Sensing

On May 6, 2021 By seeyabubIn Grief2 Comments

“I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense. It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had her [Lewis’ wife] for their subject. Now, their target is gone.” -C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Every so often, it happens. Every so often, I lose control of any emotional stability that I have and I break down when I think about my Dad, his death, and how much I miss him.

And nearly every time, it’s triggered by some sensation-based memory of my Dad.

The triggers are different, but always associated with him in some unique and special way. They can be as small or insignificant as seeing a bottle of Mountain Dew (his favorite guilty pleasure drink and what I often saw him chug when I was little) or a certain episode of Home Improvement (one of his favorite shows), or as big and significant as hearing someone talk about their father or seeing a father and son together in public.

I think often of my Dad; and I think often of those triggers.

One of my earliest lessons as a small kindergartner helped me to understand the five senses: sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste. I always enjoyed those lessons and associating certain experiences with the correct sensory mechanism, but I never realized how ever-present those senses are—and how powerful they can be. That power seems to take on new strength, ironically, when we lose someone we love. Even though the catalyst of those particular memories is gone, the slightest sensation can bring us right back to that moment as if our loved one had never left us.

Like the sight of a bald dude.

My Dad would get a real kick out of this, but anytime I see a bald person in public, it makes me think of him. My Dad lost his hair early. He chaperoned one of my 3^rd grade field trips, and I remember all of my classmates asking why my Dad didn’t have any hair. Looking back, it wasn’t so much a loss. It was more of a forfeit. Dad’s hair line started to recede a bit in the front, and he absolutely refused to embrace the George Costanza horseshoe that he criticized anytime he saw it. “Just give it up, buddy,” he’d say under his breath as we passed someone who was clinging to any combover or wrap-around-patch he could possibly muster. At age 30, Dad decided to shave it clean and he never went back. For the next 20 years he sported the chrome-dome, and I’ll be honest—he rocked it. My Dad was one of the few men who was given the silver lining of a great head shape during the throes of his follicle tragedy. He had a really good head shape: not too round, not to square, and no weird bumps or crevices. Whenever I pass someone whose hair is thinning, or on occasion pass that man in the mirror who (reluctantly) is experiencing the same thing, I laugh and think about my Dad.

A sound, too, can also bring me back to the many memories that I have of him—mostly associated with music. Certain 90’s country songs (particularly this classic) can pop me right back into the cab of his old pick up truck, bouncing along in a car seat with the windows down as Dad would thumb-drum the steering wheel. If you were in the truck with Dad, you were listening to good country music and that was your only option. Now, when I hear those songs we used to listen to together, I’m instantly transported back with him. Right by his side. Listening. Singing. Tapping my hands along to the beat.

A whiff of aftershave can bring me to memories of my Dad as well. When it came to the application of cologne, Dad did not quite understand the “less is more” rule. He didn’t believe in the “hint” or “leave them wanting more” approach. Instead, he favored a more liberal assault on the senses. He didn’t need high-end scents either. Dad’s go-to aftershave was a green bottle of Brut that could burn your nostrils with just one whiff. A small bottle was likely to last the average person a couple months to a year, but I’m pretty sure Dad thought the bottles were single-use-only. He would eventually work his way up to the men’s line of Bath & Body Works fragrances, and I remember on multiple occasions either myself or Mom having to beg him to dial it back a bit.

“Dad, just because it’s from Bath & Body Works doesn’t mean you need to bathe in it!” I’d tease him.

Now that he’s gone, I admit that I miss those scents. On occasion, I’ll pull out one of his bottles of aftershave that I kept after his death just to take me back to those memories that I have of him (and to clear out my airways).

Running my hands across the quilt that my Mom had made for me from all of his old t-shirts and sweatshirts, I’m immediately drawn to elements of him that awaken my touch memory. Specifically, placing my hands on top of his work coveralls with the stitched name badge embroidered onto the front brings me back to familiar memories of him.

My Dad was a maintenance technician at a steel plant, and coveralls were his jam. He worked a lot (mainly because he enjoyed his work), and there was rarely a day in this life that I didn’t see him in coveralls. They were typically dark blue, and very, very heavy. I remember picking them up on occasion when Mom had just finished doing the laundry and wondering why anyone would want to wear such heavy clothing. Looking back, I likely didn’t appreciate the fact of how difficult my Dad’s job could be. He wasn’t always working in a temperature-controlled building. During the winter, drafts would sweep through the open garage doors that trucks would use to pick up massive steel coils, so my Dad needed the protection. Every time I feel those coveralls, I think about how hard he worked to provide for our family, and how amazing it was that I never really knew how hard he worked. Dad didn’t want to be a burden to others, and he rarely (if ever) complained about having to work in such a physically demanding job.

The tactile memory of his coveralls and Dad coming home after a sweat-drenched day working in a hot steel plant reminds me of his determination, hard work, and sacrifice; but when I feel those coveralls, they also remind me of the joy that I felt each and every time he would come home. Our house was always a warm refuge, but it truly felt like home when all three of us were there.

And of course, my Dad and I shared a mutual love of food. Those food memories are often so strong because our family mostly always ate together and Dad really, really enjoyed family meals—both because he got to eat delicious food, and because he got to spend time with those people that he loved. If I go to Kings Island or a Reds game at Great American Ballpark, I can’t walk by a LaRosa’s pizza stand without thinking of my Dad. It was always his go-to item to eat at those places, but even at home he loved LaRosa’s. Their salads were his favorite, and oftentimes on our “bachelor nights” when Mom would have to work late, Dad and I would find ourselves at the local LaRosa’s Pizzeria chowing down on salads, calzones, pizzas, and Cokes. The first time I had LaRosa’s after losing Dad, I broke down at the table when I instinctively went to pass my olives over to him not even realizing that he would never be there to enjoy them again.

I think of him every time I walk into Grecian Delight, one of our all-time favorite restaurants because of both the food and the dear, sweet woman (Maria) who owns it and rules over the kitchen (along with help from her loving husband and family). When my Dad worked in Middletown at Southwestern Ohio Steel, he and a coworker who lunched together discovered Grecian Delight, and Dad raved about it. Dad made it a point to take Mom and I there one evening for dinner, and hesitantly (we weren’t always the most adventurous), we ate a meal there for the first time when I was ten years old. Our lives were never the same!

To this day, I still eat at Grecian Delight. One of the best parts of the time I spent working at Miami University’s campus in Middletown was getting to eat lunch at Maria’s multiple times a week! I would walk in and Maria and her husband, Dimitri, would immediately greet me with a smile and a warm hug. That delicious, warm meal (most times a chicken teriyaki pita with cucumber sauce, waffle fries, and a Greek salad) would give me comfort and bring back all the wonderful, vivid memories that Dad had introduced our family to so many years earlier.

Our senses are absolutely incredible.

Our senses have this unbelievable way of transporting us back to an earlier time and place.

And when we experience loss, our senses can also remind us of what we no longer have.

We experience life through our senses; and it’s through those same senses that we experience grief and loss. Little moments that we’ve subconsciously experienced for years or maybe even decades all of a sudden become a focal point that can bring that memory to life in an instant.

As our senses envelop us, so too does any grief that we associate with those sensations. Our senses are always there, ever-present. We cannot simply flip a switch and turn off our senses—they are always with us, and always sensing. And because we are always open to sense, we are also always, and a bit unfortunately, open to grief. That’s why grief is so inexplicable—it can happen at any point, at the slightest touch, or because of the most random vision, or as a result of the faintest scent that might remind us of our loved one and what was lost.

Those senses and the memories that we associate with our lost loved ones can feel like a curse; but with a long-term perspective of grief, we also realize that they will be one of our greatest blessings and a great mechanism that leads to our ultimate healing. Today, I’m writing to those of you who have felt the recent sting of loss and grief (and unfortunately, still in the midst of a horrible global pandemic, the audience that I write to is larger than any of us could ever dreamed it would be). I’m writing to let you know that what might feel like a weapon being used against you right now in this moment will later soothe your soul and bring you some semblance of healing and normalcy again.

Early on, our sensations can spark real pain. I do not and will not deny the pain you’re experiencing. In the immediate aftermath of a traumatic loss, every sensation that reminds us of our loved one can evoke pain and unexpected feelings of longing and heartache. We can break down at the sight of a photo, the voice of a loved one on a forgotten voicemail, or just the touch of a familiar piece of clothing or keepsake.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; there is no textbook way to grieve. We are all built uniquely, therefore we all grieve uniquely (although not in isolation). In the aftermath of losing someone we love, we all react to these sensations differently. Oftentimes, after losing our loved ones, we are looking for ways to control our days in an effort to provide stability in a world that feels rocked by the unexpected. These unanticipated sensations and memories of our loved ones, however, can shatter any semblance of predictability that we may have and throw us into a tumultuous emotional state.

Unfortunately, there is also no timeline on how long these emotional reactions might stay with us or continue to occur. For some, those feelings of pain brought on by a sensational memory might only occur upon our first exposure to whatever that stimulus might be. Other times, however, we might find ourselves having a severe emotional reaction far beyond that first exposure. Especially to those stimuli that have a significant emotional connection to our loved ones.

My Dad has been gone for nearly eight years, which in and of itself is still hard for me to reconcile. Some days, the pain is so fresh and raw that it feels as if my Dad’s death occurred just yesterday; other days, it feels as if I’ve lived an entire lifetime without him. And yes, even eight years later, there are still sensory-based memories of my Father that evoke a particularly painful reaction.

Namely, my Father’s handwriting. I’m not sure what it is, but to this day I still experience deep-seated, emotional grief every time I see my Dad’s handwriting. Maybe it’s because my Dad’s handwriting was such a characteristic part of who he was. His all-capitals-style handwriting was precise, measured, and methodical—just like my Dad. Maybe it’s because our handwriting is something so commonplace that we grow accustomed to seeing every day that, once it’s gone, feels as if every note and every expression of it is a cherished heirloom that we must hold onto. Nonetheless, seeing my Dad’s handwriting still brings with it a visceral emotional reaction from me. I still keep a pad of paper that he had in his truck with random measurements that he had taken from work written on it. Those measurements mean nothing to me; but the hand that wrote them means everything. Eight years removed, I still have to keep that pad of paper stowed away in a box. Just looking at those random scribbled notes can break me down, and I can’t really explain why. It’s a difficult thing for me to understand and make sense of. For now, seeing his handwriting has not yet elicited a positive emotional memory.

But other memories, although they initially brought pain, have now transformed into something much more therapeutic.

In time, those same sensations can bring us real, lasting comfort. With time, the very same things that once triggered our trauma become the very things that heal our deepest hurts. Our exposure to a sensory memory of our lost loved one in the immediate aftermath of the loss can be significantly different from the reaction we will have months, years, or even decades down the road. What reopens a wound in one moment can soothe and salve it in another.

Over time, I began to associate many of those sensory details less with what I had lost and more with what I had gained during the 26 wonderful years of life when my Dad was physically in it. Immediately after losing my Dad, I had an unbelievably difficult time looking at pictures of him. They caused me too much pain because I just wanted to reach out and touch him through the picture, knowing that this would never happen again on this side of Eternity. Now, however, those very same pictures that once brought a tear to my eye can put a smile across my face. Don’t get me wrong; the hurt, heartache, and hunger for his presence are all still there. But the negative consequences of those feelings aren’t as intense. When I look at pictures now, I’m able to channel the positive memories that I often associate with each picture, rather than focusing on the fact that my Dad is no longer here. Instead, the consequences of those feelings of loss are reminders of how much I loved my Dad and how much he loved me.

And ultimately, thanks to my faith in God, they remind me that I’ll see him again.

Honestly, I’m always a bit amazed that eight years after losing my Dad, I’m mostly able to look at pictures of him without sobbing like I did in those early days (especially because photos can be a very difficult trigger for so many people who are grieving, even years and decades down the road). Every time I see a photo of my Dad, it’s a reminder of how far I’ve come through this journey. It’s a reminder of how much God has loved me and protected me through this inexplicably difficult loss, just as He promised He would. It’s a reminder that where we are in the immediate throes of a traumatic loss is not where God wants us to remain. And it’s a reminder that grief isn’t an impediment to our growth in this life. Grief can be a temporary stop on our journey, but in time, we grow as much in our grief as we do at any other juncture of our development.

Although there’s no definitive timeline, our grief tends to change as the calendar lurches forward. The more time that stands between us and our grief, the more perspective we earn and gain.

The difficulty is maintaining this perspective in the midst of a storm of grief. One of the most difficult parts of these sensory-based reactions to our loss is that we tend to think those temporary reactions are going to be permanent when, in reality, they are far from it. In the immediate aftermath of losing a loved one, we often dread what is to come thinking that our immediate grief is going to be our permanent companion. That is not true. This thinking can defeat us if we allow it to. We must remember that our grief is a non-linear journey that takes time, and that we can’t forcibly wind forward the hands of the clock when it comes to our grief. We may fall and falter with certain steps, but oftentimes we make more progress than we can possibly know or recognize, even if we are not always able to see it from our own vantage point.

As grievers, we must resist the urge to talk about our sensory memories in defeatist, extremist language. I know this sounds like mental gymnastics, but I’ve written this truth many times in this forum: our words matter. And when we are talking about words mattering, it’s not just those words that we speak to others which have consequence. So to do the words that we speak to ourselves. Our internal dialogues are so pervasive and impactful. The conversations that we have in the inner recesses of our own mind, whether positive or negative, have a tremendous capacity to dictate and determine how we progress through the grief journey.

Your right now is not your forever; but you have to think, speak, and behave in a way that acknowledges this.

If you say to yourself, “I’ll never be able to eat at the restaurant that my Dad loved,” that’s (unfortunately) likely to be true. But if you say to yourself “Right now, I can’t see myself eating at that restaurant…but someday down the road I hope to be able to go back,” you then approach your grief with the perspective of a person who will change, grow, and even heal over time.

If you say to yourself, “I am going to completely fall apart every time I see a picture of my loved one,” that’s likely to be the case. If you say to yourself instead, “In this moment, I feel very sad when I see pictures of my loved one…but someday, I know that I’ll have a more positive memory and reaction when I see those pictures,” you immediately recognize that, in time, you will find ways to positively process your grief.

If you speak to yourself in fatalistic, “now or never” tones, that language does not recognize the ability for little steps and developmental moments of growth throughout our grief. Grief isn’t an “all or nothing,” “now or never” experience. One day, a sensory memory might bring with it a ton of pain. And the next time, it might feel a little better. And then each and every exposure after that gets easier and easier until, in time, it transforms into something greater that can help us heal.

You will always have scars when dealing with a traumatic loss; but with time, what feels like a weapon against our soul can transform into a bandage.

If you are grieving or struggling with loss, I am speaking directly to you in this moment: Be kind to yourself. Don’t feel as if you have to plow through your timeline of grief as fast as you possibly can. Don’t feel the need to open yourself up to every sensory memory of your loved one at this exact moment, but be open to the possibility of it down the road. Approach that memory on your own timetable, when it feels right, and be patient with yourself as you figure out what hurts and what helps. And open yourself up to the possibility of change throughout your grief.

The reality is this: Our sensation-based-memories are an inexhaustible currency of life within which we can, in the right time, find our most valuable riches. Time, however, is that magic ingredient. Just as some precious metals require age to galvanize them and make them more beautiful, so too do those sensory memories of our loved ones. They require time to take off the sharp veneers and edges that can cause us pain so those memories can glow through and help us tap into those positive reactions.

In time, you’ll be okay; and in time, those memories will be more than just okay. They’ll be precious. They’ll be cherished. They’ll provide hope at just the right moment.

And so will you.

Dad, Losing you was difficult for so many reasons, but it felt even more difficult because you had lived life so fully. You always lived your life with gusto. You loved the visual beauty of nature, the joy of a great meal and a Coca-Cola (or three), and the smell of a summer’s eve bonfire. You shared this love and passion for life with everyone around you, and when you were gone, it made it difficult to enjoy all the things you loved. In time, however, I found that one of the greatest ways to honor you was to experience life just as you always enjoyed it. As time went on, I found myself crying less at the sensory memories I have of you and instead craving them because they provided me healing. Dad, thank you for always living your life in a way that led to wonderful memories. Thank you for being unique, having a personality, and just generally being a character! Thank you for teaching me what things would be helpful as I grieved before I knew that I’d ever need it. Dad, I know there is a day waiting for you and I on the other side of Eternity within which I’ll get to experience all of these things made anew. I’ll get to feel the warmth of your hug, hear the sound of your laughter, and see the smile and familiar twinkle in your eye. I long for that moment, but in the meantime, I’ll cherish the memories that I do have while embracing the things that remind me of you. I love you, Dad. Until that day, seeya Bub.

