Home

“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.


Home on Gateway DriveIn 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.

Chair Molding from Home OfficeThe 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.

Me Dad and Lucy at Picnic with SB LogoDad, 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)

I’m Here

I think the college crisis is worse than the mid-life crisis.

I mean, come one, at least you get a motorcycle out of the latter.

I was in college. Away at college. And I felt like I just needed to get away.

I think I’ve always dealt with anxiety to a certain extent. In a sense, I think I’ve had those moments where the world just feels too overwhelming at different points throughout my life. It’s likely that I’ve suffered here and there from anxiety before I could even put a name to it.

But even though I didn’t quite know what was going on or why, my Dad seemed to know. And he seemed to understand.

And most importantly, he was there.

The Fall of my junior year in college was not the Fall I had anticipated. I was living in an apartment in Oxford, and I was navigating one of those difficult moments of my life where the road was not only less-traveled, but it was windy and curvy and full of potholes and empty of any road signs. A road that had once seemed so straight and so predictable was suddenly anything but. It was treacherous, and I was trembling.

For the few months leading up to this moment, I had been questioning so much about my journey, mainly my vocational call. For my entire life, for as long as I could remember, I had said I wanted to be a teacher (except for that one weird phase when I mysteriously wanted to be a park ranger… too much Yogi Bear I guess…). When I was little, I would actually make-believe that I was a teacher in a classroom before I even started going to school myself. Once I went to school, I took an immediate liking to it. I enjoyed being in classrooms, and I always got along with my teacher and had deep admiration and respect for them.

As a youngster, I said I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher—mainly because kindergarten was all I knew. And it was awesome. We had fingerpaints, and snacks, and we were home by noon. Even as a little kid, I would often think about all of the fun activities I would someday replicate for my own students. I pictured the joy they would experience, all the coloring we would do, and the impact I would have in their little lives.

But then, once I got into middle school, I began to really enjoy my English and Social Studies and Science classes (no offense, math teachers), and my dream of teaching kindergarten began to fade. I was slowly warming up to the idea of teaching a single subject and working with older students. Also, Barney had lost his appeal…thank God.

And just when I thought I had everything figured out, I made it to high school…and, go figure, I decided I wanted to be a high school teacher. Specifically, I wanted to teach high school English. I loved my English classes. I loved reading, and I enjoyed writing, and I really appreciated the opportunities to be creative, explore different worlds, and express myself in ways that only literature and the written word could provide. I dreamt of sharing that excitement with my high school students. I longed for the days when I could choose the books they would read. I thought intensely about lectures I would give, activities and discussions I would lead, and the hundreds of students I would be able to reach.

It was no surprise to people who knew about my dream that I decided to go to Miami University and pursue a degree in teacher education. What was a surprise to those who knew me best, however, was my decision to leave it all behind and run in a different direction.

At the end of my sophomore year, I was having serious misgivings about my vocational choice. I had taken a number of education courses, and I just didn’t enjoy them nearly as much as I enjoyed the content-focused courses in the English department. Especially one class, taught by an arrogant and demeaning faculty member who was supposedly an “expert” in classroom techniques, even though he had spent only one year in the field actually teaching (wow, I guess I’m still bitter about that!). I learned I would rather be reading fiction novels than reading about how to teach them. I realized I wanted to work in education, but not the education I had always known.

So, I changed majors. To American Studies. The study of America. It sounded interesting. And…it happened to be the first major listed alphabetically in Miami University’s course catalog. The divine providence of the English alphabet still amazes me.

I dug into the curriculum, and the major looked perfect for me. I could take courses in all the areas I was passionate about and largely self-design a major that met my academic interests and desires. Literature. Communications. Political Science. Media and Journalism. History. Psychology. Nothing was off the table. It was a perfect mix.

It was also completely terrifying. People who got teacher education degrees became teachers. People who got American Studies degrees became…professional American Studiers? I had no idea what I was going to do with this degree, but I knew that studying those particular topics would make me extremely happy. Even though I was confident in my content choice, however, it didn’t diminish the employability concerns I had.

All of those feelings then decided to collide in the Fall of my junior year. Classes had only been in session for a few weeks, and I was unbelievably worried that I had made a huge mistake by dropping out of the teacher education program at Miami. Being a teacher was what I had wanted to do forever. Now, I was taking great classes, but also closing myself off from what had been my lifelong dream. Had I made a huge mistake? An irreversible one?

I was also dealing with many other huge life changes. I had made the transition from Miami’s Regional campus in Hamilton to the main campus in Oxford, and life on a residential campus was great—but it was also much different from what I was used to. Any transition, no matter when it happens, causes some anxiety. Making this transition into adulthood while simultaneously questioning the only dream I had ever known collided together in a wave of desperation and doubt, and on a random Wednesday night, I could only think of one thing…

I needed to get away.

I had been sitting in my apartment all day attempting to study. Instead, I was obsessing over the decisions I had made and convincing myself that they were all mistakes. At that time, I wouldn’t have even known what an anxiety attack was; nor would I have ever believed I was having one. Now, knowing what I know about mental illness, it’s easy to see that I was in the midst of a really severe period of overwhelming, paralyzing anxiety. The worst part is that I had kept all of this to myself. Like my Dad, I wasn’t crazy about letting people into my world far enough to see my darkness. I didn’t like the idea of telling other people I was hurting or confused or overwhelmed. I would internalize all of these feelings and endlessly ruminate over them, which likely fed a vicious loop of self-criticism and doubt that paralyzed me emotionally. And near the end of that night, I decided to get in the car and drive for a bit because getting away was the only thing I knew to do.

