 80-pound dog running at you with these televangelist teeth and a smile from ear to puppy ear. I can still picture Dad laughing at her while she galloped through our backyard.

Or there was the bone-shaped toybox that we kept for Willow in our family room. Willow would attack that plastic toybox with her paws and snout until it popped open and she got what she wanted. She was the fun dog that I had always wanted, and she brought so much life to our house.

More than anything, I loved watching my Dad’s games of hide and go seek with Willow. You read that right, folks—hide and go seek. With a dog. It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Dad would tell Willow to sit, and then he would scurry up the steps. Sometimes Willow would break from her typically-obedient nature and sneak after him, but Dad would return until he got her to sit and stare at him as he made his way upstairs. You could almost see the panic setting in on Willow’s poor little puppy face as Dad made his way up the stairs. Once he made it upstairs, Dad would choose one of a few hiding spots: behind the door, under the bed, or in the shower. Then, just when poor Willow couldn’t stand his absence any longer, Dad would shriek “OKAAAY PUPPPPPY!” in a high-pitched squeal, and Willow would go charging up the stairs. She would run around from room to room searching for my Dad. Sometimes, she would find him quickly; but most of the time it took a few minutes of sprinting around looking for him. On occasion, she would miss him entirely and charge right back down the stairs, looking for him everywhere. Eventually, she would find him; and Dad would go crazy. He would start yelling “You found me, Puppy! You’re so smart!” He would hug Willow and rub her ears, and she would try to lick his face and jump around in excitement. The two of them would keep this up for longer than any dog and human should be able to, and the joy never dissipated.

You haven’t seen joy until you’ve seen a grown man play hide and go seek with his loyal companion.

Whether they were playing hide and go seek, or taking walks, or sitting by bonfires in the backyard together, there was no mistaking one fact that was irrefutable—as much as Willow loved me and my Mom, she loved my Dad more than anyone else. End of story. No debate necessary.

Willow’s love affair with my Dad was stronger than any other human-dog relationship I had ever witnessed. Willow was always wonderful to Mom and I when we were at home; but the second my Dad got home from work, my Mom and I ceased to exist in Willow’s eyes. She would follow my Dad around for the entire night, rarely (if ever) leaving his side. If he laid on the couch, she laid right at his feet. If he got up to go the kitchen, she went. If he went to the bathroom, she would sit right outside the door and whine and occasionally claw at the door frame until he came out. If Mom and I would call for her, she would lay even closer to Dad. It was unbelievable—and Dad absolutely loved it. It’s fun to the be the favorite, and only my Dad knew just how much fun it was.

And now that Dad’s no longer around, I can admit this truth: Mom and I were very, very jealous. We wanted Willow to like us just as much as she liked Dad! In fact, I was the one who fed her dinner every single night, nearly puking every time I had to empty out a tin of that disgusting dog food in a can. How was it that I provided the food, but she still liked my Dad better?

Looking back, it’s easy to see why. My Dad always had a connection with animals—especially dogs. I think it was because he had a ridiculously tender heart. My Dad was a gentle man when it came to any human interactions, but he was just as gentle when he interacted with animals. Whenever we would visit a friend or neighbor’s home that had a pet, Dad instantly became the favorite guest. He would constantly pet them and play with them, and he never got tired of being an animal’s best friend. My Dad did a lot of construction side jobs where he would work on people’s homes, and if the homeowner had a dog, Dad was in heaven. During the time he would spend there, he would get to know the dog of the house, and he would always come home and tell Mom and I stories about the animals he interacted with. He would even bring pictures! His tender heart allowed him to establish an immediate connection with any animal he met.

Dad also had a mature patience that made him the perfect companion for a dog. If you know me well, this may not come as a surprise: I’m a rather impatient individual. I don’t always have the most even-keeled temper when things don’t go my way. I can say this with the utmost certainty: I did not inherit Dad’s patience, and I really wish I had. Dad was one of the most patient individuals I’ve ever known. Sometimes to the point where his patience was annoying to me! (See, I wasn’t lying…)

Dad’s patience really paid off when it came to animals and pets, however. Dogs, like humans, are imperfect—but in their own unique way. They bark when they aren’t supposed to. They pull and jerk when they’re supposed to walk calmly. They get afraid of fireworks. They use the restroom in non-restroom locations. Any of these things were enough to send me over the edge; but Dad rarely lost his cool with our family pets. He was stern when he trained them and disciplined them, but that direction always came from a place of love, not frustration. He understood that it might take a while for a dog to learn a particular command or behavior, and he never went ballistic if a dog behaved in a dog-like fashion. I know that made pet ownership fun for him.

But more than tenderness or patience, Dad always made our dogs’ lives fun. He never got tired of the cute and adorable things that dogs would do. Their tricks never ceased to amaze him. Their playfulness never got boring. If Willow wanted to walk further, he walked with her. If Willow wanted to play tug with a rope in the backyard, Dad would play until his arms were sore. If Willow wanted to play hide and seek for the 83rd time, Dad would just keep going. He had a sense of wonder when it came to dogs that I don’t see in many people.

That sense of wonder he had with Willow never faded over the many years that she ruled over our home, which made losing her many years later that much harder.

Let me start by saying this: there is never a good time for your dog to pass away. No matter how long they live, you just want more time. No matter how much they might frustrate you, you long for their eternal companionship. No matter how many squirrels they bark at, you never want that bark to cease. There is no good time to say goodbye—ever.

Losing a dog is hard at any time—but it’s especially hard around the holidays. Especially on Christmas.