“You came near when I called you, and you said, ‘Do not fear.’ You, Lord, took up my case; you redeemed my life.” Lamentations 3:57-58 (NIV)

Presence

On December 21, 2020 By seeyabubIn HolidaysLeave a comment

It may have been our most steady holiday tradition—my Dad was always the last person downstairs every Christmas morning.

In a family of three (four if you count the dog), maybe this isn’t such a big deal; nonetheless, the consistency was impressive. It’s one thing to be a little tardy for a year here and there, but to make it your trademark behavior is something else entirely.

Like most kids, I was usually the first one down the stairs to wait anxiously in the family room for everyone else to wake up. I always felt that sparkle deep in my bones that only a childhood Christmas morning can replicate. I’d look down the stairs and see the twinkling tree that Mom and Dad had meticulously decorated in the living room (except for that one year when the whole thing came crashing down), and like most kids, I’d be blown away by all of the presents that had been left under the tree. Looking back and realizing how much effort, time, and money had gone into those presents, I appreciate them and that feeling all the more…

And, like most kids, I’d also do my best to do some sneaky investigative work. I’d cautiously search for the presents under the three that were labeled “Ty” either with my Mom’s familiar loopy cursive script, or my by Dad’s precise, all-capital penmanship that I inherited (although his was much more precise). Dad’s tags always had some ridiculous moniker in the “To” and “From” lines. “To: Tyler-O, From: Daddy-O.” “To: The Boy, From: The Parents.” “To: Ty, From: Yo Daddy.” Even with Christmas tags, he couldn’t let a moment go by without trying to be funny.

But he could let moments go by on Christmas morning before lumbering down the stairs. I would wait downstairs with all the patience of a hungry infant. After shaking a few boxes here and there, I’d try and walk around and creak all the right floorboards in the hopes that it might wake up Mom and Dad and cause them to come downstairs. I’d turn on the television and put the volume just a little too high. Maybe sing a spontaneous Christmas carol here and there. A fake cough might do the trick. I also got pretty good at finding ways to cause our dog to bark incessantly in an effort to commence the Christmas morning festivities (thanks, Willow!).

Usually what felt like an eternity in kid-dom was only a half hour or so, and Mom would make her way down the stairs. “Merry Christmas, Ty!” she’d say to me with a hug and a kiss, and then she’d ask me if I saw all the presents under the tree (“OF COURSE I DID! AND I DIDN’T SHAKE OR ATTEMPT TO UNWRAP THE CORNER OF A SINGLE BOX!”). Then, Mom would get to work in the kitchen preparing her famous Christmas breakfast feast: a delicious ham and pepper-jack potato quiche always accompanied by cinnamon rolls and sparkling cider to make us feel fancy.

And while she worked, Dad would sleep.

And sleep.

And sleep a bit more.

And I, a young and impatient child, would stew and pace in the living room.

It’s okay to have a few “Silent Nights” around Christmas, but when you start to turn those into silent mornings and you have a seven-year-old downstairs with a rabid penchant for tearing through boxes like the Tasmanian Devil through a forest of giant sequoias, your parental slumber becomes treasonous.

At a certain point, it would even start to irritate Mom—probably because she was irritated by my irritation. Mom would start to yell up the stairs in the hopes that Dad would eventually come down; and eventually, albeit entirely too late, he always did. Dad would pop down the stairs with a smile on his face like no one had been yelling at him for the past hour-and-a-half to get up and make his way downstairs. When it came to verbal abuse, Dad was Teflon. He never let anything stick to him. If he knew that one of us was mad at him, he’d turn the sickening sweetness up a few notches, and then a few notches more until we finally gave in because we knew we’d never win.

Donning his typical dark-colored matching sweat suit with the elastic around the ankles, Dad would make his way over to me and give me a hug and a pat on the head as he wished me a Merry Christmas. I’d grumble something under my breath about getting him back for his tardiness by making him painstakingly assemble and install batteries in the 14 toys I was about to receive, but Dad didn’t care about any of those threats.

He only cared about the joy. The togetherness. The presence. That was what mattered to him.

Inevitably, Dad would have come down at the perfectly imperfect time when Mom was in the middle of her quiche construction, so we would have to wait a few moments longer before we got into the gift opening. I’d tap my kid-sized slippers impatiently as we waited, and it never failed that the second Mom came into the room, Dad would exclaim “Oh! Wait. I forgot my camera. Hang on.”

For what seemed like an excruciatingly-long time to fetch a camera, Dad would go upstairs and rummage through his things until he located the camera. And checked the batteries. And put the spare battery on the charger. And deleted some photos of a random cornstalk field that he had taken to free up space. And grab the spare memory card. And clean the lens. And then spend a few moments looking at the 244 pictures he had taken at the Blue Angels show from the previous year. And repairing the broken zipper on the camera case.

The man had many, many gifts; but speed on Christmas morning wasn’t one of them.

After making sure every possible camera catastrophe had been properly prevented, Dad would come back downstairs to be greeted by my face whose redness matched the glowing bulbs on the tree in the family room.

“Alright,” Dad would say. “What do you say we give Willow a gift to get things started?”

“THE DOG?!” I’d shriek with unbridled adolescent fury. “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS RIGHT NOW!”

Dad would laugh and laugh. And then, he’d hand a package over the dog.

We always had dogs that enjoyed unwrapping presents, which was quite the feat looking back on things. And as much as Dad enjoyed watching them unwrap the gifts and laughing about it, he also enjoyed taking thousands of photos of them while doing it. Beep, flash. Beep, flash. Beep, flash. Over and over again, the shutter of Dad’s digital camera would snap and snap while capturing what my Dad thought was the most amazing feat man’s best friend had ever accomplished.

Eventually, Dad would give into my tantrums and wailing, and within minutes my tempest will have receded and I’d be fully immersed in the glee of opening gifts on Christmas morning. My parents were always wonderful gift-givers. They would buy me toys that were just perfect for me, and I have many fond memories of those gifts. The art desk with the revolving marker stand and light-up tracing table. The Fischer Price castle and pirate ship with working boulder cannons where I’d let my imagination run free for hours. Bicycles. Hockey sticks. Books. They were always so, so very generous.

But looking back, it’s funny to think about how many of my memories are not related to the toys I received. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the toys. In fact, I’m a thirty-three-year-old man who still loves toys. Although the toys I received were wonderful, as I grow older and life becomes more and more precious, I realize that it’s the Christmastime memories made with my Mom and Dad that are often so much more special. Partially because that’s what happens when you age; but they’re also more special because I realize how irreplaceable those moments truly are now that my Dad is gone.

Yes, we still have wonderful Christmases; but we don’t have Dad. We all miss him tremendously, and some holidays, it’s just unbearable. We miss watching him laugh when our dogs opened gifts (and we miss the loss of vision from the incessant camera flashes). We miss rolling our eyes at his ridiculous Christmas gift tags while secretly laughing at them behind our criticisms. We miss watching him enjoy Mom’s famous Christmas quiche with a can of Coca-Cola. We miss watching him watch A Christmas Story twelve times in a row and laughing at the tongue-meets-flagpole scene hysterically every time like it was the first time he had ever seen it.

We miss my Dad because he helped us make so many wonderful memories. And as much as I hate to admit it, I think that my Dad’s slow pace on Christmas day is what makes many of those memories so indelible.

I think the reason I can soak up those memories so well is, ironically, because of the way my Dad forced us all to slow down. On Christmas Day, and in nearly all the days of his life, my Dad was one of those guys who was truly present in every single moment. Nearly everyone who knew my Dad can attest to the fact that he was a man who was always fully present and immersed in whatever he was doing at any given moment. My Dad wasn’t distracted by much when he was around people. When he was having a conversation, he was fully in that conversation. When he was eating a meal, he was fully enjoying the flavors, the setting, and the company. When Dad was working, he was fully engaged in the detail of the work he was doing, ensuring that every little component of the job had been done correctly. And on Christmas Day, Dad wasn’t waiting for what’s next; he was experiencing what’s now.

For my Dad, it wasn’t about the presents; it was about the presence.

My Dad was never the guy who was just trying to speed through life so he could get on to the next thing; and boy, is that a lesson he is still teaching me today. Unfortunately, for some reasons good and for other reasons not so good, life has gotten more hectic for all of us, me included. And for as long as I can remember, I have tended to be the guy who is always looking ahead to what’s on the horizon—the next present, the next experience, the next day. When Paige and I go to Disney World, I’m the guy in line trying to line up a Fastpass for the next ride rather than appreciating all the detail that the Imagineers have put into the queue for us to enjoy as we wait. It’s very, very hard for me to just live in the moment, and I’ve always known that’s my shortcoming.

But my Dad was a presence pro. In everything he did, he was there and completely free of distraction. Because my Dad took things slow in life, I think it allowed him to fully appreciate and remember what he was doing at any given moment. When Dad was there with you, he was all in. He wasn’t mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He wasn’t stressing over the schedule and how many things he had to get to the next day. He wasn’t checking his email. He wasn’t complaining about everything he needed to do. He was just there, enjoying life, enjoying his family, and slowing things down so he could make memories.

I miss that about him because it is so rare in my life that I can just slow down, disconnect, and be truly in the moment. I miss it because it’s so rare in the world around me. Everything we do says “go go go” but everything my Dad did was slow, slow, slow. And now, with years of perspective and the pain of his loss still aching in my soul, I can see that my Dad was right. I can see why he treated every single moment, every interaction, and every experience like it was a precious treasure.

It’s because it was. And sometimes, unfortunately, you only realize how precious it was until it’s no longer there.

I miss those Christmas mornings with my Dad because the slowness of the day always forced me to sit back and recognized how wonderfully special he truly was. Because the world mostly shuts down on Christmas Day, it forces us all inward and brings us home to the things we should appreciate most. Like faith and family, health and happiness.

On this Christmas morning (and hopefully on the many more left to come in my life), I’ll honor my Dad and do what he did by trying my best to be present with those that I love. In spite of all the craziness that’s constantly fluttering in the world around us, I’ll close the doors and just focus on the goodness that exists inside our home and those of my family and friends.

And during a Christmas that will no doubt be unusual for all of us, I hope we can realize the value and importance of the treasured time we spend with others. Yes, we should appreciate life on this day, but more importantly, we should place a premium on living life and living it to the fullest. We should do our best to be present in every moment of this holiday.

Sometimes it takes writing to disentangle our thoughts and help us see clearly, and as I think through this particular message and reflect on my earthly Father, I realize that the entire reason for the Christmas holiday stems from my Heavenly Father’s desire to be present with us. At Christmas, we celebrate God sending His one and only Son to this world to be born in a humble manger. The gift of Jesus Christ was a symbol of God’s desire to do more than just watch our lives from a distance. The greatest Christmas gift was about coming close to us and walking side-by-side with us as we traverse through this life. Jesus left His throne and came down to all of us to be with us. He

For God, Christmas wasn’t about presents. Christmas was about presence. I’m thankful that I had a Dad here on earth who realized this truth. Looking back, I know that my Dad’s constant presence was an extension of his faith. He read between the lines of the Christmas story told in the Bible, and in order to live out that message, he did everything he could to just be present with people any chance he had.

Looking back, I know that his presence was the greatest gift my Dad ever gave me. I’m thankful for that gift, and even though he won’t be here with me in person on this Christmas Day, I know that he will be watching down over all of us, celebrating from a seat in heaven in the presence of The One for whom we rejoice.

And I know that God won’t get impatient with him if he decides to sleep in just a little bit longer that morning.

Dad, Although the first year without you was hard, it seems as if every single Christmas gets harder and harder in its own way because your presence feels so distant. Although the years have worn on, however, my memories of you seem to become more vivid and full of life because they are so unbelievably important to me. Dad, thank you for helping us create memories on Christmas Day and on every other day. Thank you for always treating time with those you loved as a precious treasure. I often marvel at how you could make each person you interacted with feel so loved and so valued. I honestly think it was because you disconnected from everything in life but that very moment within which you were in that allowed you to connect so intimately with each person. Dad, thank you for always connecting with me, and with your family, and with the people who miss you so dearly. How I wish we had many more Christmas mornings together, even if you were slow to rise, slow to get moving, and slow to satisfy the primal urge for gift-opening within the heart of your adolescent son. I love you, Dad, and I miss you dearly. I wish you were here with us to see and live through all of the exciting moments of our lives. You would have been immersed in every little moment just like you were when you were with us. Dad, thank you for the presence. I miss it, but I know that someday, on the other side of eternity, I’ll get the chance to experience it again. Until that day, Merry Christmas, Bub.

“The LORD is my shepherd. I lack nothing.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters,
He refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the rights paths
for His name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely your goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.” Psalm 23 (NIV)

Grace

On July 7, 2020 By seeyabubIn GriefLeave a comment

“I just don’t know if I can go back. How I can go back…”

My Dad died in late July, and I was set to go back to classes for the final year of my Master’s program in education—but I just didn’t know how I could do that. Full-time work and part-time school was taxing enough under normal circumstances, and my life was anything but normal after losing my Dad to suicide. On top of that, everything in life that wasn’t related to my Dad just felt sort of trivial. I wondered if it might be wise to take the year off, but I knew the dangers. Take a year off, and it’s easier to turn that into another year, and then another. Deep down, I knew that my Dad would not have wanted me to stall my progress towards my degree, but I felt extremely guilty getting back to the normal things in life because it felt like I was betraying my Dad’s death.

As I was contemplating what to do for this upcoming year, I got an e-mail from Dr. Kathy Goodman, the professor who would be teaching the Foundations of Research course that I had enrolled in. If I was nervous about continuing my studies while grieving, I was terrified of having to do it while learning about research principles and practices. Research was not my strong suit. I felt as if my classmates were all a few standard deviations ahead of me on their knowledge in this area (lame attempt at research humor, I know). On top of that, I had never taken a class with Dr. Goodman before. I didn’t know her teaching style, and I severely doubted my capacity to find success.

Then came Kathy’s e-mail. “I know that we haven’t been in class together yet during your time in the program,” Kathy said, “but I want you to know that I will do whatever I possibly can to help you be successful this semester.” Kathy expressed her condolences for my family’s loss, and she offered to help me with material, be flexible with deadlines, and allow me the space to grieve when it unexpectedly hit me. I just remember mouthing the word “Wow,” as I sat at my computer. This was a teacher who knew me only tangentially but clearly understood the pain that I was feeling.

I stayed in the course. And I completed it. And in May of 2014, I graduated with my Master’s degree. And getting there was partly possible because Kathy Goodman showed me grace.

I took a month off from work after losing my Dad. Unlike so many others who find themselves in my situation, I was fortunate to work for an employer that (a) understood I would need some time off, and (b) had given me the vacation and sick time necessary to do it. After having that month to grieve, spend time with my family, and adjust to a new normal of life after losing my Dad, I went back to work on the Monday before classes were set to resume for the Fall semester. My day was moderately productive, as I would weave in and out of being able to concentrate on my work and finding myself spiraling into my grief while trying my best to hold it all together.

I woke up on Tuesday morning after a largely sleepless night, and I just knew I didn’t have it in me. I knew that I was not going to have the mental energy to go in and slog through the day like I had done the day before. I grabbed my phone, and I texted my boss, Megan. I had known Megan since my undergraduate days at Miami University Regionals, and she had always done so much to support me—especially in the month since losing my Dad. I told Megan that I felt guilty because I had just been off for an entire month, but I didn’t know if I could come into the office today.

“Tyler,” she responded “Take the time you need. And take care of yourself.” Megan shared how much she was thinking of me and our entire family, and told me over and over again that she was willing to help in any way she could. She reinforced that she knew what I was dealing with was not easy, and she didn’t try to minimize my pain. And that level of care and compassion that she and our entire team at Miami’s Regional Campuses shared with me never ceded, even as the months after Dad died wore on. My colleagues were always, always there, and they always gave me the room to do what I needed to do to be okay.

I did take that day off of work. And over time, I found the courage to continue doing my job and taking care of myself. And it was because Megan and so many of my coworkers at Miami showed me grace.

After losing my Dad, Father’s Day has turned into a particularly painful recurrence. I have difficulty being able to celebrate the fathers that make our community special, but in the years after losing Dad, I was also on staff at our church as an outreach and connections pastor. I had responsibilities during every Sunday service to get up and offer the announcements and our opening prayer. I wanted to try and persevere on this particular Father’s Day and celebrate my own Dad by putting on a brave face and being at church that morning, but I knew it was an impossibility. My Dad’s funeral had been held in that same exact sanctuary, and every time I looked to the front of the room near the stage, I didn’t see the pulpit. Just as if it were still there, I still saw my Dad’s casket. I wondered if I’d ever stop seeing it.