I got in the car and didn’t really know where I was going. In the age before smartphones or GPS devices, this was always a bit of a scary endeavor for a directionally-challenged individual like me. So I told myself to turn right out of my apartment complex, drive in a straight line, and see where it would take me.

As I drove in my silver Envoy, I passed cornfields and….well, cornfields. I began to think about everything, and my emotions started to get the best of me. Before I knew it, with the radio turned all the way down, I was beginning to tear up. I started to call myself names, questioning how I could have been so stupid to do what I had done over the past few months. How was it possible that one person could make so many idiotic decisions? And…why did that person have to be me? I drove across the Indiana state line—which sounds super dramatic to those who don’t know the geography of Oxford. Indiana was only about ten minutes away from campus, but there was something metaphorically significant about crossing a state line that made this drive feel scary. I felt like I was running away from something. I felt like I was giving up.

It was in the midst of all of these thoughts and doubts when my cell phone (a sweet Motorola Razr) began to buzz. I looked at the screen and the caller ID read “Incoming Call, Dad.”

I hesitated to pick up the phone, but after a few seconds I knew I had to. I collected myself and flipped the phone open (remember when phones used to flip?!) and put it to my ear. “Hey, Dad,” I said lightly.

“Hey, Bub. I’m here. Can you let me in?”

“You’re where?” I replied nervously.

“At your apartment. I’m standing outside,” he said.

“Oh, uh….I’m not home,” I answered.

“Where are you?” he questioned, a bit surprised.

“I….I don’t know,” I said. And then, I started to fall apart again.

I told my Dad how I just needed to go on a little drive. That I didn’t know where I was going, both on this drive and in life. I shared everything with Dad, and I let him in.

My situation hadn’t changed, but there was an immediate relief in being able to finally tell someone that I was having serious doubts.

“Bub, why don’t you come back and we will sit together and talk?” he said to me.

I listened. And I turned around. And I drove in a straight line until I was back at my apartment where I saw my Dad standing on my front porch.

The reason this story is so important is because I hadn’t told my Dad anything about how I was feeling before he drove to Oxford to visit me that night. And driving to Oxford on a whim like that was not a regular occurrence. My Mom and Dad were always planners. They came to visit me pretty often when I lived in Oxford, but they always scheduled it ahead of time. Even in college I kept a really busy schedule, so we usually had their visits to Oxford scheduled in advance.

Which is why Dad’s visit on that night was all the more special—because Dad had picked up on the fact that something was wrong. We had talked earlier in the day, but I thought I had concealed my feelings pretty well. I thought I had been able to keep my sadness to myself.

But Dad had realized that something wasn’t right. He could pick up on the fact that there was something troubling me. He knew that I wasn’t okay.

And because I wasn’t okay, he was there. He was there without warning. He was there in a moment’s notice. He was there as long as I needed him. And he was there at just the right moment.

Eerily, I look back on that night and it is strangely reminiscent of the last conversation I ever had with my Dad, even though our roles were reversed. On this night, I was the confused wanderer, perplexed by my inexplicable emotions. Dad, on the other hand, was the encourager. The trusted confidant. The Father full of wisdom and, most importantly, love.

We sat in my apartment and talked through all of the things I was feeling. I told him about my concerns for an eventual job after graduation, and Dad told me not to worry. He told me that I could major in anything, and that I would find a way to be successful. “You’re too talented,” he would say, “and any career you decide to pursue will be a good one.” Dad built up my academic confidence, reminding me that I had many years of success in the classroom that were proof of my ability to conquer the road ahead. Even in the midst of our serious conversation, Dad found a way to land a perfect joke or two at just the right moment at my expense. “How many girls have you had over to your apartment OTHER THAN the ones in that Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition calendar you have?”

Comeback? Anyone? I had nothing.

I don’t remember all the things that we talked about on that night, but I do remember this: I felt better. None of my circumstances had changed, but I felt relief. None of my decisions were any better or worse than they had originally been, but I felt hope. I felt security. I felt confidence.

And I felt all of this because of two simple words my Dad had spoken.

“I’m here.”

It was more than just physically being in my apartment. When Dad said “I’m here,” he meant he was there. He was in my corner. He was rooting me on. He was leading the way on that windy, curvy, confusing road when I couldn’t see far enough ahead to make sense of the journey. He was giving me all of the support and encouragement I would need. I don’t know whether or not my Dad agreed with my major switch, and I’m thankful for that. Instead, I know that Dad said he trusted my ability to make my own decisions. He trusted that I would find success. He empowered me to believe in myself.

Dad stayed at my apartment for a few hours that night. If my memory serves me correctly, he eventually coerced me into going out for dinner against my will. We came back to the apartment and watched television together for a little while. And then, when the night was nearing its end, he hugged me and told me that he loved me before he left for home.

My Dad didn’t have all the answers that night, so he did something even better.

He was there.

And I wish he was still here because there have been so many moments, just like this one, where I still need him.