Willow was 14 years old on Christmas Eve a few years back, and when I awoke that morning and saw my Mom enter my room with tear-filled eyes, I knew something wasn’t right. She came in and told me that Willow was not well. Her respiratory issues were making it nearly impossible for her to breathe, and after a consultation with the veterinarian over the phone, my Dad had made the decision that it was time to have Willow put to rest. As I sat in my bed and cried, Mom hugged my shoulders and told me that we didn’t have much time. In the time we did have left, she wanted me to have an opportunity to say my goodbyes.

I walked out of my room and down the hallway, stepping over Willow’s bed which sat right outside of my bedroom door. For the past twelve years since she had become ours, she slept outside my room on a pillow-style bed, waiting for my Dad to rise each morning so she could traipse behind him until he left for work.

I wondered what that next morning would be like. I wondered how horrible it would feel to walk about of my room and not see Willow laying there. To not be able to reach down and pet her head.

But as much as I worried about me, I worried so much more about my Dad.

Willow had been his best buddy in life. For twelve years, they had been inseparable any time he was in the house. In fact, my Dad always had a favorite Dad joke related to my sibling rivalry with Willow. He would grab me by the shoulder and look me square in the eye and say “You know, if it wasn’t for Willow, you would totally be my favorite child.” (I think it was a joke. I think…) I was worried about Dad losing his best friend.

As I came down the stairs, I saw Willow and I could tell that she was clearly in pain. She could only sit for a few seconds without getting up and needing to move, but she couldn’t move without being unable to breathe. It was so difficult to see our once vibrant, active dog experiencing such pain and feeling completely helpless to do anything about it.

And when I looked over by her side, I saw how much pain my Dad was in watching her suffer. Dad had clearly been crying—hard. His eyes were swollen behind his oval-shaped frames. With our family Christmas tree glistening nearby, he sat next to Willow, gently stroking her side and telling her it was going to be okay. I’ll never, ever be able to erase that image from my mind. I’ll never be able to unsee the pain my Dad was in during that moment.

I had my final moments with Willow where I told her how much I loved her. I told her what a wonderful dog she had been for so many years. I apologized to her for yelling at her when I got frustrated, and I told her how much joy she had brought to all of our lives. I told her that she had been the absolute best dog I had ever had—and I meant it, even if she did like Dad better.

I hugged my Dad and told him how sorry I was. I remember him saying that he just didn’t want to see her in pain anymore, and I could tell what a difficult decision this had been. Dad asked me if I wanted to go with him to the veterinarian’s office, and I told him I didn’t think I could. He understood, and told me Mom would be going with him. I watched as he loaded poor Willow into his truck like he had done for so many rides around town together (which she loved), and when he and Mom were clearly out of site, I completely lost it.

But just as he had promised, Dad stayed with Willow until the end. He just couldn’t leave his best friend—that was the type of man my Dad was.

Needless to say, Christmas that year was tinged with an unbelievable sadness. My entire family—my Grandpa and Grandma, my aunts and uncles, my cousins—had all loved Willow just as much as we did. We didn’t feel right having our normal Christmas Eve celebration, so we had to postpone it for a few days until the initial grief wore off. That Christmas was a rather bleak one, because Willow had always made Christmas so much fun for us—especially Dad. One of her favorite things to do was opening Christmas gifts. Dad and Mom would buy Willow all kinds of wonderful doggie Christmas gifts—snacks, toys, collars, more snacks—and they would wrap them with ribbons and bows. Somehow, Willow seemed to be able to sniff out which presents were hers. She would grab them and put them between her paws and unwrap them with her teeth one-by-one, leaving little shreds of wrapping paper all round her.

I have never seen my Dad as entertained as he was when he was watching Willow unwrap Christmas gifts. He would laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more as she pulled tiny strips of paper from her gifts. He would tell Mom and I over and over again to look at her—and we would tell him we were watching as he smiled along. I swear the man took more pictures of the dog opening her gifts than he did of his only son! But he loved it—and I knew this particular Christmas was going to feel so empty without her. We had to remove her gifts from around the tree before Christmas morning because we couldn’t bear the thought of finishing our morning and seeing only her gifts left behind.

Dad loved Christmas, but he just wasn’t the same that year—rightly so. He still enjoyed the holiday with his family, but his sadness was palpable. He just wasn’t himself that year because he missed Willow so very much. I even offered to open a few gifts with my teeth on Christmas morning. Dad laughed, and then we both talked about how much we missed Willow. He talked about how his mornings just wouldn’t be the same without having her follow him around. My heart broke for Dad.

Which is why I was so surprised when, just a few short weeks after losing her, Dad said he wanted to get another dog.

Surprised probably isn’t the right word. Because I was a know-it-all young adult, I was actually outraged. Furious. Upset that he could just “forget” about how special Willow had been.

Mom and Dad had told me sometime in January that they were talking with a breeder who had a litter of Airedales being born soon. They were planning to get one of the puppies. I couldn’t believe it! We had just lost Willow a few weeks earlier, and I didn’t see how it would ever feel right to replace her so quickly. I was still grieving her, and I didn’t understand why they wanted to get a dog so quickly.

So, I did what any self-righteous adolescent would do—I told them they could get a dog, but I refused to be nice to it or accept it. I told them that my days of scooping retched dog food out of a can were done. I told them that I was going to stand my ground, and that no amount of puppy eyes would ever be able to sway me. I may have even called my parents heartless for wanting to get another dog so quickly (talk about dramatic!). I told them that I wouldn’t budge.

And when my Dad brought Lucy home and I opened the front door, I saw two little black eyes peeking out from inside a tightly wrapped bundle held in my Dad’s arms. And I didn’t budge.

I completely caved.

Dad with Baby Lucy and SB Logo

Stay tuned for the continuation of the “Lucy” series in the coming weeks at SeeyaBub.com.