I talked with my Mom about being scared to go to church on Father’s Day. I talked with my pastors, Harville and Dave. I talked with my therapist, Jeff. I talked with friends. In every conversation, I shared my concern about not wanting to be in church on Father’s Day, and the guilt I felt for having that feeling. Every person I talked to reassured me and told me that it was absolutely okay to not be there.

All of these people—every single one of them—gave me the freedom to grieve in my own way. And I did grieve, and eventually I did start going to church on Father’s Day again.

And it was all because the world and the people I loved showed me grace.

Grace, in my opinion, is the firm cornerstone of the grieving process, but more importantly than that, it’s the cornerstone of the human experience in general. When I reflect on the healing I went through during my own bouts with mental illness, my Dad’s struggles, and his eventual death from suicide, the common thread that weaves through the tapestry of those moments is grace. It was grace that always redeemed and carried me through—both the grace given to me by those in my life, and ultimately as a result of the grace given to all of us by God.

I’m confident that, in the months and years leading up to the loss of my Father, God positioned people full of grace into my life to serve as a shelter from the storm. I look back on how God moved people into my life that only He knew would need to be there when everything went dark. Those people, all in their own unique ways, let me know that it was okay to be grieving, okay to be hurting, and okay to have questions that would never receive answers. I’m thankful that they were all there to let me make mistakes and experience unpleasant emotions without ever judging me or expecting more of me than I could give. All of these individuals gave me the grace to grieve. The grace to take a moment and breathe. The grace to make mistakes, to cry unexpectedly and uncontrollably, and to do whatever was helpful for me to be well again.

I think especially of Paige. It can’t be easy living with a spouse who is grieving the traumatic and unexpected loss of a Father; but every single day, I know that it will be a bit easier to grieve because Paige will show me the grace I need to do it successfully. She will be there to hold my hand when I can’t explain how I feel. She will help find creative ways to honor my Dad and to celebrate the life he lived, even though she never met him. She is a living example of God’s grace in my life, and I’m thankful he blessed me with her.

My Mom. My grandparents. My cousins. My colleagues. My neighbors. My Dad’s coworkers. My church family. My classmates. The list goes on and on. It feels like I have a grace-inspired team that’s constantly in my corner, and I know I have God to thank for them.

And what makes this grace from God and those in my life even greater is that I had done absolutely nothing to deserve it. I can’t help but see that the same grace that was given and continues to be granted to me throughout the grieving process is the exact same grace that God calls us to embody and live out when we interact with those who are suffering from mental illness—a grace that I was unwilling to extend when it mattered most.

It’s not lost on me that, the first time I had the opportunity to show my Dad that grace when he revealed his mental illness, I failed the test. It’s not lost on me that, on the night my Father came home after being missing for three days while I was in high school, I had an opportunity to extend him grace but instead chose to be judgmental. I chose blame as my weapon. And accusation. And hurtful words and unnecessary threats. And self-righteousness. Instead of offering a hug, I offered a clenched fist. I reacted in anger when I should have responded with compassion. It’s the greatest regret of my entire life, and even though God has forgiven me for that severe misstep, I don’t know that I’ve often forgiven myself.

So, even if I don’t do it well all the time and often do it imperfectly, I’m working harder to realize the role that grace has played in my life, and I’m doing all I can to give it out more freely.

As we’ve unfortunately seen over the past few months and years, we live in a world where grace is a rarity. It’s as rare to find grace as it is a full shelf of toilet paper or hand sanitizer (this joke will make absolutely no sense to people reading this fifty years from now, which makes it even more fun). We live in a world where grace is an exception to the rule rather than the expectation of it. We live in a world where grace towards others that we dislike, disagree with, or even despise is a gift we are simply unwilling to give. We decide to dole out grace in a different way than God directed us to. God gives out grace freely, but we ration it like it’s a resource that only deserving people deserve.

God just doesn’t see it that way.

We are all hurting in our own unique, unrecognizable ways—especially those struggling with mental illness. And if we know that everyone around us is hurting, we have to do more to extend grace their way—even when they don’t ask for it, and especially when they don’t deserve it. God doesn’t unequally administer grace, and I’m grateful for that. He doesn’t only administer grace to rich people, or good-looking people, or people who can tell funny jokes, or people who live in certain countries. No matter your hurts or struggles, no matter your missteps or mishaps, no matter your most sinister and evil thoughts, actions, or desires, God’s gift of grace waits for you each and every day.

When it comes to mental illness, we have to do more to be grace-filled healers to those who are hurting. We have to find ways to let people know that, if they are suffering, it is not their fault. We have to be able to let those who are hurting know that their struggles with depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, suicidal ideations, or any other host of mental illness is not a reflection of their character. It’s easy to cognitively believe that this is true, but the way we live our lives must also reflect that we accept it. That’s why, from day one, the motto of this blog has always been “It’s okay for you to not be okay, but it’s not okay for you to stay that way.” It’s a grace-filled mantra, and one that I repeat to myself often on days where I feel inadequate or unworthy. As much as I might be saying that to others, I’m also saying it to myself regularly, even if I imperfectly execute it.

And if you are struggling with mental illness or suicidal ideations, you have to do more than just receive grace from others. You have to be willing to extend grace to yourself. You must be willing to forgive yourself for any mistakes you’ve made, while also understanding that the way you feel is not always a result of what you’ve done or haven’t done. It’s that grace given to oneself that opens up a roadmap to healing—one that might include any regimen of treatments. To go and talk to a therapist or mental health professional, you must give yourself grace to escape the expectation of perfection. To regularly take medication, you must give yourself grace to accept your body and its unique physical/psychological processes. To exercise regularly, you must give yourself grace to realize you don’t have to be chiseled to set foot in a gym for the first time (if that was the case, they wouldn’t even let me set foot in the parking lot). Our ability to pursue any path towards healing requires that we accept that we are doing things to get better because we are worthy of being better.

And perhaps most importantly, if we are in the midst of a grief-filled period of life, grace will be the tool in the toolbox that we must rely on (and give to others) most frequently. Grace got me through my grief. Grace got me through the most difficult days. Grace got me through the days when all I wanted to do was sit in the bed and cry. Grace got me through those seasons of life within which all I could think about was how much I was falling short. Grace got me through all of that. And the only thing that will sustain me in the years to come will be receiving that grace from God over and over and giving it to everyone else in my life in return.

We don’t have to be perfect to receive that grace—I’m thankful for that!—and we also can’t hold back in extending grace to only people who get it right all the time. In fact, if people got life right all the time, there’d be no need for grace at all, and ultimately there would have been no need for a Savior. But because the world is imperfect and the people who inhabit the world are just as broken, we all need to find a way to both give grace and accept it. We have to be able to live with our mistakes and missteps while not keeping a permanent score of the same missteps of others.

I’m thankful that the God I serve is one who doesn’t expect perfection, but instead is in the business of redeeming lost children, like me. If God expected perfection, I would have had to throw in the towel a long, long time ago. Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way. I’m thankful that God has forgiven me for all the things I’ve gotten wrong, because it’s allowed me (over time) to not expect that same perfection of others. My faith has taught me that grace, not perfection, but grace is the key to being loved by God and being able to love one another.

Just like my Dad was, grace has been one of my greatest teachers.

Dad, I’m sorry that I did not extend you more grace when you needed it. I’m really sorry that, on that first bad day when you were hurting and suffering and feeling inadequate, I didn’t do more to make you feel loved. If I’m being truthful, it still haunts me when I think about the way I reacted to you with anger and judgement. It was ugly. It was unbecoming of a son who loved his father. I’m glad that I had other opportunities to be more kind and compassionate to you when you were hurting. Perhaps more than anything, I’m thankful that you were a Dad who didn’t expect perfection out of your son. You were a Father who helped me learn through my failures. You were a Father who taught me because you believed I could learn. Dad, I don’t judge you for your death and the way you left us. I’m not angry at you or bitter because you left too soon. I’m sad, and there are days when I’m devastated, and I miss you like crazy, but I don’t blame you for those things. I blame depression and mental illness and processes that, in our limited human understanding, we can’t make sense of. And that’s why, in your memory, I do my best to extend grace to everyone around me because I know, in their own ways, they are hurting too. Thank you for reminding me why this is important through the way you lived your life. Thank you for always living out grace in your own life. I so desperately wish you had been able to extend that grace to yourself in those last moments, but I know you’ve received it now in the full glory of Eternity. I’m looking forward to the day when we can experience that together. Until that day, seeya Bub.

“Each time He said, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’ So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.” 2 Corinthians 12:9 (NLT)

Dad’s Rules: Little Pleasures

On May 28, 2020May 28, 2020 By seeyabubIn Dad's RulesLeave a comment

(This is the newest feature in “Dad’s Rules”, a recurring series at SeeyaBub.com. To learn more about the “Dad’s Rules” series, check out my first installment.)

Dad’s Rule #55: Enjoy life’s little pleasures.

“I’m telling you—they have the absolute best salads here,” Dad would say as we sat in a booth at LaRosa’s while Mom was working or busy for the evening. As I’ve written before, LaRosa’s was always our go-to spot when we were “bach-ing it” for the evening because Dad’s only skill in cooking was blackening (A.K.A. burning the living bajeezus out of everything). I think he misinterpreted the phrase “grilling a steak” as “sacrificing a calf to Hephaestus the god of fire” somewhere along his culinary training. Had he tried to make the salad at home, he probably would have burned that, too.

“You’re telling me again because that has to be about the 476^th time you’ve mentioned this to me. You say it every time we eat here,” I’d respond in adolescent-frustration that, in retrospect, now sickens me.

“Well, I keep saying it because they’re still good!” Dad would say with a smile—and then he’d mention it at least 475 more times during our dinner just to try and get me to laugh.

Eventually I would laugh—because it was amusing to think that any person could get this much pleasure out of a bowl of lettuce with some toppings.

But my Dad did—because he loved life’s little pleasures and he found them at every turn.

This salad-banter would not have been an atypical exchange between me—an annoying know it all—and my Dad—a yogi in the school of appreciating simple things, and my annoyance was largely born out of that fact that I had a tremendous childhood. As a youngster who grew up in a world where, largely, all of my immediate needs were met and exceeded by two loving parents, I could lose sight of what I was given because I was always (sickeningly) focused on what was coming next. When you’re a kid in the first-world, you run from pleasure to pleasure because the world tells you you should. I’m thankful that I had parents who constantly reminded me that I should live life for the moment. My Dad, unlike me, was really never focused on that next thing. He was always deeply immersed in the moment he was living in—that exact moment and whatever he was experiencing.

My Dad, you see, was the king of little pleasures.

In my life I’ve met lots of interesting people, and nearly everyone has a skill or character trait that I find myself wanting to emulate. I think we all have those people in our life who, in their own loving way, frustrate us as a result of our own incompetence or shortcomings. “Gosh, if I could just be a little bit more generous, like Bill.” Or “Jan is so fun-loving. I wish I could get outside my comfort zone and just let my guard down like her.”

When it comes to my Dad, I have a long list of attributes that I hope I can live up to by the time I reach life’s finish line. Whenever I look at my Dad and think back on his life, however, it’s the appreciation of those little pleasures that I wish to emulate most.

My Dad was a guy who could soak up the beautiful simplicity and grace of any given moment. Absolutely any moment. He didn’t need frills, a fancy production, or something that cost a lot of money to appreciate life. He appreciated life for the little things. It was those little pleasures that he loved so much—and it’s those little pleasures that I still find myself taking for granted more than anything else.

I think about the times my Dad would take an evening bike ride in nearby Rentschler Park at our family home. Dad would come home an hour and a half or two hours later with beads of sweat rolling down his bald head, talking about a cool bird he had observed, or a running stream of water, or a deer off in the distance. As he would habitually remove his glasses and use his elbow to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Dad would talk about the things he had observed on his bike ride as if he had just pedaled through the most gorgeous rainforest in the Amazon or the depths of the Grand Canyon. You would think that he had witnessed one of the wonders of the world on a 10 mile bike ride. And as a kid, I’d marvel at how someone could find such pleasure in a park around the corner from our house. I had been there. It was nice. But it was almost as if my Dad was seeing a different park than everyone else.

But it was real. My Dad soaked up the little pleasure of that moment.

When I got my first announcing gig at Miami University Hamilton, my Mom and Dad came to every single game. I joked that I was the only announcer at any level whose parents came to every game. Maybe it was because I was such a horrible athlete as a kid and they were simply making up for lost opportunities. My first gig wasn’t glamorous by any means. There were only about 75 or 100 people at each game in a gymnasium that was smaller than the arena at my high school with hard wooden bleachers and modest concessions. The sound system wasn’t that great, and the games weren’t always that entertaining; but my Dad acted as if he were at an NBA game every single time he walked in. He was happy to be there. Happy to be talking with people he came to know and grew close to. Happy to be there with his family. Happy to be watching a basketball game—a game he really loved to play. I don’t know if I ever saw anyone enjoy a small town basketball game more than my Dad.

But that was who he was. A man who enjoyed pleasure in everything, but especially the small, everyday, unsuspecting moments.

My Dad could find joy—real, authentic, unadulterated joy—in just about any situation. I think that’s why I had such a hard time comprehending how he could suffer from depression. It was hard to reconcile Dad’s happiness—which was so frequent that it could be a bit annoying to those of us who didn’t have that natural buoyancy—with a despair so deep and unending that life felt unlivable. The two mental states just didn’t compute with one another, but that was before I understood depression for what it truly was. That was before I saw depression as a mental illness that could plague anyone regardless of their status in life or their outward-facing emotions.

At the same time, I often think that is how my Dad coped with his depression. I think, when times got tough and when his depression began to overtake him, he would focus on the little pleasures in life and constantly train his mind to seek out joy and happiness. I think it was his way of dealing with the extreme sadness and shame he felt, and even though it may not have been enough to save his life in the end, it did keep him healthy for the majority of his adult life.

Little pleasures. My Dad’s joy. I’m glad I’m at a point where, when I think of him, I don’t think of the heartache and the way he died. I think about how he was vigilant in seeking out those little pleasures. And it makes me think of how my Dad’s example can help all of us in times like this when life seems to be so very, very difficult.

Life has looked very different for all of us over these past two months, and some have been hit harder than others. But we’ve all been inconvenienced and disrupted and put into a lifestyle that we likely wouldn’t choose. The pleasures that we’ve come to know have suddenly disappeared for many. When many of the big pleasures of this life have been ripped away suddenly, it’s easier to focus our attention on those little pleasures—and to also realize that we’ve been taking them for granted all along. Those little pleasures have always been there; but sometimes, we are so focused on the “next big thing” on the horizon that we are blinded to their existence. It’s time for a bit of a refocusing.

That’s what my Dad would have done if he were here in this moment.

When you lose a loved one and the world continues to turn, it’s only natural to wonder how that loved one would have dealt with the current episodes of life. I often find myself daydreaming and wondering how my Dad would have handled having a smartphone—he never owned one but talked about it in the last few months of his life. Or how he would have enjoyed certain restaurants he never got to try (my verdict is that he would have loved Chuy’s and eaten there enough to help the manager buy a new speedboat). But I also find myself pondering how he would have reacted to big life moments and changes. I would have absolutely loved to have seen his face and taken pictures with him on the day I married my stunning and strong wife, Paige (while burying my head in my hands at their dance moves during the reception). And as painful as it would have been, I imagined my Dad at his Father’s funeral, recounting stories of a man with a bitingly sharp wit coupled with a loving appreciation for those good things in life.

Even when life’s moments are hard, you still want that lost loved one there with you to experience them and walk alongside you.

In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, it’s only natural for me to think about how my Dad would have handled this entire situation. Yes, I’m glad that he is in a place—an Eternal place—that knows no pain and records no hurt. But I still wonder how he would have responded to the uniqueness of this pandemic, the shutdown, and all its other challenges; and selfishly, I wish he was here because we would have been such a good pillar of strength for my family during this unpredictable age.