There have been moments in my life, and there will always be moments, where I will revert to that same young college kid from many years ago—a young, lost, and wandering boy who just needs his Father for a little encouragement and advice. There have been moments when I’ve been at a crux in the road with an important decision to make that I’ve grabbed for my phone (no longer a Razr) and began dialing those familiar numbers, only to realize that he will never again pick up on the other line. There have been moments when I have felt his loss so deeply that I break down inexplicably, unable to escape the grief of losing him so suddenly, unexpectedly. Those moments are completely paralyzing. They rob me of my joy; but they can never rob me of my Dad’s memory.

That’s because even though Dad isn’t here, he is here. Even though he has been gone from this Earth for nearly five years now, I still feel Dad’s gentle hand guiding me and directing me on a daily basis. Although I can’t experience his physical embrace, I feel his watchful eye from up above, encouraging me when I doubt, celebrating with me when I find joy, and telling me that he is proud of me over and over and over again. When I open my eyes, I only see his absence; but when I close them, I see that beaming smile, those kind eyes, and a Father who is still with his wandering son.

I still feel my Dad saying “I’m here” in those moments where I crave his presence most. I hear him reminding me that he is here with me in each and every moment. There will be crises and good moments and desperate moments that fill the pages of my own life story, but it will be my Dad’s spiritual presence that is the common denominator in all of those moments. I am fortunate that I have a Heavenly Father who guides and directs me in the God I serve, but I’m lucky because I have another Father in Heaven doing the same exact thing.

My Dad may be gone, but he is still here.

Me Dad and Lucy at Picnic with SB LogoDad, There were so many moments just like that night in college where your presence alone was all I needed to find happiness. You had an uncanny way of knowing the moments when people needed you most, and you responded with grace and unconditional love each time you were called. Nearly every day, Dad, I experience a moment when I just wish more than anything that you were here. I miss your smile, your voice, your heart, your shiny bald head, and everything that made you so very special. But in those moments where I experience your loss most severely, I try and remind myself that you are here. You are still watching. You are still listening. And you are still loving me and all those who feel your absence. Dad, thank you for always being there and for still being here. Thank you for being at my side at a moment’s notice–both in the moments when I knew I needed you, and especially in those I didn’t. I’ll never be able to say thank you enough. But, until that day when I try my best to let you know how much you are missed and how much you are loved, seeya Bub.

“Behold, I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land. For I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” Genesis 28:15 (ESV)

The Inside Cover

Usually, I only write my last name on the inside cover of the books I own (which is too many). Mostly in bright red pen, I emblazon “BRADSHAW” in all capital letters in the top left hand corner of most of my books. Just in case I decide to lend my precious books out and they don’t find their way home, I want the perpetrator to be haunted with the guilt of their thievery forever and ever.

But my Bible? Well, that’s a different story…

Since shortly after graduating from Miami, I’ve carried a hardcover Zondervan Bible. It’s a TNIV (Today’s New International Version) men’s Bible called Strive that I picked up at Half-Price Books. I love it, and I always have. It has great inserts with thought-provoking questions, profiles of historical figures from my faith’s past, and counters to modern-day myths associated with a man’s journey as a Christian.

This is the Bible I’ve always read since I started drawing closer with my faith after college. I read all the way through this Bible from cover to cover, which was a big accomplishment for me. I’ve marked that Bible up with underlinings and notes and circles of passages that grabbed my heartstrings or caused me to think of my faith in a new light. This was the Bible I was reading before my Dad died that has a deeply significant timeline drawn between Psalms 68 and 69—the before and after line marking my Dad’s death during my reading journey. It’s the Bible that I’ve carried with me to church each and every Sunday—on the days that I’ve wanted to go, and on the days when I’ve been so shattered by the grief I feel that I have to drag myself there. This Bible has traveled with me in countless rental cars and hotel rooms when I travel for my job. The thin plastic protective cover has started to peel, and some of the pages might be creased, but it’s never diminished the value of the precious words inside.

The words in the Bible tell the story of my faith; but the words I’ve written on the inside cover help remind me why I believe.

A year or so before my Dad passed, I made a decision about the inside cover of my Bible. I told myself that I was going to wait for the most poignant, thought-provoking, powerful statements about my faith in God and lodge them there. Once I heard those phrases, I would write them on the inside cover of my Bible. It was a pretty simple premise, but one that I took seriously.

I took it seriously because the inside cover of my Bible is precious real estate. It’s the first thing you see when you open the book. Once you use up all the space on the inside cover of your Bible, it’s gone. You can never get another inside cover.

That first quote on the inside cover of my Bible is still my favorite one.

I didn’t write the date (an addition I would add to future quotes). I didn’t note the particular sermon. I didn’t even write it in red pen! (My coworkers probably are probably shocked to see my writing in anything but red pen.) I do, however, remember the speaker who introduced that quote to me.

It was my pastor, Reverend Harville Duncan. I always loved Harville’s messages because they were intellectually challenging, thought-provoking, convicting yet hopeful. His messages always had powerful themes and nuggets of wisdom all throughout that challenged me in my faith in ways that I didn’t think was possible. He also made a somewhat-weekly LA Fitness reference which I conveniently tallied on a post-it note in the back of my Bible (and just in case you’re curious, he told 67 LA Fitness stories between 2013 and his retirement in 2016, with a +/-3% sampling error for the services I missed).