Although, in some respects, my Dad also would have been completely wigged out by the Coronavirus. A bit of a fun fact for those of you who did not know my Dad—and even some of you who knew him in his life might not have known this. My Dad was a complete germophobe. We are talking off the deep end anti-germ. In all the years that he and my Mom shared a loving marriage, they never once shared a drink. My Dad absolutely refused to drink after anyone, no matter how desperately thirsty he was. When we would go out to restaurants, he would inspect the silverware with the finely-tuned eye of an expensive jewelry dealer, looking for the most infinitesimal speck of unwashed substance that would allow him to send back the silverware for a chemical cleaning. And amidst all of the rugged tools and construction items that he always kept in his truck, there was always a bottle or seven of hand sanitizer in the main console.

Dad would have been very, very concerned about how quickly this virus spreads. He would have used this quick spread as a reason to scold my Mom and I for not taking seventy-two thousand milligrams of Vitamin C like he did every day (even though he got sick more than any of us). He would have washed his hands more than he already did, and I know he would have obeyed the six-foot rule as often as he could.

There is a part of me, deep down, that knows Dad would have also found a way to bring a smile and a laugh to peoples’ masked faces. Always the jokester, I know that my Dad would have been the guy to go viral—not the scary viral but the YouTube variety—for wearing a full welder’s mask and coveralls into the grocery store. He would have looked like The Mandalorian as he grabbed a gallon of milk from the dairy case, and he would have loved every moment of it. I think my Dad would have known that now, more than ever, people needed and deserved a good laugh (while simultaneously appreciating the fact that no cough is getting through a welder’s mask). It makes me cringe, but I could totally see him making “I’ll have a Corona—hold the virus” jokes to waiters, even though the man never drank (and then he would quickly correct and say he’d just have a Coke).

Aside from the new comedic opportunities, the best of my Dad would have shone through in the ways he would have served other people. I know that my Dad would have been constantly checking in with people over the phone and doing anything he could to help them in their troubles (with plenty of hand sanitizer in his back pocket). He would have been making repeated trips to the grocery store to pick up supplies for my grandparents, our neighbors, and those other individuals in our lives who needed him. He would have been calling, constantly, to check in on people he loved (I can hear his hearty chuckle during hour-long phone conversations from the recliner in our family room). And he would have gone above and beyond to help his friends and family who were financially impacted by this awful situation because my Dad was never greedy, never self-centered. I know that’s what my Dad would have done, because that’s what he always did. He was the helper that we should all strive to be in this life, and he would have been now.

There are elements of this pandemic, however, that would not have suited my Dad’s strengths, namely the idea of quarantine and staying away from others. My Dad would have struggled mightily with any type of isolation or separation from people because he thrived on friendship, connection, and love. He would have missed his daily lunches with his coworker, Brian, and the meal and laughs they always shared together. He would have missed going out on Saturday nights to watch UFC fights with his friends—and much to my chagrin, he would have watched the reruns of those ridiculous matches on our family room TV with the volume on 63 and the surround sound rocking. But he would have deeply, deeply missed being around people. Talking with them at church. Giving family members a hug. Playing in softball games. Going to family reunions. This would have been very difficult for my Dad to overcome because he was at his best when he was with others—and he was always fully present.

But in those difficult and trying moments, I know that my Dad would have found a way to focus on the little pleasures that were still there—and he would have reminded people like me how much we still have to appreciate.

And just like he did when life was “normal,” I think my Dad would have loved the little things even more in the midst of this pandemic. My Dad would have taken this opportunity to go on more bike rides, to watch more sunsets, to sit in front of more bonfires, to watch more (stupid and idiotic) UFC reruns, and to spend more time appreciating what he did have rather than focusing on what he would have lost. He would have created beautiful things around the house with his talented hands, likely transforming our entire home with only a few Tim-Allen-Home-Improvement-esque explosions along the way. He would have gotten creative and used his downtime for even more phone calls to friends and families that he missed, and he would have constantly told them how much he appreciated them and that he was always there to help.

Essentially, Dad would have used a bad time to make good things happen. That’s the guy he was. It was the rule he lived by.

It’s the reminder I’ve needed in this moment for sure, and the rule I need to do a better job of living by, too.

So, in the midst of this pandemic, when life frustrates me, I try to step back and live by Dad’s rule. I try to remind myself that I am healthy, that I am employed, that my family is protected, and—most importantly—that my God is still on the throne. I remind myself that, for all that may have been temporarily taken away, there are so many more good things that are still here and ready for me to appreciate. And in those moments, I remind myself of all those little things that I still have that my Dad would have appreciated beyond belief.

I think my Dad was able to focus on those little pleasures because he never got obsessed with the “big” pleasures that our world tells us we should be concerned with. My Dad never craved money or fame or recognition or power. That freedom that comes from being controlled by God and not the things and experiences of this world gave my Dad a different focus in this life, and in every moment, I saw him appreciating God’s creation and His gifts to all of us.

May 21 just passed on the calendar—a painful reminder that, on this past May 21, my Dad would have turned 57 years old. As I do every year, I think about all the things we would have done had Dad been around, and I can guarantee you that our celebration would have been simple—and that’s exactly how Dad would have wanted it. We would have gathered for a home-cooked meal by my Mom and ate on the back patio as we admired nature and Dad threw down a couple Coca-Colas. Then, we would have enjoyed a Graeter’s black raspberry chip ice cream cake and exchanged a few presents before Dad started a bonfire in the backyard that he would watch burn slowly into the evening with all of us at his side. There would have been an ever-present smile on his face, and he wouldn’t have needed to leave his house to find it.

Dad wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, and I’ll always cherish my Dad’s appreciation of those little pleasures.

I’m thankful that my Dad taught me this lesson each and every day that he was here with us; and I’m thankful that nearly seven years after his death in the midst of a global pandemic, he’s still my greatest teacher.

And I’m especially thankful that my Dad taught me to bathe my extremities in hand sanitizer at regular intervals throughout the day. The man truly was a visionary before his day!

Dad, I don’t know that you’d believe the world right now if you saw it firsthand because it’s so unlike the one you lived in. I’m thankful that you’re in heaven and away from much of the pain we are watching, but selfishly I wish you were here to give me the advice and guidance that you always offered. You were a rock for me and for so many people, Dad. You were that smile on a dark day—that laugh at just the right moment. You were that reliable, dependable friend and confidant to so many, and there are so many people hurting that need your help and companionship more than ever. But Dad, in the midst of our heartache over losing you, I feel you still teaching and guiding me in every moment. I’m thankful that for 26 years I had a Father here on this Earth who was more than my friend—you were my teacher. You taught me what to value in life, what to prioritize, what to cherish, and what to stray away from. Although you’re not here and I wish you were, your memory and legacy continue to teach me and give me peace in the midst of the storms of this life. Thank you, Dad, for always enjoying the little pleasures afforded in this life. Thank you for teaching me that there’s more value in a beautiful sunset, a good meal, or a conversation with a family member than there ever will be in those false gods that tempt us. Thank you, Dad, for always showing me what joy was truly rooted in. I can’t wait to thank you in person, but until that day, seeya Bub.

“Don’t be obsessed with getting more materials things. Be relaxed with what you have. Since God assured us ‘I’ll never let you down, never walk off and leave you,’ we can boldly quote, ‘God is there, ready to help; I’m fearless no matter what. Who or what can get to me?’” Hebrews 13:5-6 (MSG)

Shine a Light

On March 24, 2020 By seeyabubIn Mental Illness2 Comments

On most evenings (and much to my own personal dread on the cold ones), I take our golden retriever puppy, Penelope, for a walk around our neighborhood. Slowly but surely, Penny is figuring out how to walk like a respectable dog.

Let me rephrase that—very slowly, but surely nonetheless.

More and more, Penny is growing to like her walks. At first, she was always a bit too anxious and couldn’t enjoy the walks because of her nervousness. Paige and I didn’t give up, and after many failed attempts and one fantastic puppy training camp later (thanks Rhino Kennels!), Penny is getting more and more accustomed to her nighttime strolls around our corner of suburbia. She usually gives me a few excited jumps as we begin our walks together (even though I’m pretty sure our dog trainer told us not to let her do this but it really is pretty adorable—sorry Rhino Kennels!). She’s growing more interested in sniffing cars and flowers and fire hydrants along the way. And she has really enjoyed stopping at either of the ponds in our neighborhood if there happens to be a pack of geese or ducks that she can watch intently.

But even with all her progress, Penny still gets a bit nervous. Paige and I laugh about Penny’s nervous “head dip” that she does when she sees something she doesn’t recognize approaching in the distance. I can always tell when she’s spotted something coming her way. If she sees an approaching person, dog, or UWO (unidentified walking object), Penny’s pace slows ever so slightly. Her walking becomes much more deliberate and controlled. Locked in on the figure in the distance, Penny lowers her head slightly and hunches her little puppy shoulders (do puppies have shoulders?!). As we get closer and closer, Penny’s hunch gets lower and lower. Her walking slows even more until, finally, we reach the object. She either lowers her hunch all the way to the ground and stays in a submissive position, or if she’s feeling friendly, she investigates, jumps, and wags her tail.

Most of the time, I laugh at Penny—that is, until I spot something that I can’t identify on the horizon and get a little nervous myself.

My work schedule typically requires that I walk Penny in the evening, and the fantastic winter weather and daily 37-minutes of sunshine that we seem to get in southwestern Ohio at this time of year often require that I walk Penny in the dark. For the most part, our neighborhood is very well lit, but there are some stretches that tend to be a bit darker than others.

A few evenings ago, Penny and I were walking together in the cold when I noticed the familiar hunching behavior of my four-legged companion. Realizing that she had spotted something up ahead, I looked up and spotted something in the distance. I spotted it too, and after a few seconds of quick mental processing, I had identified three possible things that the darkened object on the sidewalk up ahead could have been:

A small, toothy-little creature that was prepared to chew all of our ankles off,
A carnivorous, vicious, prehistoric-style bird that would peck through my ribcage and ravage all of my internal organs, or
A piece of trash.

Naturally, I chose the most realistic option of the three.

It was definitely the bird.

If you know me, you know that I have a particularly strong fear of any creature from the avian realm. I’ve got this whole ornithophobia thing down to a fear-inducing science of pure terror. When I was a child, my Dad used to torment me at the county fair by gleefully dragging me through the chicken barn as I shrieked, bawled, and prayed to my God and any others who might be listening that none of these foul fowls would decide to jump on me and peck my eyes out. When I visit Home Depot, I am that guy who ducks (no pun intended) anytime a bird flies down from the warehouse-style ceiling (WE ARE INSIDE! WHY IS A BIRD INSIDE?!). And one time while on vacation with our closest friends a few years ago, a seagull attacked me and stole the last bite of my delicious Cuban sandwich as I screamed for intervention from the Almighty. I still can’t eat a Cuban sandwich without feeling my heart rate increase. Thanks, bird.

On the night in question, as Penny and I both crept towards the vulture-like bird on the sidewalk in front of us, we each grew a bit more anxious. I could see Penny’s head go lower and lower and lower towards the ground as she slowed her walk, and I felt myself preparing for a bit of a run in the event that this bird did what I knew it was going to do (namely, kill me and my dog in a violent flurry of feathers and squawking).

A light in the distance flickered, and as we got closer and closer I decided to take out my phone and turn on the flashlight so I could look into the devilish eyes of the murderous beast. And once I cast the light up ahead of us, I had a clear vision of our dreaded enemy.

A mangled pizza box.

(But wait….there could still be a bird inside the pizza box ready to fly out and peck our eyeballs out, right?!)

That’s right. The fear-inducing figure in the distance turned out to be nothing more than someone’s old, empty pizza box that had likely blown from a garbage can down the street.

I was relieved, and so was Penny—although she really wishes there would have been a slice of pepperoni with extra cheese left for her. But it wasn’t until we were able to shine a light on the shadow in the distance and realize what it was before we could be free from our anxiety and fear.

And in many ways, I think that mental illness works the same way.

I firmly believe that mental illness is an enemy that, when left in the dark, grows stronger, more powerful, and more all-encompassing day by day. I also believe that, when talked about and brought out into the light, we diminish the stronghold that mental illness can have on our minds and on our lives. With each confession that we are struggling or hurting, we slowly strip mental illness of its power and fight against the culture of silence where it finds its control.

When I reflect and think back on my Dad’s struggle, I can see this playing out in the rearview mirror as I desperately wish I had paid more attention to it. For the longest time, my Dad refused to shine a light on his own depression, but instead chose to bury it deep below the surface—but his motivations weren’t egocentric in the slightest. My Dad was not a man who cared about image or his own ego, and I am confident that the reasons that my Dad felt he couldn’t talk about his depression were motivated by a fear of disappointment—more than most, he was afraid he would let people down.

My Dad was a fixer. A builder. A carpenter, electrician, and maintenance technician by both trade and pure interest, and there was rarely a thing my Dad couldn’t do. My Dad was the guy that everyone called. If you needed a ceiling fan fixed or a shower tiled or a deck built, my Dad was the first call for many. His talents, as I’ve written about before, were abundant, and now that he’s gone, I think I’m even more in awe of what he could do. He was an artist, a craftsman of the highest order, obsessed with detail, quality, and perfection. But above all, he loved being able to make others happy with his talent. And by golly, it was genuine.

Above all, I know the motive for why my Dad helped people. It wasn’t about showing off those talents. It was never about boasting. It was because he had a fixer’s heart, and he liked being able to help others. More than anything, I think my Dad had a deep fear of disappointing people.

This fear of disappointing people was one of his most admirable qualities—but it was also the same fear that, left unchecked, led to him into periods of suffering in isolation and loneliness. Among his many great qualities, my Dad was also dependable beyond belief. If he told you he would be somewhere, he was there. If he told you he was going to fix something, it would be fixed. He held himself to a higher standard than anyone else, and that higher standard could create pressure that was difficult to reckon with. I believe that my Dad had an irrational fear that admitting he had depression and that he was suffering would cause people to think they couldn’t depend on him any longer—and I’m confident that it was that fear, more than anything, that kept him from talking about his illness.

It’s a fear that wasn’t unique to my Dad. It’s a mindset of silence that, unfortunately, is all too pervasive for those who are hurting, suffering, and struggling with mental illness.

When I reflect on my Dad’s story and think deeply about the moments when his depression controlled him most severely, it’s hard not to think of the scary and frightening moments. Those moments when, fueled by his depression, he would inexplicably leave without a trace and runaway, abandoning the home where all the comfort he ever needed lived.

But time gives the benefit of great perspective and holism, and I can simultaneously reflect on the moments immediately thereafter when he would come home, admit his defeat, and seek help. Those moments when Dad would return and when we would talk about his depression, dragging the monster that scared him out into the light to recognize it for what it was and to emphasize, strongly, that there was a path forward—to encourage and show Dad that he could manage and control this—were moments of unbelievable growth. We would recognize Dad’s depression and not deny the fact that it existed. He would visit the doctor, and be vulnerable about what was going on, and chart a path forward through medication and other treatments.

And then, with his depression called out into the open, Dad would get better. It wasn’t easy. It was never a “snap your fingers” type of treatment. It took weeks, sometimes months, for Dad to get better—but in nearly every situation, Dad did get better. And for a while (sometimes a long, long while), things would be at their best. And Dad would be at his best—a conquering fighter who would refuse to let his life be controlled by a powerful, dangerous illness.

It would be those moments when Dad’s depression was out in the open amongst our family in which he would feel most at ease—most comfortable with who he was at his core. During the times when Dad felt he could admit that he was struggling and he could avoid the shame of feeling like he needed to hide his illness, I think my Dad was truly at his happiest, his most content, and his most peaceful state.

Doesn’t it work that way for so many out there who are hurting and suffering from mental illness?

We all harbor different fears. Some of us are afraid of heights. Others are afraid of social situations. The smart people are afraid of birds. But then there are those deeper, emotionally-laden fears that are hard, even embarrassing, to talk about. Our fears of rejection. Our fears of solitude. Of financial inadequacy. Of pain and abuse. Of insecurity. And yes, of disappointment.

When we grow fearful, we often feel we have to wear a mask. And when we wear a mask, we are unnecessarily burdened by the shame of feeling that we have to hide how we feel. We shy away from honestly sharing our fears and insecurities, and as we do, those same fears and insecurities grow and grow and grow, eventually growing to a point that they take over our ability to function regularly.

But it’s the immediate relief that any of us who have suffered from mental illness can all relate to—the “shine a light” moment. That moment when we admit we are struggling while simultaneously taking a deep sigh of relief, knowing that we’ve identified the culprit—mental illness—and realizing that the enemy is exposed. There’s a physical response when we admit we are hurting—our shoulders relax, the tightness in our chest disappears, and it literally feels as if a weight has been lifted from our bodies. Think of it like a pressure valve or a cork in a bottle of champagne. All the pressure continues to build and build and build, and the moment that cork goes pop!, we feel an immediate relief of the pressure. Everything bubbles out and—if you’ve got a good bottle—life tastes really, really good in those first, fresh moments after you’ve opened the bottle.