More important than any LA Fitness reference, however, was the quote from Reverend Duncan that founds its way into my Bible:

“You should not go to the Lord and tell Him how big the mountain is. You should go to the mountain and tell it how big your God is!”

It wasn’t an original quote, but it was new to me—and it was beautiful. I had never heard that phrase, but I loved it. It gave me courage that I never thought I’d need. It helped me visualize strength in the midst of difficult circumstances. I just loved it, and I knew the second that I heard it where it should belong.

I grabbed a pen from the pew in the middle of his sermon, and I inscribed the quote in my typical all capital (albeit blue) writing on the inside cover of my Bible.

It’s been there ever since; but more importantly, it’s been in my heart and mind every single day since I wrote it down.

I loved the quote—and in a few months, I would need that quote.


When I decided to speak at my Dad’s funeral, I honestly had no idea what I was going to say. I had no words for what had happened just a few days prior. What could I possibly say at that lectern to capture the love I felt for my Dad and the grief I felt in losing him? It just wasn’t possible. I didn’t have the courage.

I did something on that day that I have rarely done when it comes to public speaking. I didn’t prepare at all. I didn’t write out any notes. I didn’t rehearse my eulogy like I typically would any other time I spoke in public. I didn’t even have a general outline. I played a few things through my head during the few quiet times I had in the days after Dad’s death, but nothing would stick. I just prayed that God would give me the strength to say what He wanted me to say in that moment. I didn’t know what to say—but He did.

In an effort to try and prepare, I sat down at my desk the morning of my Dad’s funeral. Adjusting my black suit as I sat down, I said a quick prayer and asked God for guidance, perspective, and a courageous spirit. I told him how beat down I was. I told him that I had never felt this kind of pain before, and that I didn’t know what to do with any of it. I told him that I was completely lost, and insecure, and doubting whether or not I could live life without my Dad.

And then, I opened my Bible. And there it was:

“YOU SHOULD NOT GO TO THE LORD AND TELL HIM HOW BIG THE MOUNTAIN IS. YOU SHOULD GO TO THE MOUNTAIN AND TELL IT HOW BIG YOUR GOD IS.”

Bible Inside CoverGod wanted me to hear that message the day that I originally wrote it down, but he wanted me to live it in this new storm. That was the message God gave to me in a moment of ease to prepare me for a lifetime of perplexing grief. That was the message that God put on Harville’s heart, knowing he would need to pass it along to the members of the flock he cared for. That would be the message of my life, given to help save it.

And that would be the message I would need to say goodbye to my Dad.


I spoke at the funeral that day, and although I didn’t have a clear framework of where I wanted to head with my message, I knew that God wanted me to share this one truth. He had put it on my heart (and on my Bible cover) for a reason. This was that reason.

I didn’t talk long that day. I physically couldn’t. I talked about my Dad and how much I missed him. I talked about the sadness we felt as a family and the gaping hole we would feel in his absence. I shared some stories about his sense of humor. And I was honest with the few hundred friends and family members who had gathered to say goodbye to my Dad. The truth that, deep down, I didn’t know how my Mom and I would ever get through this. I was deeply confused, and I had questions that I feared would never be answered.

But I told them that Harville had shared an important quote with me and our church shortly before my Dad’s death. “We should not go to the Lord and tell Him how big the mountain is,” I said with slowly mustering confidence. “Instead, we should go to the mountain and tell it how big our God is.”

I looked out across the darkened sanctuary, and although I saw tear-stained faces, I also saw nods. I saw people nodding, and smiling through their grief, and encouraging my Mom and I to never give up. I saw people believing that my Dad’s death would be a huge, looming mountain; but I saw them believing that God could help us climb that mountain and conquer it with the strength only He can provide.

The mountain of grief we were facing would never, ever go away; but neither would the Almighty God who could help us climb it.


A few weeks after the funeral, as life began to ease its way into a difficult new-normal, I got an unexpected gift from my Uncle Lee. Lee was my Mom’s only brother, my Dad’s only brother-in-law. Dad and my Uncle Lee may have been brothers-in-law, but they had a bond of brotherhood that was enviable to this only child. They grew up as teenagers playing softball together. They played pick-up basketball together with members of our church from the time I was little. They would always count on one another for help with big household projects, appliance repairs, and the ever-occurring backyard swimming pool problems. I think Uncle Lee and my Dad always got along with one another because they are unbelievably similar—for all the right reasons. They are two of the most hardworking individuals I’ve ever known. They provide for their families without ever begrudging the hard days and long hours. They are each humble to a fault, never boasting or seeking credit for the amazing work they do. I know that when my Dad died, Uncle Lee was just as devastated as anyone else—and rightly so. My Dad had been the brother that he never had, and now he was gone.

In the immediate aftermath of losing my Dad, Uncle Lee was one of the first people on the scene—and one of the last to leave. He stayed with my Mom and I anytime we needed him. He helped us with countless chores and projects around our homes, cutting our lawns and helping with other repairs. He was there for emotional support, even though he was grieving himself.

His personal grief was real, but he always found a way to make sure he was a source of strength for my Mom and I whenever we needed him. I’ll never be able to thank him enough for the support he gave us, and his gift to me after losing my Dad inspires me in new ways every day.