I think we feel the most relief in those moments immediately after we shed the mask of shame and honestly talk about our fears, insecurities, and feelings. But for many who suffer and especially my Dad, as time wears on, we tend to slowly but surely put that mask back on. Over time, when we aren’t making our mental health a priority, we fall back into the old, comfortable patterns that led us down the wrong road in the first place. The less we talk about how we feel, the less light we shine on the enemy—and the less light we shine on the enemy, the more powerful it grows. And then, before we know it, the goodness that we felt in those immediate moments of relief completely retreats into the shadows. There we are again, stuck in the same place of guilt and inexplicable darkness that we were in before. The mask becomes comfortable again and seems to be a better alternative to being vulnerable.

Dear readers, I lost my Dad to suicide because of this, and I can promise you, there is nothing comfortable about not talking about our fears and feelings. It is a dead-end road, and one we must not pursue.

That’s why we have to talk, and we have to talk regularly. Yes, we must talk in the midst of our illness and in the immediate aftermath, but we also need to keep that conversation going as we begin to feel better, and yes, as we may begin to feel worse. We need to make vulnerability an everyday practice that’s as regular and accepted as brushing our teeth, washing our hands, or combing our hair. I confidently believe that so many of our real problems associated with mental illness are amplified and worsened when we don’t discuss them with others. I wish my Dad had felt comfortable enough to do more of that—and I wish that you would do more of it, too.

If you’re reading this post and you find yourself suffering from mental illness or suicidal ideations, I know that it can feel daunting and inescapable—but I promise you that the power mental illness holds over your life will dissipate when you shine a light on it and when you talk. You don’t have to talk to everyone. You don’t have to broadcast it on social media or in front of a crowd of thousands. But talk to someone, anyone. Shine a light by finding the people you trust most in your life and sharing your fear and worries with them. You’ll be shocked at how good it feels to shine the light on your mental illness—how good it feels to relieve the pressure, pop the cork, and let the feelings bubble out. And you’ll be amazed at how quickly the grip of mental illness is loosened.

It is no secret that, as I write this post, we are living in scary, confusing, fear-laden, and intensely unpredictable times. Unfortunately, the COVID-19 outbreak has taken a society that was already smoldering with fear and poured gasoline on that fire. If we were fearful a month ago, it’s likely that those feelings have grown much, much worse in the past days as we scramble to understand what is happening across the globe. As I pray for those who are hurting, there has been a heavy weight on my heart recently. It’s a heavy weight for those who are hurting and suffering from mental illness. It’s a worry that the mental illness they suffer from will grow even more powerful because of the unintentional effects of our needed physical isolation. Everyone is hurting, but those who suffer from mental illness may feel even less in control of their lives than they normally do.

In my heart of hearts, I’m convinced that there will be good that comes from this crisis. No, I don’t want it to happen, but yes, I believe that the Gospel is meant to invade dark places. Yes, there has been so much good happening in the midst of this difficult chapter. Individuals are more cognizant of the impact of their actions upon their communities and the world. Moments of generosity, I believe, are more abundant than they were previously. Without the convenience of a meal at a restaurant, a workout at the gym, or a movie with friends, I believe we’ve all grown to appreciate the little things that, for so long, we’ve taken for granted. Maybe we all needed a bit of a reminder that, above all and even with its many difficulties, life is grand and beautiful, complex yet lovingly simple.

At the same time, however, our worst fears and our primal instincts for self-preservation have amplified in ways we never imagined. Although outnumbered by the good, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake the image of two grown adults in a fisticuffs over a pack of Charmin at a Walmart as long as I live. When I go to the grocery store, I see the panic in people’s eyes that, when the world is right, just shouldn’t be there—and, unfortunately, I’ve felt it in my own heart. And I can’t help but think that, as much fear as we are seeing exhibited outwardly by so many people, the fear that people aren’t exhibiting is even worse, even greater, and even more destructive if it ever bubbles to the surface.

So if you are hurting or struggling from mental illness that you can’t explain, I beg you to not let these times of isolation prevent you from talking with someone. Find that trusted loved one or friend, call them, and just ask them if you can share your heart. Talk with them about your fears. Not everyone will be receptive, but I promise you that someone will. More than ever before, reach out to a counselor, therapist, or psychiatrist who can help bring those feelings to the surface in a way that is redemptive. And if the thought of suicide has crossed your mind, I beg you to call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or 1-800-273-TALK. Never, never let those thoughts linger. Never underestimate their power. Do something, in this moment, that will protect you, your families, and the generations to come. The world is better because you’re in it—promise me you’ll be here.

And lastly, for those fellow believers, I beg you to talk with God. Yes, He knows all, but there is great power in shining a light on our biggest fears and concerns and letting God know that we need help. Reveal the depths of your heart to the One who can reach down, provide solace, and restore peace. And find comfort in talking with him regularly because, the more we talk, the more comfortable and easy it becomes to be vulnerable—which, after all, is how God created us to be.

Together, we can create a culture of light-shiners who refuse to let our hurts grow and gain power in the dark. Now, more than ever, it’s time for all of us to start shining a light.

And please, dear neighbors, pick up your pizza boxes. Poor Penny and I can’t take it any longer.

Dad, My heart hurts deeply when I think about how fearful you likely felt throughout your life. It breaks my heart to know that you experienced such shame which prevented you from reaching out and talking to those of us who loved you. Dad, I just want you to know that we were never, ever disappointed in you. No matter how sick you might have been, and even during the times when your mental illness led you to leave us, we were never disappointed in the man you were. And now, I hope you are resting in the peace of Heaven and allowing God to remind you, daily, that He was never disappointed either. Your life continues to guide me and remind me of the importance of sharing my feelings with others, and although I don’t always do it perfectly, I’m grateful that you’re still parenting me and teaching me daily. I carry you with me every single day, Dad. Thank you, Dad, for showing courage in all those moments that matter most. I can’t wait to tell you, face to face, how proud I am of you for fighting the way you did. Until that glorious reunion, seeya Bub.

“Help carry each other’s burdens. In this way you will follow Christ’s teachings.” Galatians 6:2 (GW)

“Not Yet”

On February 20, 2020February 20, 2020 By seeyabubIn GriefLeave a comment

I knew I wanted to talk—I just didn’t know when I’d be ready.

In addition to my job at Miami University, I’ve been a sports announcer for many years, calling games for local high schools and college teams in my ever-dwindling spare time. It’s a passion I picked up during my freshman year at Miami’s Hamilton Campus when I saw a flyer in the stairwell of Mosler Hall looking for a new “Voice of the Harriers.” Inevitably, the more I announced in my hometown and the surrounding communities, the more requests I received to emcee or host other events that weren’t athletic contests. Sports hall of fames, fundraisers, and talent shows started to pack my Friday and Saturday nights, and no matter where I looked, there always seemed to be a stage and a podium with a microphone awaiting me—and I loved it. God had given me a tremendous platform, and to this day, I’ve always tried to thank Him each and every time I get asked to play a part in these events.

Although the inductees have a tendency to get a little long-winded, sports hall of fames have always been fun events for me to host. I try and land a few jokes out of the gate, get a laugh or two when an inductee forgets to thank his wife during the speech, and most importantly keep everything on time so the event doesn’t run too long (a goal that constantly eludes me). The first hall of fame I ever emceed was a cruel reminder of this truth. Prior to the event, the organizers told all of the inductees that they each had about three minutes to deliver their acceptance speech. The very first inductee applied the liberal interpretation of the word “about” and spoke for 21 minutes. There were nine additional inductees after him. The event started on a Saturday night, and I think I made it home by Wednesday or Thursday of the next week.

Selfishly, my favorite part of emceeing a sports banquet has always been the closing. In the weeks leading up to the event, I’ll scour the headlines, Internet, and plenty a Chicken Soup for the Soul book in an attempt to find an anecdotal tale, story, or illustration that will leave the audience thinking more intentionally about how they treat their fellow man or woman. Usually, these stories have some kind of theme or character trait that I hope we can all learn to exemplify more. Perhaps it’s “purpose” or “sacrifice” (…or “brevity” for that 21-minute inductee who is likely still giving his acceptance speech in a hotel ballroom somewhere).

In the days, weeks, and months after I lost my Dad to suicide, I constantly felt God’s call on my life to share Dad’s story. Frustratingly, I felt the call, but didn’t have a compass. Did God want me to share the story with those in my close inner circle? On a national stage? In the written form? And what parts of the story did He want me to share? I prayed and asked, but unfortunately did not feel His direction. It was maddening at times, but simultaneously reassuring. At least God had given me the call; maybe it was up to me to determine the direction?

A few months after losing Dad, I needed to start preparing for another athletic hall of fame that I had agreed to host. This one, fittingly, was to be held at Miami Hamilton. The event, albeit small, had always held a special place in my heart. This was the place where I had been given my start as a sports announcer with absolutely no experience (it was probably a good thing that there were only 50 people at a game that first year as I learned, experimented, made my share of mistakes, and found my way). Even though it never felt like a “big gig,” Mom and Dad had always attended every single game they could, sitting across from me in the bleachers. I can still picture them to this day. I can still picture Dad walking across the court after every single game to tell me I had done a good job. I often joked that I was the only sports announcer at any level whose parents followed him to nearly every game. Looking back on it, I realize how thankful I was for their presence; and after that chapter of life was gone, I missed it tremendously. Looking across the court into the bleachers after losing Dad, I could still picture him sitting there in a Miami hoodie, smiling, laughing, and of course, talking to everyone. They were good memories—they still are.

As I prepared to host my first hall of fame dinner after losing my Dad, and I thought about how much that campus had meant to me and the family memories I had there, I realized that I had a fitting story to tell at the close of the event without having to do any research whatsoever. I wanted to tell the story of my Dad and me playing catch together in our side yard. I wanted to talk about the indelible memories that the two of us had made together as sweat poured from our brows in the blazing sunset of most humid Cincinnati July evenings. I wanted to talk about how losing my Dad had made me realize that those toss sessions were more than just an opportunity to throw or hear the pop of a leather Rawlings glove. Those were moments when Dad and I grew closer to one another. Where we shared our frustrations, our fears, and a few laughs whenever I jumped to catch a ball that didn’t require jumping (I’ve mentioned my lack of athletic ability a time or thirty here, so this should come as no surprise to anyone).

With Dad’s death still very, very heavy on my heart, I knew it was the story to tell. I knew that I could go up on stage, acknowledge that I was still grieving and in tremendous pain, and maybe, just maybe, give those in attendance an important reminder—a reminder that life is sweet, precious, and terribly fragile.

In the days leading up to the event, I would sit down at my desk and try to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) to hash out the story I wanted to tell. This was well-before I had launched this blog, and writing in my life to that point had been much more academic and stuffy than the story I hoped to tell the night of the ceremony. Each time I sat down, I found my mind and will to write waning. It was unbelievably difficult for me to take the story and memories I had in my head and craft them into an accurate narrative—and it was very disheartening. Night after night I found myself grappling with words, writing whole paragraphs only to delete them, and growing generally more discouraged by the minute.

My Dad’s story—I knew—was worth telling; and I wanted to tell it. I just didn’t know how. And night after night after frustrating night, I just couldn’t write it. This wasn’t writer’s block—this was a writer’s blockade! I simply could not articulate the words I wanted to say. At the time, writing the story felt unnatural, even though I knew I wanted to share it. I tried not to get discouraged, but as the event drew nearer and nearer, I knew that it just wasn’t going to come together as I had wished.

That feeling of uneasiness led me down an interesting path. In my mind, I started to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was a story I didn’t want to craft or script. Maybe God was telling me to go up, and to speak from the heart, and let the story tell itself? After all, the story was in my head. Maybe in the moment it would feel more natural to speak without notes. I’ve always tried to be an authentic and honest speaker, and I began to believe that the best way to share Dad’s story was to do it off the cuff. I’m also very comfortable speaking extemporaneously, and knowing that this story was my own, I wasn’t as concerned with making sure I had every detail scripted in front of me. I knew the details because I had lived them.

Anyone who has seen me in the “backstage” moments before I announce an event knows I’m a meticulous planner, and I’m a bit obsessive when it comes to the script. I request it days in advance so I can edit, add in my own directions, adjust, and rehearse. I format it meticulously and identically every single time: size 18 font for maximum readability, Arial font only, bold titles and headers for different program portions, italicized stage cues, clean paragraph breaks with no sentences spanning multiple pages, no text in the bottom third of the page, and page numbers always formatted as “Page __ of __” in the top right-hand corner to keep me on track for timing. I print two copies in case one is the victim of a spill or abduction, paper clip them, and place them both into my lucky padfolio.

(Insert your joke about “meticulously” being a code word for “OCD” here.)

For the first time in my announcing career, I made an exception in my script. After printing out the 20 pages of scripted material, I added a page to the back—no number, no font and sizing conventions. In fact, the page said absolutely nothing. As I prepared, I took out a red pen and wrote across the top of the page “I LOVE MY DAD.” That would be my cue, my directive, the only motivation I needed to tell the story and tell it properly.

The event went as well as any other I had hosted, but during each acceptance speech from the inductees I found myself growing more and more anxious. I was the only person in the room who knew what I was about to do. I was going to share a story so central to my identity that there was going to be no going back once I told it. Over the past few years, public speaking had become something that I was beyond comfortable doing—so much so that I actually enjoyed it. I rarely got nervous anymore, but on this night, I found myself constantly trying to wipe the sweat from my palms as the closing approached.

When that moment came, I confidently walked up to the podium and congratulated the hall of fame class again on their accomplishment. As I do nearly every time, I set the stage for what I was about to do. On that night, I told the audience that I always tried to leave them with a story that would give us all something to think about as we went our separate ways, but that this year, my story would be a bit more personal because it was my own.

I began to tell the story, and I began to tell the audience about my Dad…and within just a few seconds, I knew that I had made a terrible mistake. I started breaking down in front of a group of loving but justifiably uncomfortable individuals. I couldn’t even string a sentence together. I was sobbing at the podium, unable to speak. I was crying and sweating and felt the need to throw up. Standing in front of a crowd is not a great time to realize that you’ve made a mistake—but there I was.

I don’t even remember what happened or how I transitioned, but I ended the story abruptly. I think I may have mentioned that I just wanted people to know that my Dad was important to me and the memories I had of him at Miami Hamilton would always be special, and I uncomfortably closed the event and left the stage with my standard directive to drive home safely. A few of the attendees who I knew came up and hugged me and encouraged me and told me how important it was that I had shared this story, but I was undeniably disappointed in myself. Not for the impression that anyone had of me; I was disappointed because I hadn’t done my Dad justice. I don’t know that I’ve ever hustled out of an event as quickly as I had done that night.

The car ride home was isolated and brutal. I beat my fist into the steering wheel at multiple red lights, wondering why my first attempt to share my Dad’s story publicly had gone so badly. Dad deserved better.

I admit that Satan crept into my mind on that night and took up a semi-permanent residence there for a while. I could hear his temptations to give up. “You’re never going to bounce back from this one.” “You’re never going to get over the humiliation you feel in this moment.” “You’re never going to have a platform to share your Dad’s story.” “You’re never going to get to a point where you can talk about your Dad without being so overcome by grief that it completely defeats you.” “You’re never going to be able to help other people learn from what happened to your Dad.”

Never. Never. Never. I kept hearing it again and again, and the tears got worse every time I heard it.

But in the days after that event, I prayed. Even though I was upset. Even though I was hurting. Even though, yes, I was frustrated with God for giving me a platform and not helping me deliver the message I wanted and that Dad deserved. And with each prayer, I heard two words in response, over and over again, every time I shared my humiliation and fear with God:

“Not yet.”

Not yet. God’s response to all the “nevers” that Satan had put in my head was more powerful—“not yet.” God was taking something that felt irredeemable and He was promising me a way forward. I heard God telling me that He still had work to do. In those simple words, I heard God telling me that His timing was better than my own. And as much as I hated to come to terms with this, I heard God telling me that He was going to teach me something in the failure I had experienced on that evening. He was going to use that moment of failure, pain, and dissapointment to grow and develop something within me.

And little by little, day by day, I felt it.

In the months that followed, even though I kept the phrase “not yet” in my head quite often, I still succumbed to doubt. But the pain of not being able to share my Dad’s story was an important reminder for me to be patient—a skill that God did not innately bless me with. I thought I was ready; but God knew I wasn’t. He knew that I was still grieving and that the pain of my Dad’s death from suicide was more real and raw than I was giving it credit for. God needed me to take care of myself before I could possibly start sharing Dad’s story in an effort to take care of others, and He was using that experience to remind me of the need to not neglect my own needs.