His gift was a sign—a beautiful sign. Uncle Lee wanted to give me a reminder that the words I spoke at Dad’s funeral were more than just words; they represented an undeniable truth. He knew that I would need to do more than remember those words—I would need to live them. So, to help me remember, Uncle Lee made me a beautiful sign that read: “Don’t tell GOD how big the mountain is, Tell the mountain how big GOD is!”

Sign from Uncle Lee

I cried like a baby when I saw that sign for the first time. I ran my hands to and fro across the sign as I read the words and wept at the thought of losing my Dad and living life without him. But I also smiled and nodded my head through the tears because I knew those words were absolutely true. I knew that those words would guide me through the unchartered waters of grief and loss. I would go to that mountain of grief and despair, and I would let God guide me to the peak. This sign was an overflowing of the love in my Uncle’s heart. I’ll always be thankful to him for loving my Mom and I, and I’ll always have this sign to remember the courage and belief he had in us to overcome.

And let me tell you…I’ve needed the reminder many, many times.

Those words would become a mantra to me in the months and milestones that passed after losing Dad—and they still are. Especially in the weeks that followed after losing him, I would recite those words to myself over and over and over again first-thing every morning. I would wake up from a restless, nightmare-laden night. I would take a few deep breaths, trying to shake away the reality of losing my Dad. I would dread having to face the world without my Dad by my side. And on those days when it was hard to believe, I recited the words that I knew would carry me through: “Don’t tell God how big the mountain is; tell the mountain how big God is.”

On nights filled with paralyzing pain, I would have trouble peeling myself off of the couch. There were many nights when I would collapse in the floor of my living room, convulsing and weeping at the mere mention of my Dad’s name. And in those horribly painful moments, I would say those words again: “Don’t tell God how big the mountain is; tell the mountain how big God is.”

And on days when Satan crept into my mind and tried to convince me that my Dad’s death from suicide was unforgiveable, I would beat back his ploys with the truth of God’s love. I would remind myself that God doesn’t just love a chosen few. He chooses to love all of us—including my Dad, mental illness and all. And I would say, with a smile on my face and an eye towards the heavens “Don’t tell God how big the mountain is; tell the mountain how big God is.”

That beautiful sign hangs above the window in my home office, my favorite retreat nestled in the back corner of my home. It’s the office my Dad helped me paint. It’s the office where he installed a beautiful chair molding to help me execute the vision I had for a lovely baseball-themed workroom. And there, above the window where I stare out and daydream, hangs the sign that my Uncle Lee made me with the words that have carried me through my grief. I look at it often, especially when I write. I let it remind me God has a bigger purpose for our pain. He doesn’t demolish the mountains in our lives. He grabs us by the hand and helps us navigate the terrain until we reach the mountaintop.

I live my life relying on those words. I live those words knowing that they were written in the inside cover of my Bible for a reason. That reason is bigger than anything I’ll ever be able to explain on this side of Eternity; but I still trust them. I believe that they are true because they’ve carried me this far. No mountain will ever be too big for my God, and every time I open my Bible that truth jumps out at me—both on the inside cover, and in every single story those pages tell.

Dad in Easter SuitDad, You were always so courageous and so brave, and I wish I had more of that in me. You never let a daunting challenge intimidate you. You believed in your ability, and you believed in your God. Ironically, it was watching your brave example that prepared me to survive the grief of losing you. You taught me that I could do anything if I believed in God and let Him lead my way. Dad, I don’t focus on the one battle that you lost with depression. Instead, I focus on the many years that you fought successfully and conquered your sickness. You tried so hard—for me, for Mom, and for those who loved you. You fought the hardest fight of your life each and every day, and you were unbelievably brave. I’ll always remember that. I’ll always live my life through your example. And until I can see you again and tell you just how courageous you truly were, seeya Bub.

“Then David continued, ‘Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Don’t be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you. He will see to it that all the work related to the Temple of the Lord is finished correctly.’” 1 Chronicles 28:20 (NLT)

Faith Answered

Childhood time is interesting.

Think back to your days as a grade schooler. Do you remember staring at the calendar thinking about how eagerly you anticipated the beginning of Summer vacation? And then do you remember staring at the calendar in August? The starting day of school stares at you, looming in the horizon. Grade schoolers stare at a calendar that is short on time but long on intimidation. I remember that feeling. I remember those fears. And I remember a summer when the fear almost got the best of me, and the lesson it taught me many years later when I would need it most.

“Auntie,” I said, “I don’t want to go to fifth grade.”

My Great Aunt Vivian, or “Auntie” as she’s always been to me, is the most faithful, steadfast, encouraging woman I’ve ever known. I’ve always heard that I should look for strong examples of faithful women all throughout the history pages of the Bible, but I’ve honestly never had to search or wonder because I’ve always been able to watch Auntie. My Aunt Vivian is an example of faith that knows no bounds or limitations.

Dad and AuntiePositive, upbeat, and always smiling, my Aunt Vivian was more like a grandmother to me when I was younger. Both of my parents worked (and worked hard) to provide for our family, which meant I was often in the care of family members like my grandparents. And of course, Auntie was always in that rotation—and I couldn’t have been more thankful. Early on in my life, and during the summer months as I aged, I spent many a day under the loving and watchful eye of my Auntie. I’m a better man today because of all those days I spent with her growing up.

And probably a bit more spoiled as well….