What was most valuable in those moments, and what I still thank God for to this day, was the “yet.” Yes, I had failed during that first attempt, but I heard God telling me that He wanted me to walk, not sprint. I heard God telling me that I needed to heal before I could help; to build a strong foundation first before building the Kingdom.

My experience and growth in those months of struggle taught me important lessons about sharing my Dad’s story—both in public forums but also in my daily conversations with individuals. These have turned into important lessons for me about grief—lessons that I hope can benefit anyone who might be struggling to talk about the pain they are feeling.

Talk when you’re ready. There is no timeline on grief. There is no guideline for when you should be ready to talk to others or share your story, and we shouldn’t try to force our grief into a timetable that doesn’t work for us.

Looking back on my own situation, I can easily realize that I was trying to force myself to talk publicly about my Dad because I thought that I should have been far enough along through my grief to accomplish this—but I wasn’t. It had been a few months since Dad’s death when I gave it that first attempt, and others in similar situations had moved on in a similar timeline—but I hadn’t, and I just wasn’t ready. Even though there had been time to do some healing, Dad’s death still felt as fresh and real in many moments as it did on that first day when I found out that he was gone.

I used an arbitrary calendar to gauge my grief and healing, which was a horrible thing to do. Grief and healing aren’t measured in years; they’re measured in steps and goalposts and milestones, and it doesn’t matter how long it takes us to reach each of those moments in our development. For some, healing might happen quickly. For others it might move at a snail’s pace, and for most, grief will actually occur in a non-linear pattern with ups, downs, more ups, more downs, sideways jaunts, and all kinds of inexplicable moments in between. There were hints of God’s “not yet” directive all throughout my life leading up to that night, but I didn’t take them because I didn’t want to appear weak. What a foolish, foolish trap to fall for.

Give yourself grace when you talk about your loss. For a long while after that failed attempt to speak about my Dad, I beat myself up over it. I looked at that attempt as a failure that would always haunt and plague me when I tried to make a difference in the world of suicide prevention. It was a moment at the podium that I didn’t think I could ever bounce back from.

But that was Satan’s distortion, not God’s reality.

Satan tells us that if we don’t get it right the first time, we never will. God, on the other hand, tells us that our failures are building blocks for something greater. On nearly every page of the Bible, you’ll find stories of individuals who failed and went on to do great things to build God’s Kingdom here on Earth, and it’s not the failures that God remembers. Instead, He remembers the moment that we bounce back. He remembers Paul’s ministry, not his crusade to kill early Christians. He remembers Peter as the rock upon which the Christian church was built, not the way he sunk like a rock while trying to walk on the water. He remembers Cornelius the Roman Centurion’s conversion to Christianity, not the atrocities he committed on behalf of the Roman Empire that led him to that moment. The men and women in the Bible show us stories of redemption, but there can only be redemption if there is first failure.

When we talk about our grief, our mistakes do not hold us captive. Oftentimes, it’s the actual process of talking through our grief and the way we feel that reveals where we are hurting. Deeply buried hurts and pains bubble to the surface when we talk, and if we don’t talk, those things stay buried but still hurt us without our knowing it. At times, I’ve talked about losing my Dad (namely to my therapist and those in my life who are closest to me) and came to new realizations about my grief, even if I didn’t articulate everything perfectly. There were things bothering me that I didn’t even realize until I mentioned them; and once I shine the light on them and speak about them, they don’t hurt as bad.

Just as there’s no timetable or manual that you have to follow when you talk about your grief, there also isn’t a set dictionary or writer’s guide that tells you how you have to talk about your feelings. As you begin to talk, be kind to yourself and understand that how you feel might not always come out perfectly. Let’s face it—if we all knew how to talk about our feelings perfectly, my Dad wouldn’t have suffered in silence from his depression. Learning to talk about our loss or our complicated and often messy feelings requires the failures just as much as it does the successes.

You don’t have to share your story with everyone, and you don’t have to share everything. After losing my Dad, I felt the need to talk about him and share his story with everyone I met in nearly every forum that I had; but I realized that it was not productive. I thought, foolishly, that if I wasn’t talking about my Dad, I was forgetting about him or failing to honor his memory. Wrongly, I felt as if I was disrespecting him in every moment that I didn’t talk about him.

As painful as it is for me to admit it, there are some people with whom I don’t talk to very often about losing my Dad. It sounds ironic to write this on a blog that is broadcast to the world at large, but I want to make the story available to anyone who can learn and grow from it. That doesn’t mean that I expect everyone to read it, or that I even expect everyone who reads it to learn from and grow from it. I know God will direct my Dad’s story into the right hands. I’m just the messenger; I’ll let God take care of the delivery.

Even though I don’t control the delivery, it also means that I am in control of the story itself, which is unbelievably reassuring in a phase of life that has felt very unpredictable because of my unexpected loss.

There are some elements of my Dad’s story that I don’t share at all. Those are precious, private details between a lost Father and a grieving son that will always be sacred to me. Setting boundaries on what I will discuss and what I won’t has been one of the most important techniques in sharing my story that protects my own mental health and grief. There are some moments and details, honestly, that are still too painful to relive, even six years removed from losing my Dad. So, I approach those areas with tenderness, and I try to realize that there is something really valuable about self-care when it comes to sharing our stories, especially when death and loss are involved.

And most importantly, I learned that God helps us get back off the mat after we are knocked down. I’m so grateful that, over time, God gave me the strength and encouragement to get back up from the blows that had been delivered after that first unsuccessful attempt.

I don’t remember how much time had passed in between—which in itself is an important reminder to not focus on arbitrary calendar markers when it comes to our grief—but I eventually felt the call to share my Dad’s story at an event I was hosting.

And this time, I heard God clearly saying “Now.”

The story I wanted to tell came to me with an unbelievable clarity, and it honored my Dad in the exact way that I had hoped to honor him in the previous attempt. I was fortunate that there were no cameras around to capture that first failed attempt, but I was beyond grateful that the cameras happened to be there the second time around (special thanks to my good friend Steve Colwell of TVHamilton for capturing this important moment in my life).

Looking back and watching that moment years removed, I still find imperfections—but those imperfections were perfectly honest at that particular moment in time, and I’m happy they are there. I’m happy that my story, in many ways, is still so similar, and I’m happy that in other ways, it has changed dramatically. It’s evidence that I’ve healed in many ways, and that I’m still healing in others. It’s a reminder that no matter how much we grow and change, there is still a firm foundation that God gives us which roots our souls firmly in His presence. I’m glad that God is happy with us where we are, but I’m just as thankful that He never wants us to remain in that same place forever.

And each day, I grow to appreciate more and more those reminders when God tells me “Not yet.”

Dad, Talking about your death has, at times, been unbelievably difficult because the pain of losing you is still so real. Every day, I want to honor you and the life that you lived here, and I’m grateful that, over time, God has given me the grace and power to do that in my own way. Dad, I want you to know that you are still so loved by so many. Your story is helping so many people. Your death is giving life to other people who are hurting and struggling, and no matter what I do, I’ll never forget you and the lessons you taught me. Each time I talk about you, I can feel your presence, and I know you are watching over me and guiding me. Dad, continue watching over me. Continue to give me that peace and comfort that only a Father can provide. In your life, you taught me everything I would need to survive in the aftermath of your death; and in your death, your memory is still teaching me daily. Your memory teaches me what it means to be a good husband, son, and friend. Thank you, Dad, for being a Father worthy of praise. I miss you more and more each day, and I am anxiously waiting for the day when we are reunited. Until then, seeya Bub.

“For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love and self-discipline.” 2 Timothy 1:7 (NIV)

Carving

On December 18, 2019December 18, 2019 By seeyabubIn HolidaysLeave a comment

“Watch it, now…you get a finger mixed in with that ham and you’ll ruin Christmas.”

It was always, always Dad’s job to carve at the holiday. Growing up, my Mom always hosted a lot of our family get togethers around special holidays, and any good family get together usually involved some type of carved meat. I remember delicious turkeys at Thanksgiving, a fantastic ham on Easter, and both ham and roast beef on Christmas Eve. For every holiday she hosted, Mom would spend hours and days preparing all kinds of treats and delicious goodies, and Dad and I were always ready to eat. Dad and I weren’t much help to Mom when it came to these extravagant yet quaint family gatherings, mainly because Dad wasn’t much of a talent in the kitchen.

Wait, let me try that again. Most anything Dad did in the kitchen was disastrous. We are talking next-level, epic kitchen ineptitude. For a man who was competent in so many things, it was amazing to see him fail so spectacularly in the kitchen. I once saw the man burn soup—how do you burn soup?!

But Dad did have one special skill he could deliver around the holidays. The man was always a solid meat carver. I think it was because carving a ham resembled more of a construction project (his wheelhouse) than a culinary test. Every year a few minutes before our family would arrive for a holiday celebration, I would hear the familiar, sawing ziiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrr of my parents’ electric carving knife. On and off and on again the knife would go as Dad would conquer a ham or turkey, creating as many slices as possible for our family to enjoy. The carving knife, a gift from their wedding and a marvel in craftsmanship by Black & Decker, had vanquished many a Christmas ham and Thanksgiving turkey in its years of service to our family. That knife is older than I am—solid work, Black & Decker!

My family always thankful that Christmas typically brought with it a ham that was given to my Dad. Dad was fortunate to work for caring and thoughtful companies for most of his career, and his employers always provided a Christmas ham that Dad would proudly bring home to store in our freezer. As a kid, I probably didn’t appreciate what a considerate gesture this was for the families that had spent so much time, sweat, and energy working in physically demanding and strenuous jobs. Now, I have a deep appreciation for it—mainly because in my entire career after college no one has ever just given me a ham! I’m lucky if I can even get the kind of pens I like to write with!

But every year, my family was thankful that Dad’s employers provided this special blessing to our family, and Mom had the great honor of cooking it—and her culinary talent would always shine through. Mom was, is, and always will be a magician and artist in the kitchen. Another thing that you fail to appreciate until you’re grown is the cooking acumen of a parent, and I definitely didn’t give my Mom the credit she earned in the kitchen until I started cooking myself. Now that I know how much work goes into preparing a simple dinner, I appreciate the ease my Mom displayed whipping up a full meal almost every night of the week. Dad was better at appreciating Mom’s cooking. One time, Dad and I were talking about Mom’s talent, and I remember Dad saying “You know, growing up I never thought I would be able to find someone who could cook as good as my Mom; and then I met your Mom, and she could cook even better!” Dad always appreciated Mom’s cooking, and I know he loved it around Christmastime.

Usually starting days before the family gathering, Mom would meticulously pour over the preparations and her menu, timing out when she would need to start prepping dishes, when dishes would need to go in the oven, and fretting over where she was going to store all of this food until everyone arrived. Even though Mom would always get a little overwhelmed and worried by the volume of things she had to prepare, it always worked out in the end and everything came together even better than she had imagined. She worried about holiday gatherings because she cared about everyone so much—and those tremendous holiday gatherings we had are a reminder of how Mom showed her love to us.

Dad’s contributions to our holiday festivities were largely mechanical, and I thank God each day that he wasn’t responsible for the cooking (remember that whole burnt soup thing?). Usually, Mom would task Dad with wrapping the presents (he had the wrapping skill of a fourth-generation origami artist), where he would camp in front of the television with rolls of colored paper and enough tape to fully encase a forty-three car locomotive. Dad also had to set up the card table in the family room so we had enough spots for everyone, and it was usually Dad’s job to brush out our family dog so she looked even fluffier than usual when everyone arrived.

And then, just before the festivities began, Dad would pull the electric knife out of the tattered-and-worn box and get to carving. Standing over the oven range in our compact family kitchen, Dad would whir away with the jigsawing blades, removing slice after slice with the precision of a brain surgeon, placing it delicately on a large, silver platter in an overly-intricate pattern.

As a kid, I was always a bit intimated as I watched Dad carve away at the ham. There seemed to be a true art to it because Dad would concentrate deeply on the work in front of him. As he did with most every task he approached, Dad was a fanatic for detail. Through this oval-rimmed glasses, he would move his head from side to side, locating unbeknownst spots in the oven-baked ham in which one cut would produce the most amount of meat. By the end of the process, Dad would lift out the ham bone from the roasting pan, and I would be amazed at how little meat was left behind. Mom would always tell Dad that he did a great job, and then she would wonder whether or not there would be enough for everyone….even though we seemingly ate ham for the next four days at home. There was always enough, but Mom wanted to make sure that the holiday was perfect for everyone.

I appreciate that now. I appreciate her thoughtfulness. And I appreciated my Dad’s ability to carve a ham. Especially when my Mom came down the stairs in 2012 and said I was going to have to do it.

As always, Mom was preparing for another Christmas Eve at our home with the Turner side of our family, but there was an unfortunate complication—Dad was sick. For days, my Dad had been trying his best to fight off an illness that seemed to get worse and worse and worse with every cough. I had gone upstairs earlier in the day, and Dad was laying in the bed wearing his usual elastic-ankled, matching sweatsuit, looking weaker and more tired than I had seen him in a long time.

“A lot ‘a good that vitamin C did you, hey old man?” I said to him with a smart-alecky smirk on my face.

My Dad was the king of vitamins—and a pusher at that! Every morning, I’d hear the familiar rattle-rattle-rattle of his pill bottles in the kitchen as he horked down enough supplements to grow an orange grove in the soil of the Sahara. Vitamin C, Vitamin B, Fish Oil capsules, multivitamins, magic beans, jumping beans, jelly beans….you name it, Dad took it. As he lay withered and hacking in the bed the day before Christmas, I couldn’t help but deliver a bit of a low-blow to my old man by teasing him about his vitamin obsession.

“You just remember….I’ll recover ten times faster because of the vitamin C,” he said with sincerity, and I laughed and told him how great I was feeling because I had once taken a vitamin shaped like Fred Flintstone when I was seven.

I spent some time at his bedside asking him how he was feeling and watching a bit of TV with him, and I knew that Dad had to be pretty darn sick to be bedridden the day of a Christmas gathering. Dad loved the holidays, he loved having people over the house, and he loved talking with people and just being near them more than anything else. After we talked for a few minutes, I wanted to let him rest and I went back downstairs to watch a little television. Moments later, Mom came down the stairs with a bit of a worried look on her face and delivered the news.

“I think you’re going to have to carve the ham.”

I hadn’t even thought about it until that very moment. Dad wasn’t about to get within fifty feet of the food that would be served at Christmas dinner that night, but it had just hit Mom that he usually carved the ham each year but wouldn’t be able to now.

I got a pit in my stomach. “I mean, Mom, I don’t have a license or anything…”

We both knew there was no way of getting around it, and for the next few hours I tried to replay all the times I had watched Dad cut a ham in the kitchen before our Christmas Eve celebration. It was then that I realized that my motivation for watching Dad cut a ham all those years was to try and sneak a few premature scraps that he had cut, and at no point had I ever actually paid attention to what he was doing with the electric knife.

As the clock ticked closer to our family’s 6’o clock arrival, I got a bit more nervous; but Dad came up with a good idea. Instead of carving the ham, Dad would be the teacher and I would be the apprentice. Dad would stand a good ten feet behind me, and while looking over my shoulder, he would tell me where to cut, how to cut, and where to place each piece. I was still a bit nervous and overwhelmed by the task ahead, but it sure felt better knowing that I had a Dad who had all the answers and would be looking over my shoulder the entire time.

The moment came, and Dad made his way downstairs. I knew he didn’t feel well at all, but I was so thankful that he was willing to help me. Over the next half hour or so, Dad told me how to properly carve the ham. He had me locate particular spots to make main cuts and dividing cuts, and then he told me how to lift the ham and cut near the bone so that everything seemed to fall right off. Magically, it worked. Dad pointed and instructed me, showing me how he typically stacked the pieces of meat neatly on the platter. He told me which pieces of the ham would likely be the “pretty pieces” and which ones would be the scrap pieces that he would save for sandwiches the on Christmas day (which was likely code for pieces of ham he had planned to sneak to our dog, Lucy). He showed me how to carve in such a way that there was very little meat left on the bone at the end, and although I wasn’t as efficient or sharp as Dad was, the stress of having to take on such an important task wasn’t nearly as bad because Dad was right there with me the entire time.

For the remainder of the night, Dad mostly remained up in the bedroom trying to recover from his sickness—which was an occurrence as rare as a Santa Claus sighting. Dad lived for family gatherings and spending time talking to other people, and the fact that he couldn’t even come downstairs was extremely unusual. Dad made a few “quick appearances” throughout the night, mainly to grab punch or some jello that he could tolerate eating. Each time, he would say hello to everyone who was there and make a few quick jokes, but he was really afraid of getting anyone else sick. He would grab a small plate and drink, and right back up the stairs he would go. Everyone’s face would light up as soon as they saw Dad, even if it was only for a few brief moments—he had the ability to light up a room just by being there. It was not the way my Dad likely wanted to spend Christmas, and it hurts to think about how sad he must have been to not be able to spend time with his family—especially knowing what we know now.

Dad’s last Christmas was that 2012 Christmas. Just seven months later, his clinical depression would overtake him, and suicide would claim his life. It tears my heart to pieces to think that Dad was so ill on his last Christmas on Earth that he couldn’t even enjoy the holiday with the same gusto and enthusiasm that he usually did. The holidays were always so special and important to Dad, and there is a haunting sadness when I reflect on his last Christmas, knowing he was quarantined to an upstairs bedroom when the family he loved and cherished was right downstairs. None of us could have ever imagined that December 2012 would be Dad’s last Christmas. Had we known, we would have all taken the risk of coming down with whatever sickness he had. I might have even taken some vitamin C to put his mind at ease. I hate that Dad’s last Christmas wasn’t as good as it could have been, and there’s absolutely no sugar coating that. It just doesn’t feel fair. If anyone deserved a spectacular Christmas, it was my Father.

2013 was our first Christmas without Dad, and there were many, many things that I was dreading about that first holiday. Thinking about Christmas morning without my Dad there with Mom and I was nauseating. Wondering how I would focus on family functions when all I could think about was the tragedy of losing my Father seemed impossible.

And yes, selfishly, I was dreading having to carve the ham.

To some, it may sound silly to have such a dramatic reaction to carving a ham, but knowing that I would have to carve the ham was just another reminder that Dad was gone. A role he had played for many decades was now vacant, and it was a painful reminder that he was never coming back. Carving the ham was a rite of passage, and the passing of the electric knife in this moment seemed so unnecessary, so premature, and absolutely wrong in every way. Dad should’ve been there. He should’ve been carving the ham—not me. He was too young. He should have been there.

Mom asked me to carve the ham reluctantly, knowing it would be difficult for me to do it, and of course I offered to help. Mom was suffering just like I was, and I knew we were both going to have to do things to keep going that we might not have necessarily wanted to do. I knew that Mom didn’t want to ask me, but I also knew that she had to. Throughout the day, I worried about being able to carve the ham properly without my Dad. I worried that a year had gone by and so much had happened and I knew, I just knew, that I was going to forget everything Dad had taught me. It was an awful and helpless feeling. Unfortunately, it was a feeling that invaded every area of my life. As each day passed after his death, I worried that I was forgetting him and losing him each time I started to move on. Not being able to carve a ham would be a revelation of how I had taken my Father for granted, and it was a painful reminder of my own guilt.

Nonetheless, our family Christmas Eve was approaching, and I walked into the kitchen trying my best to hold it all together. I got out the electric knife, and remembered Dad telling me to install the blade before plugging it in to avoid any tragic digit-dissections. Point taken, Pop—point taken. Even though he wasn’t there, I could hear him making his typical Dad-joke as he offered this reminder, maybe even pretending that he had lost a finger in the tragic ham-carving accident of 1968.

It felt good to laugh with my Dad again, even if I could only hear his spirit.

I started carving, and before I knew it, I had about a half platter full of ham laid out. Slowly and purposefully I carved away, and all the while I tried to remember all of the things that Dad had told me—where to cut, how to cut, which pieces to keep and which pieces to put in the scrap bag. The entire time, I pictured my Dad over my shoulder—still instructing, still directing. The entire time, I was reminded that although Dad wasn’t there in many ways, he was there in many other ways.

Before I knew it, the job was done. The entire ham had been carved, and although I definitely wasn’t as precise or stealthy as Dad always was, I was proud of myself.

And then, I went out into our sunroom just off the kitchen and started tearing up; and before I knew it, I was crying really, really hard. The weight of what had just happened hit me. Dad wasn’t there to carve the ham, and he would never be there again. Dad would never be there for another Christmas Eve, another Christmas morning. He’d never be there to help decorate the tree or put up Christmas lights. He would never be there to give Mom weird Christmas gifts or watch all 24 hours of The Christmas Story on television. The weight and gravity of what had happened overwhelmed me. I was being forced to fulfill roles that my Dad had always held because he would no longer be there to hold them.

Mom knew I was upset, and she came out and gave me a hug as we cried together. “I know how much you miss him,” she whispered. “I miss him so much, too.” We cried together for a long, long while before our family showed up, and although we tried to hide our red and weary eyes from them, it was useless. They, too, were hurting. My Dad had been so important to so many of us. We were all grieving, and this first Christmas would be a very difficult one without him.

As we stood there hugging, we felt the emptiness of our home even though there was only one person missing. Dad’s physical presence might have been gone, but it was so easy to picture him there and see and hear him. I thought back on that last year, and I could picture my Dad standing over my shoulder. I could hear his instructions, and I started to think about how none of us on that Christmas Eve in 2012 could have ever predicted that it would be Dad’s last. How we might have acted differently had we known that it would have been.

But all along as I was standing there carving, I could feel Dad still looking over my shoulder, but he was encouraging me in many more areas than simple ham carving. He was telling me that he was still there. I could feel him telling me that it was going to be okay and that everything was going to work out, even though life seemed so sad at the time. Dad’s presence was with us that entire first Christmas in so many ways. It was different, and sad, and at times horribly painful; but then, at other times, Mom and I would find glimpses and reminders of the joy we had experienced when Dad was around. But I know, in both the good moments and the bad, Dad’s memory and spirit was always there with us, telling us that he loved us and that everything would be okay. Dad had received the gift of Eternity with Jesus Christ this year, and we were all thankful that the pain he had riddled his soul for so many years was gone. Forever.

It might also sound dramatic to say this, but I believe it: I know that Dad teaching me how to carve that ham was a gift from God as He saw the stormclouds forming on the horizon. I know from everything I read about God in the Bible that he did not, I repeat, did not give my Dad his depression or cause his death—that was Satan. All good things come from God, including the good things that grow out of horribly dark, bad places. I know that God wished for my Dad to be healthy and happy and alive here with us; although God did not wish for my Father to die so soon, He did control the response to the tragedy and make sure that His glory would help us all survive our shaken family foundation. He did redeem my Father’s death by giving us blessings and safe havens all throughout the tragedy. And ultimately, I know that He redeemed my Father’s death by welcoming him into His loving arms in Eternity. Yes, our family had been damaged and hurt—but not irreparably. God was still building all of us up, and he was using my Dad’s story to save other lives. The pain did not disappear, and in all honesty it still hasn’t. But the pain is accompanied by a deep and abiding belief that God can see my family through anything. No difficulty and none of Satan’s battle tactics can defeat us because I love my Dad and I love my Heavenly Father.

As valuable as the ham-carving skills have become, Dad taught me so much more about Christmas in the 26 years that we celebrated the holiday together here on Earth. Dad always entered the holiday season with a strong sense of joy and excitement, and since losing him, I’ve tried to understand that my own holidays are finite and limited. I only have so many holiday seasons to enjoy with my family and the people I love, and I need to appreciate them for the treasure that they truly are. Unfortunately, it took me losing someone as precious and dear as my Father to understand this difficult truth; and although I don’t do it perfectly in every single moment, I know that I’ve grown to appreciate those simple life moments and the beauty they bring with them, and I think that’s what my Dad would want all of us to learn from his life.

Christmas will never be the same without my Dad; but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good. That doesn’t mean that I have to be so overwhelmed by my grief that I can’t see or experience the happiness that still exists within the world after Dad left us. And as time wears on, I gain even more perspective and focus on the value of life and love, and just how fragile all of it can be. I am reminded of how I know my Dad would have wanted to experience more and more Christmases, and all of the excitement he still had to live for that was stolen from him by a horrible, devastating mental illness. In that way, just like he did standing over my shoulder on that last Christmas, my Dad is still teaching me how to live my life in his death. I don’t always do it perfectly, but I’m doing it better because of him. He’s always standing over my shoulder—gently guiding and instructing me on how to be a better man.

I’m thankful for his instruction. And I’m thankful, each and every Christmas, for the wonderful gift of my Father. And my family is thankful that year after year, I get a little bit better at carving that ham.

Dad, At times, Christmas has felt so empty without you. My heart has been enraptured with pain when I think about what was stolen from you and us by mental illness. You deserved many more Christmases. You deserved to celebrate with our growing family, and to eventually be a Grandfather who were spoiled with your generosity and sense of childlike wonder. The holidays had a special sparkle when you were here to celebrate them, and since you’ve been gone, we’ve all felt an overwhelming sense of loss, guilt, and sadness. But the gift that was given to us was the reassuring truth of knowing that you are safe in God’s arms—free of pain, distress, and all the unfair difficulties that haunted you in this life. Dad, there is no question in my mind where your Eternal mailing address is. I know you are in Heaven, watching down over all of us and telling us that life is going to work out even on the days when the pain of losing you makes it hard to believe. I think of you all the time, but even more so on Christmas. Christmas was a happy time because you provided so much joy to those you loved. Watching the way you enjoyed spending time with your family has been an inspiration to me, and I wish you and I could sit around, share a glass of punch, and laugh again the way we always did. Dad, thank you for teaching me what it means to be a man who loves his family not just at Christmas, but every day of the year. I have many more Christmases to go without you, but I’m looking forward to that first one we can spend together in Eternity. Until that day, I love you. Merry Christmas, Bub.

“This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9 (NLT)

Home

On July 18, 2019 By seeyabubIn Grief1 Comment

“Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

-Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

The emptiness of a vacant home has always been simultaneously eerie and simplisticly beautiful to me. When a home is full, it’s easy to look around and see things: tables, chairs, sofas, pictures, books, vases, towels, silverware, rugs, televisions, appliances, and toys. Our eyes easily bounce from item to item when a home is full of things.

But when those things are removed and all we are left with is unadorned walls and open floors, the noise of those things is gone. Without that noise, we begin to hear the stories that those walls tell, and the laughter, emotion, and tales of years gone by begin to echo throughout the halls. Deep conversations of yesteryear reverberate across the floorboards. The laughter of special family moments slowly drift to consciousness again, and history weaves a new story built through memory. Tearstains once again glisten and reflect the pain of hardship; and love, through the silence, speaks at full volume once more. A silent, empty house speaks loudly, and it tells the story of a vibrant, loving home that once was and, someday again, may be.

Just a few short weeks ago, I found myself in a silent and empty home. One that had meant—and still means—so much to me.

My engagement to Paige has started a wondrous and adventure-filled new chapter of my life, which also involved moving into a new home together in a new neighborhood. Our new home is wonderful, and I love being able to grow closer to one another through the joy and challenge of creating that home together. It’s been a simply perfect move.

The best moves—the most important, healthy moves in our lives—however, can also be simultaneously grounded in the sadness of leaving behind a life we once knew. It’s like getting rid of a t-shirt that is comfortable and has memories but is too small or beyond tattered. That old life of mine took place at a simple, little home on Gateway Drive in Fairfield Township, and as I stood in the frame of the front door looking around at empty walls and barren floors, I began to think about how that house was a haven for me through the most difficult chapter of my entire life.

And in those final moments, I began to hear my Father’s voice again.

In my very first post at Seeya Bub, I mentioned that the first house I ever owned was the one right around the corner from my parents. My Dad was actually instrumental in getting the whole process started. In one of his beyond-frequent conversations with the previous neighbors who owned the home, Dad mentioned that I was looking to purchase a place to live—and they mentioned that they just happened to be thinking about putting theirs back on the market. Dad came home with a sparkle in his already-sparkly smile, and mentioned that he thought I should give it some consideration. The next night, I got a tour from the owners in a house that I had been in many times, and just a few days later they graciously accepted the offer I had sent their way (I recount the full story in another post). Both Mom and Dad were over the moon about the thought of me living within a thirty-six second walk of our family home; and although I had the occasional fear of turning into a real-life Ray Barone, I was also excited to be close to them. I knew that being a first-time homeowner was going to present a host of new challenges—especially to someone like me who lacks the basic skill to do many of the things required of a good homeowner. I knew that, whenever things got tough, Mom and Dad would be right there.

And boy were they ever. In every single scenario in which I ever need my Mother and Father during that first year, they always responded. They truly were perfect neighbors. Just having them next door gave me the confidence, power, and courage to believe that I could be a homeowner—and a good one. It also helped that Mom was next door to help (who am I kidding, “do all of”) my laundry, and Dad was always there if I needed to borrow one of the 638,279 tools he owned.

I’ve often heard that what makes a good neighborhood are good neighbors. I was lucky to live in the best neighborhood because the two best adults I’ve ever known lived right next door.

I owned that wonderful little house for six-and-a-half years after purchasing it in 2012, and standing in the doorway of it on my last day as the owner created a wave of emotion within me that I didn’t expect. I made the decision to go to the house alone on that last day because I had started my journey as a homeowner on my own—it felt only right to leave the house for the last time the same way I had come into it. For a moment, I moved briskly and purposefully as I did the important things I needed to do for the new family who was moving in: I checked to make sure the light bulbs were working, the windows were locked, the floors were clean, and everything was in order.

Once that checklist was exhausted, however, it hit me that there was nothing left to do in this home for me—ever again. I had completed my last obligations to my home on Gateway Drive, and there was nothing left to tend to except the memories that were left behind. And in that moment, I began to walk through each and every room, slowly pondering the stories that were sealed inside those walls.

That silent house spoke loudly in those last few moments, telling the story of the six years I had spent there.

I could easily flash back to the memories I had of Dad helping me move into the house, and all the work that went into making everything as perfect as we could. I remember Mom and Dad both being so excited and bringing me little housewarming gifts as I slowly got settled in. My favorite was the surprise gift that I didn’t discover until it scared bajeezus out me. After a long day at work and announcing, I came home to grab a Coke Zero out of the fridge. Staring up at me from the floorboard were four bearded men printed on a kitchen mat—the cast of Duck Dynasty. Dad had snuck in and left the mat there while I was gone, and in that moment I wondered why I had given him a key!

Mom and Dad were both so excited to see me finally reach this new and invigorating chapter into my journey towards adulthood, and they took particular pride in knowing that I had worked hard to call that house my own; but their help in doing all of the things that needed to be done around the new house was instrumental. From the moment that the house became mine, both Mom and Dad helped me labor to make it feel more like my home. Mom cleaned feverishly and made sure to clean every square inch of the house—from the inside of each kitchen cabinet to the baseboards and windowsills.

My Dad’s biggest task, however, was helping me with a project that I started on before I even took full ownership of the house: reclamation of the backyard pond.

The owners that I had purchased the home from had inherited a beautiful, 12,000 gallon pond that was the centerpiece of this back yard paradise in the middle of suburbia. Gorgeous stones surrounded the entire area of the pond, which had two smaller pools with waterfalls streaming into the main pond. With a greenhouse sitting on the bank of the pond and a lovely brick patio that led right to the front edge of the water, it was a gardener’s dream.

For the previous owners, however, it had been a nightmare.

In the nine years that they had owned the home, they decided to let the pond go dry and dormant. Although that neglect didn’t create any major structural issues, it did leave nine years’ worth of accumulated plant growth, weed takeover, and wildlife infiltration for the new homeowner to deal with.

Which was me—and by association, Dad.

I worked out a deal with the sellers to allow me to come over and work on the outside of the house before they had officially moved out, and Dad and I got to work very, very quickly, along with my good friend, Steve Adams. We thought we had a lot of work ahead of us.

And unfortunately, even that was an underestimation.

For what felt like a few weeks, Steve, Dad, and I would put on our boots, grab any yard tool we could find, and hop into the jungle that had taken over this backyard pond for an evening’s worth of hard labor. Unfortunately, the roots had grown unmanaged for so long that they had all tangled and woven themselves together, leaving a dense root mat about a foot and a half thick in the bottom of the pond. Out of those roots grew cattails and other weeds that were taller than we were! So, for hours and hours each night, the three of us would use a machete (of course my Dad owned a machete) to saw out 30-40 pound chunks of the root mat and weeds, heaving them out of the pond and into a trailer my Dad had borrowed from a friend.