When I went to Auntie’s house during the summers, I was a little prince. Each and every morning, shortly after my arrival to her home, Auntie would give me a great big hug, lead me back to her corner television room, and ask me what I’d like to eat for breakfast. Since the time I was little, I’ve always loved food. Where most babysitting aunts and grandparents might offer a simple breakfast. Auntie offered a delicious menu unlike any other. Nearly every morning Auntie would set up my TV tray and bring me a hearty breakfast: a cheese omelet, perfectly cooked strips of bacon, two slices of buttery toast under the broiler, a bowl of strawberries or fresh fruit, and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper on the rocks (my addiction started young, and I never shared this part with my Mom). After eating breakfast, I would lounge in front of the TV or play with toys, occasionally following Auntie around her house until The Price Is Right came on. After acting like I actually knew the price of cars and everyday grocery items as a grade schooler, Auntie would eventually bring me a lunch just as delicious as the breakfast that I had consumed earlier. We would then spend the afternoons playing games, napping, and eating ice cream. Auntie’s wonderful husband, my Uncle Ray, would return home in the afternoon from his job as a barber on Main Street in Hamilton. Just like me, Auntie always took care of Ray and made him feel special. I remember all these days so vividly—and my taste buds can still take me back to one of those wonderful summer days. While my Mom and Dad worked hard at their jobs, I lived the life of luxury at Auntie’s house. It’s good to be prince.

This particular summer, however, wasn’t as luxurious as the past ones had been. As we turned calendar page after calendar page, I eventually saw August and could feel the anxiety building in my young heart.

This wasn’t just any summer. This was the summer between fourth grade and fifth grade, and in Fairfield, that signaled a big year. In the fifth grade, I would move into a new school. A new school with new teachers and new kids and new challenges. Although I would be in a regular classroom all day, there would be sixth graders with lockers and changing classes. Because the school was so much bigger, I had no idea if I would see my friends from Fairfield North Elementary. I had always been a pretty nervous, anxious, cautious kid. This big change, however, took everything to a whole new level.

I hadn’t let on to anyone—including Auntie—that I was nervous. For the most part, I had always enjoyed school. I was a good student. I always liked my teachers. I enjoyed learning and reading and all the things that go along with school. I couldn’t share with them how scared I was. Even as a little guy, I knew that weakness is bad. Weakness should be hidden.

Auntie, however, wasn’t just a caretaker. She was a caring caretaker. She loved me, and it showed in everything she did for me each and every day. And she was there right when I needed her. I can look back on that time, and I think that Auntie could see something was wrong with me. I think she knew that she could help.

Eventually, the day that all school children dread arrived. That particular Friday would be my last day at Auntie’s for the summer. The following Monday I would go back to school. Not just any school, but the new and scary school. During our morning conversation before breakfast, Auntie asked me if I was excited to start school. Never the greatest actor, I could no longer hide my fear.

“Auntie,” I said, “I don’t want to go to fifth grade.”

“What’s wrong, honey?” Auntie said as she came and sat next to me with the loving, careful tenderness that I’m sure she’s been doling out to members of our family her entire life. That tenderness made me feel safe and secure, and I let it all out. I don’t remember if I cried (knowing me, I probably did), but I shared all of my fears. I shared all of my apprehension. I told her that I just wanted to stay with her every day. I had planned to make it to at least 8th grade before dropping out, but maybe I could strike it rich as a contestant with Bob Barker. I mean, I had those laundry detergent prices memorized perfectly…

As I talked, Auntie listened. And she didn’t make me feel silly. She made me feel like I mattered. She didn’t minimize my feelings. She validated them. But she also told me that there was something bigger and more true to help me overcome those feelings.

Then, Auntie did something that was completely perfect. She did something that she did with me before every single meal I ate. She did something that I’m sure she has done so many times in her own life—both when the sun was shining or when the storms were rolling through.

“Ty, let’s pray for you,” she said.

Auntie came over and put her arm around me. I don’t remember the words of that particular prayer, but Auntie has always had a beautiful voice for prayer that I’ve admired since I was a youngster. For me, prayer has always been difficult. I stumble over my words, I am easily distracted, and I try to use flowery language that God probably can’t even decipher. My Aunt, however, is a prayer dynamo. She speaks to God the way we all should—she simply has a conversation with Him. She expresses her love for him. She thanks him for watching over us. And then, she boldly asks God to provide. She prays audaciously, without reservation or doubt. And that day, as an apprehensive and scared fifth-grader-to-be, she prayed for me as tears streamed down my suntanned cheeks.

I don’t remember how long she prayed, and I don’t even remember all the things she said; but I will always remember the way I felt. As Auntie asked God to watch over me, naming me directly to the Ruler of the Universe, I felt the mask of pretend courage I had created begin to melt away. The fears I had were all bubbling to the surface, and although the anxiety was still real, it felt less threatening because it was being exposed to the light. As Auntie acknowledged my fear, she asked God to give me the real courage and capability to overcome it.

My Auntie kissed me, she told me that she loved me and that she believed in me, and most importantly she told me that God would watch over me—in fifth grade, and in every grade that followed thereafter.

After that prayer, I made my way into her back yard to sit in the grass and soak up the last few rays of summer sun before the docile confines of a school classroom would rob me of my golden-brown skin. I sat there in the grass staring at the sky and looking into the clouds, trying my hardest to picture God resting above them and looking down over me. I wondered if He had heard the prayer that Auntie had just prayed for me—and I wondered if He would actually do all the things she had asked Him to do.