That work was exhausting, no doubt; but it also brought the three of us closer together as we laughed, joked, sweated, complained, and despised everything about having to clean a pond while imagining how serene it would be once everything was finished. We talked about how nice it would be to sit on the back patio as the water bubbled over the rocks, the Lily pads that would eventually grow, and whether or not I would put fish in the pond.

It was the unexpected wildlife, however, that gave me one of the funniest memories I’d ever have in the house. One night while the three of us labored away in the pond, I heard Dad shout unexpectedly. It immediately caught my attention because my Dad rarely shouted, and there were very few times when he was actually surprised, scared, or caught off guard. I had never heard him make a sound like the one that had just come out of his mouth. I turned my head and saw him high-stepping it away from the center of the pond as he looked down towards his boots. Then, I saw him move towards a section of rustling cattails with the stealth, determination, and excitement that I had seen while watching Steve Irwin on episodes of The Crocodile Hunter. All of a sudden, Dad pounced—and he stood up proudly holding a gargantuan snapping turtle by the tail!

“He got me!” Dad yelled. “And now, I got him!”

The turtle, clearly not appreciating being held by his tail, swung wildly and snapped his jaws while Dad tried to stay clear of any nibbling. It was hilarious watching Dad carry this huge turtle around by the tail trying to avoid his bites, and I couldn’t stop laughing at the faces and sounds he was making. He let out an infamous Turtleman “Yeee-yeee-yee! That’s some live action!” yell, channeling one of his favorite television shows at the time, and jumped out of the pond and placing the turtle in a bucket. After watching and admiring his catch, Dad eventually took the turtle down to the nearby canal and released him, happily, along the banks—and all the while, I stayed back at the house laughing at Dad’s encounter, and praying that turtle would never return.

Nearly six years later, on my last day in that home, I stood in the living room looking out between the panes of the sliding glass door with that same pond just fifteen feet away. We had made it look good again, and even though he wasn’t there, I could still picture that moment. I could still hear his laughter. Years removed from seeing Dad, I was immediately taken back to the joy of that moment. Years of loss and hurt and grief couldn’t prevent me from hearing his voice, seeing his smile, and picturing the time we spent together there.

I turned from the door and looked across the empty tile floor of my living room, picturing all of the areas where my couch and television and tables had once been—and ultimately, picturing the spot where Dad had spent so much time with me when he would stop over at the house. One of my favorite parts about living next to my parents was that we didn’t have to make appointments or schedule time in our calendars to see one another—it just happened naturally as a result of living next door. A few nights a week, Mom and Dad would always stop over after dinner to just say hello, catch up, and fellowship with one another. Dad’s visits—as they were with nearly any interaction he ever had on this planet—always turned into rather lengthy stays. Before you even knew it, a fifteen-minute conversation had turned into an hour talk, a few episodes of The Office, and an impromptu nap with full-volume snores in the recliner opposite me on the sectional.

Looking at that spot and knowing how quickly the years had passed since losing Dad, I longed for those simple, everyday interactions again. Yes, I missed the big moments; but it was the everyday visits, the smile, the work coveralls, and the laughter that I remembered and missed most. Maybe even the ridiculously-loud nap snoring. I missed the man more than the moments. I felt guilty when I realized how often I took those simple moments for granted while Dad was alive. I cringed when I thought of all the times that I secretly wished Dad might leave after being at the house for two or three hours because I had things that were seemingly more important that I needed to finish. Looking back, it was painful for me to realize that nothing, nothing, could have ever been as important as those little moments. And I wanted them back more than anything.

With tears beginning to well up in my eyes, I moved through the kitchen and into the living room, reminding myself of all the moments that Dad had come over to fix this or repair that. I saw his handiwork, care, and attention-to-detail in every corner of my home, and those little details brought back a flood of painful loss. How many times had I taken his talents for granted? When it came to construction, home repairs, building, and repairing, there was no one—absolutely no one—more talented than my Dad. God gave him a builder’s heart and mind—and He gave it all to him because I inherited absolutely none of that same talent. Looking through the house as it sat empty, I found little areas where Dad had patched drywall, painted, or fixed things around the house. These were things that only I would have noticed because he had fixed and repaired them so perfectly. Standing in the house, I wished that I had listened to and learned from my Dad so much more than I did. His talents and servant’s heart to help me, his only son, made my first foray into homeownership manageable, and I wished he had had more time to showcase his talents to the world.

I walked down the hallway, and continued to see his carpentry skill reflected in my home office—my favorite room of the entire house. Since the time I was little, I always wanted to have my own home office/library filled with books, baseball memorabilia, paintings, and portraits adorning the walls. I don’t know where it came from, but for as long as I can remember, I’d had a very specific vision for what I wanted that office to look like: walls divided with a white chair molding running throughout, red paint on the bottom and a soft, light brown paint on top, wood furniture, lots of books, and plenty of bobbleheads. Shortly after moving in, Dad helped me do just that.

The books and bobbleheads had been removed months earlier, but the chair molding and paint were still on the walls, and I couldn’t help but run my hands across the work Dad had done and feel like I was right there next to him again. His work put breath to his memory even though he had taken his final breath many years ago. He treated that job, like every job he had, with an obsessive attention to detail, making sure the chair molding ran into the closet, ended at a perfect angle, and didn’t impede the closet door’s ability to close. It was exactly what I wanted.

But in this grand tour of a home that once was, I also couldn’t ignore the fact that this was a home filled with hurt, pain, and trauma. It was that very office where I was sitting when I received the call that there was an emergency at my parents’ house, and that I needed to come home quickly. It was that office where I sat and cried for nights after losing my Dad—constantly reading my Bible, searching for answers, and finding very few that could adequately soothe the grief and hurt I felt. It was that office where I rediscovered a letter my Dad had written to me as a “freshie” in high school—and I glared at the spot where I had read his words knowing that those would be the final, loving, encouraging messages I would ever receive from him. For all the times that I had enjoyed that office and the comfort it provided, it was also the epicenter of the most painful chapter of my life.

Next to the office, I found the spare bedroom and began to cry, resurrecting the many tears that had been shed there shortly after losing Dad. I remember walking in that room the night that Dad had passed away. It was the middle of the night, and the house had finally quieted from all the visitors who came to help soothe my family’s wounds. Quiet, however, doesn’t lead to sleep when you’re trying to make sense of a traumatic loss. Sleep evades those who are hurting and grasping for answers and explanation—and it would evade me on this night. I knocked on the door and slowly opened it, finding Mom resting on the spare bed with our dog, Lucy, right by her side. Like me, Mom couldn’t sleep either. I went into the room, sat on the ground, and just began sobbing. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night, and I couldn’t even think about making it through the days and months and years that would come without Dad. Mom and I just sat there as the moon shone through the blinds for a long time, talking and crying and trying to build each other’s confidence for the difficult road ahead. Like she did so many times after losing Dad, Mom found a way to comfort me even though she was hurting as well. Standing in that room on my last day in the house, the pain of that evening was as real as it ever was; and it was hard to believe how Mom and I had come so far from that hopeless, desperate moment.

I moved to the room opposite me in the hallway and found my own bedroom. In the back corner of the house, this had been my own personal retreat for so long. The darkened gray walls there had created a comfortable, soothing surrounding—but after losing Dad, it was impossible to feel comfortable. On certain nights, those walls felt like a prison. As I thought back to all the times I had slept in that room, I also thought back over the many nights in which I had not been able to sleep because the pain of my Dad’s loss was too real, too monstrous. There were so many monumental moments of grief contained within those four walls. It was the spot where I wrestled with my faith, wondering why a God I loved—and a God who I knew loved my Father and me—would allow something this disastrous to strike our home. The day of my Dad’s death, I sat up in my bed as my pastor, Harville, sat in a chair in the corner of the room doing his best to answer questions about my grief that even he didn’t quite understand. It was the spot where I first saw my friend, Chris, after many years of our friendship being estranged. He walked into that room and hugged me the day after he had heard about my Dad’s death, and instantly all of the petty things that had separated us for so long completely evaporated, and the redemptive power of God’s love renewed a friendship that hate could not keep apart. It was the spot, on the evening of my Father’s funeral, where I felt completely incapable of even getting out of bed. It was that spot where my Great Aunt, “Auntie” Vivian, prayed for me to have the strength to get up, to fight again, and to persevere. It was where she opened up to me and shared how she overcame the debilitating grief of being widowed four times throughout her life. It was the spot where she told me how hard those days were, and how much she knew I missed my Dad, but also where she promised me that God would redeem all of this hurt and sorrow. There were many nights, sitting on that bed into the late hours of the evening and the early hours of the morning, where I would read my Bible and other books about grief, searching for answers that I needed—some of which I received, and others of which I’m still searching for.

Yes, that bedroom witnessed some of the darkest moments of my grief in some very, very tumultuous days; but it also served as the stage for my own recovery, offering hope and guidance, strength and renewal.

Eventually, I found the strength to walk outside of the house to the area I envisioned having the hardest time saying goodbye to—the empty sideyard. That sideyard had been important to me since before I even owned the home because that was the spot that connected to my parent’s yard—the spot where Dad and I would toss. The previous owners had always been kind enough to let us use their yard to toss a baseball back and forth. On that last day, even though it was nearly five years removed from the last time I played catch with my Dad, I could still hear and feel the pop of the glove. I could still feel the roughness of the tattered old baseball we tossed. I could still hear Dad’s laugh when I missed an easy catch—which happened more often than it should have. I could still feel the sweat of my brow after a fun session of back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and I could still feel the joy that the simplicity of tossing a baseball brought to the two of us.

On many nights after losing Dad—more nights than I care to count—I found myself walking out into that sideyard in the middle of the night for relief and peace and grieving. I’d sit down in the wet grass and look across the empty, moon-bathed yard, and on the other side I’d see an emptiness where my Dad should have been that haunted me and exposed the depths of my grief. Sometimes for just a few minutes, and other times for an hour or more, I’d sit there crying, laughing, reminiscing, and wishing more than anything that my Dad would magically reappear with glove in hand, ready to toss again. That sideyard was my sanctuary of sorts because of the memories that were there, and on that last day, a part of me felt as if letting go of the house also meant I had to let go of all the memories that were there.

And on the opposite end of that empty sideyard sat my childhood home—the place where I had spent my most formative years as a son of Scott and Becky Bradshaw. I am fortunate that that household is filled with such positive, warm, and loving memories. I am thankful to God for giving me parents that built a home any child would be lucky to live in, and it had nothing to do with the walls, paint, or windows. It had everything to do with feeling like I was safe and accepted there. It had everything to do with feeling like my parents were molding me into someone better each and every day.

The proximity of Mom’s house after losing Dad, however, was also a blessing that neither one of us foresaw at the time that I signed the contract. Having my parents right next door was a life-saver when I had bought they home and they were both alive—especially that one time that my breaker box caught on fire and could have potentially burnt the entire structure into a heap of ashes. It doesn’t matter how old you are when that happens—you always need your parents.

But what I didn’t foresee initially was God’s larger plan. I didn’t see the storm waves brewing on the horizon that God saw, and I didn’t know that He was strategically giving me that house to live in at the exact moment in time that I needed to be there. There were so many nights after losing Dad that having Mom right next door was extremely soothing for both of our grieving hearts. Looking back on all those moments, I could feel God’s hand moving over the entire experience. And I’m thankful—even though the storm did come—that he brought me through the other side by giving me that home. He put me there for a reason, and I’m thankful for it.

When you live in a house for six years, it’s amazing how much “stuff” you can accumulate. It’s insane to see how many physical possessions you can accumulate in that relatively short amount of time. What’s more shocking, however, is the amount of emotional “stuff” that can be contained under that solitary roof. It’s amazing that one house can tell that many stories. On that last day, it finally hit home how much of this pivotal chapter of my life was tied to that place, and it utterly overwhelmed me.

As the packing and moving process wore on longer than I wanted it to, I started to recognize some of my hoarding tendencies, wondering why I had kept items that were clearly of no use to me thinking that, someday, I’d find a use for them. As freeing as it was to dispose of truckbed after truckbed of garbage, there was also a part of me that wondered if I was throwing something away that, later, I’d regret. I am really hoping that Chemistry self-help book I bought my junior year of high school and never used isn’t worth thousands of dollars on eBay because it currently resides atop a heap of trash at Rumpke.

However, as I packed my things and the house grew emptier and emptier, I also had to convince myself that I would be able to take my memories with me when I left. Letting go of the house, in a sense, felt like I was also turning my back on a life that once was. There were so many pivotal experiences that occurred within those walls, and there was a part of me that felt as if leaving the house also meant I was throwing those experiences away.

As I said goodbye, I had to remind myself that all the good memories I had made with Dad in this home and in this neighborhood weren’t going away the second I handed over the keys. In fact, those intangible, powerful memories would be the most important things I would take with me. Yes, there were some physical reminders of Dad’s life that I had to leave behind when I said goodbye to that little home; but that would never, never erase or dilute the power of the memories that I would take with me forever.

Nonetheless, that last day was an emotional one. It was a marker in how far I’ve come since losing Dad. It was a reminder that, in spite of the moments which felt as if my grief would completely diminish the quality of my life, despair would never win. Yes, I lost my Dad to suicide—but I continued to live. I found a wonderful partner who loves me unconditionally, and someone who I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with, tackling new adventure after new adventure together as husband and wife. Over those years, I grew closer to my Mom and other family members as we found new ways to live without Dad, even though our hearts were hurting. I took new jobs (and some old ones), traveled to new places, met new people, and experienced new experiences that I couldn’t ever envision in my most fantastical dreams.

Life has happened in that house when life didn’t always seem livable after losing my Dad—and I thank God that He continued to let life happen there.

Standing in that door frame for the last time, I looked out upon the little house that had given me comfort, shelter, and peace in the most difficult chapter of my entire life. I closed my tear-filled eyes and heard the sounds of Dad’s voice, laughter, and joking once more. I remembered the faces of people who gathered in my home the day we lost Dad, and I remembered their sincerity and concern, their gratitude and love. I thought of the hopeless nights where I bathed in my grief, but I remembered the hopeful ones, too. And all throughout, I heard the echo of my Dad’s voice telling me that it was time for the next adventure, and that he would never, ever leave me.

He was telling me that it was okay to say goodbye to that house.

I walked over and sat an envelope on the counter for the new owners, which contained a handwritten letter telling them the hope I had for their future as the newest residents of Gateway Drive. I told them how that house had been a safe-haven for me in a dark and stormy time. I expressed to them my excitement that that house would give them all the positive memories that it had given me. And I prayed that they would find the same love, warmth, and serenity that I had found there.

And as I sat that letter down on the counter and turned towards the door, I said a thank you one last time. I said goodbye to a chapter of my life that would never be relived—both the good and the bad. And the finality of that moment spoke to my heart, encouraging me to go but to take all my wonderful memories with me.

I walked out of the door for the very last time, and said goodbye and thank you. And I was grateful that, through it all, that little house on Gateway Drive had become a home and provided everything to me that I ever needed—including the things I never knew I’d need.

An empty house might sound silent, but if you listen closely, it will tell the deepest and most important stories of your heart. I’m thankful that I listened.

Dad, Leaving my house on Gateway Drive for the last time felt like I was leaving another piece of you behind. It’s so easy for me to associate you with that house because you were so instrumental in making my first home a reality. You were there, step by step, as I faced the challenges of becoming a new homeowner, and you helped me face those head-on….or shell-on in the case of that vicious snapping turtle in the pond! I have so many positive memories of the year that we lived right next door to one another. I miss you showing up at the backdoor and hanging out just because you wanted to say hello. There were moments in that home after losing you that were so difficult—but they were also so important. They were moments where I could picture you and see you and hear your voice again, and as the years wear on, part of me worries that I’ll lose some of those memories. But Dad, you’re always with me—whether I own that home or not. You’re always walking right alongside of me guiding and directing me, and I’ll never, ever forget that. I’m glad for that year we spent as neighbors, but I’m even more grateful for the 26 years we spent as Father and Son. Dad, I’ll never quit loving you. I’ll never quit wishing you were still here with us, and that the pain you felt on this Earth had never existed. But I’ll also never stop thinking about the moment that you and I will be reunited again in Heaven. We will be neighbors in an Eternal Kingdom, and I’ll look forward to more-than-a-lifetime of laughter and love again. But until that day, seeya Bub.

“The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.” Matthew 7:25 (NIV)

Jealous

On June 5, 2019 By seeyabubIn GriefLeave a comment

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, 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)

A Pat On The Head

On February 4, 2019February 5, 2019 By seeyabubIn GriefLeave a comment

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.

Dad, 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.