Eventually, the cloud gazing got boring and I shifted my attention lawn-ward. I looked at the green grass that surrounded me, and here and there I noticed tiny patches of clover. I combed my fingers through the clover slowly, wondering if there were any four leafers in the midst of all those threes. As I ran my fingers through the dewy lawn, something perfectly miraculous happened. I jumped onto my shins and tried to locate what I had just saw.

There, on that summer afternoon, I found my very first four leaf clover.

I couldn’t’ remember ever having found one before, but on that morning when I felt ridiculously weak, I felt like I found a symbol of encouragement. I plucked it from the ground, ran inside the back door, and saw Auntie standing near the stove.

“Auntie!” I exclaimed. “Look what I found!”

Auntie took the four-leaf clover from my hand and smiled. “See Ty,” she said in that same loving voice that had called out to God just a few moments earlier. “This is a sign of good luck, and it’s a sign that God is going to answer your prayers.”

As a ten year old with an ounce of wisdom and a million pounds of fear, there was something unbelievably reassuring about having found this sign of good luck. I believed it, but just in case it was a fluke, I turned to Auntie and said nervously… “Think there might be another one out there?”

Auntie did what only a loving great aunt would do. She went out into the August heat with me, got down on her hands and knees, and helped me search the entire backyard for another sign of good luck.

And because God loves to encourage His people….Auntie helped me find another four leaf clover. For all the fears I had on that day, I also had eight little green leaves worth of encouragement.

I was beaming because, in that moment, I felt like I had an army of angels on my side. I was overjoyed because I felt like this was a sure sign that things were going to go well. And on that day, even if it was just for an hour or so in the backyard as we searched for a four-leaf clover, Auntie put all of my fears and nerves out of sight and out of mind.

Auntie took those four leaf clovers and said she would keep them safe until the end of the day for me. I didn’t pay much attention to what she was doing with them, but I’m thankful that I had an aunt who understands that love packaged in a simple gesture can change a heart forever and ever.

I counted down the minutes anxiously as the day ended, knowing that my Mom’s arrival to pick me up and the end of summer were imminent. A few minutes before the day was set to end, Auntie came back to the television room and sat down on the couch next to me.

“Ty,” she said sweetly, “before you go, I want to give you this.”

With a glowing smile on her face, Auntie handed me a tiny card. Knowing that I loved dogs and puppies, Auntie picked a notecard with two Dalmatian puppies resting cutely in a fireman’s helmet. I opened the card, and inside I saw the two, four-leaf clovers we had found earlier in the day perfectly preserved under a sheet of plastic wrap. Underneath the good luck clovers, I saw a message written in Auntie’s familiar cursive writing.

“Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered and no one was there. Always remember this Tyler. I love you. Auntie.”

IMG_0631

Who needs good luck when you have an Auntie like mine?

With God’s love and Auntie’s prayers, I left her house that day still nervous but encouraged. I left her house believing that there was a greater power on my side, rooting for me and pushing me along. I read that card the entire way home. I put it on display on the bookshelf in my bedroom. I read it again the night before I was set to start fifth grade. I went to bed loved by so many, including God and Auntie, and I felt that love wrap its arms around me. Love was real because of that card, and so was my faith.

And guess what? I survived fifth grade! Although I did have to have my tonsils removed, nonetheless…

I don’t write this post because of my fifth-grade struggles, however. I write this post because that card would carry me through so many more difficult times. The card, its message, and the love of my Auntie would last for a lifetime—especially in the moments when I needed it most.

I awoke on a different summer morning years later with a sense of dread much worse than the one I had felt as fifth grade approached. I pulled my black suit and dark tie from my closet. Slowly and wearily, I found myself getting dressed and trying to understand how life could have fallen apart and shattered so unexpectedly. I was readying myself for a pain I had never experienced before.

In just a few short hours, I would be standing next to my Dad’s casket.

I didn’t know how I was going to do this—the funeral, or life in general. How could I ever live life without my Dad? Life with Dad was all I had ever known. Life with Dad was all I ever wanted. I didn’t want to enter this new chapter of life without him. His death from suicide had put me in a very dark, very anxious place. The fear of fifth grade seemed so distant and so inconsequential compared to what I would now have to go through.

Back then, fear had knocked at the door, faith had answered, and no one was there. Fear, however, was knocking again.

I knew that although the situation was much, much worse, the same faith would always be there. The same God that carried me through that trial would carry me through this much bigger one.

Thankfully, I still had that card and those clovers to remind me of His power.

The day of my Dad’s funeral, I carried two items in my suit pocket: a handkerchief that had once belonged to my Dad, and the card that Auntie had give me many years before. The clovers have since browned (although they’re still amazingly well-intact), and the corners of the card are slightly bent, but the words written by my loving Auntie are still as bold and powerful as they ever were. I opened it on that July morning, and cried when I read her words again:

“Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered and no one was there. Always remember this Tyler. I love you. Auntie.”

Standing next to my Dad’s casket, I just kept repeating the words that my Aunt had given me. Fear knocked. Faith answered. No one was there. Fear knocked. Faith answered. No one was there. Fear knocked. Faith answered. No one was there.

Occasionally, I could close my eyes and visualize it. I could picture the spiritual battle. I could see Satan with a crafty, wry smile on his face, rapping his knuckles on the door of my soul. Then, I could see that door creak open as the bright rays of faith in a loving Savior exploded through the door frame. I could see Satan, once cocky and arrogant, shielding his eyes from that blinding light of faith. I could see him running away from that doorway.

Fear knocked. Faith answered. No one was there.

Satan had hoped to defeat me and my entire family through the death and suicide of my Father. But if faith had answered back then, faith would answer again. And my entire family would find a way to answer with faith.

There were many moments standing by that casket when I would tap on the chest of my suit pocket, knowing the power of the card that was held near my heart. I would look at my Auntie, who was there for my Mom and I each and every moment we needed her in those days after losing Dad. I would see her and I would know that, although life looked dark in the current morning, faith was waiting just on the other side of the door to shine its light. Faith would answer. And fear would flee.


IMG_0629I have a few prized and cherished treasures in my possession. They aren’t the things I’ve spent the most money on. They aren’t the name-branded and logoed sweaters I can’t afford but buy anyway. They aren’t the pieces of sports memorabilia I have accumulated. They are things that are truly irreplaceable. One of a kind. Sacred.

They are items like this card—a simple card with two aged four-leaf clovers and a message that will last a lifetime. Just like Auntie’s love. Just like God’s love for me and all His people.

That card and the message that Auntie inscribed within it carried me through the days, months, and years after losing Dad. I’m not trying to sugar coat life, because in the aftermath of a traumatic loss it isn’t always easy. There are days that are near impossible to make it through successfully. There are days when I don’t want to get out of bed. There are days when I obsess over how all of this could be part of a redeemable plan from God. There are days when I can’t eat, nights when I can’t sleep, and seasons when the heartache overtakes me.

After my Dad’s funeral, I remember feeling completely paralyzed. I had been in bed for many hours, and I just couldn’t bring myself to even stand. That’s when Auntie came into my room, pulled up a chair, and did what she had done back then. She prayed. She prayed with all the power and belief and courage of a time-tested prayer warrior. She called upon God to do what He said He would do. She called on Him to help my entire family answer with faith and chase fear away.

Auntie and GrandmaEventually, I got out of bed. Although there have been other days when I can’t. And during every one of those moments, I remind myself. Fear is knocking at the door. Faith must answer. My faith has led me through the challenge of my Dad’s death on days when I just couldn’t do it. It breaks my heart to watch families impacted by suicide or traumatic loss who turn away from their faith, because I know that my faith and the love of Jesus Christ has been the most important component of my survival in life after Dad.

And on days when I need that reminder that my faith will always answer, I slip that card into my pocket. My Auntie’s inspiration and her amazing faith mean more to me than any four-leaf clover (or twin set) ever could. Fear will continue knocking. I’m grateful that I have my Auntie and a wonderful reminder of her faith to chase it away.

Dad and Auntie with SB LogoDad, There have been so many days after your death that have been full of fear. I didn’t know what I would ever do without you, because you were such a rock for our family. While you were here with us on Earth, however, you gave us all a great example of what faith and courage looked like. Dad, you fought so hard for so long. I can’t imagine how many painful days you must have had and how many times you pushed through when life seemed unbearable. I wish that I could have done more to help you. I’m thankful that we’ve had wonderful family, like Auntie, to help us in your absence. But I know you’re still watching over us. All of us, each and every day. I love you, Dad. I continue to be afraid of what life will be like without you in the years and decades to come, but I know I’ll see you again. Until that day, seeya Bub.

“God didn’t give us a cowardly spirit but a spirit of power, love, and good judgment.” 2 Timothy 1:7 (GW)

Dad’s Song

“I hate that I have to ask you this so soon, but…is there a song you would like played or performed at the service for your Dad?”

My Dad had only been gone for a day. Just a few days earlier, we were making the final plans for our family vacation to the beach. Now, we were making plans to say goodbye to my Dad for the final time. Oh, how life changes in an instant. One horrible, irreversible instant.

Harville, my pastor, was sitting in a chair in the corner of my darkened bedroom. We had been talking for the past thirty minutes or so about the tragedy of the past few days. My pastor had a tender kindness that was so very important to my family in the aftermath of Dad’s death. He came into the room that day to see how I was doing and to tend to my spirit, which had been bruised and battered since that awful Wednesday morning. As tender and thoughtful as Harville was in those tumultuous few days, there were some painful questions that just couldn’t be tenderized. I knew that Harville had to ask questions like this. The reality was that my Dad was dead, and that there would be services to honor his life within the next few days—that unfortunate truth was fixed, unchanging. We couldn’t put it off for too long. We were going to have to come face to face with this horrible reality and plan a service fitting for a life well-lived.

I am still very thankful for Harville, my Mom, and my Grandpa Vern (among many others) who really took control of the funeral planning and shielded me from the heavy lifting. I had very little to do with the wonderful funeral service we were able to hold for my Dad, but when Harville asked a question about music and a song, I had an immediate answer.

“Yes,” I said to Harville, “There is a song.”


Just a few months before that fateful July morning, I found myself in the basement of my friend Steve’s home watching the Super Bowl on his jumbo projection screen. There was nowhere better to watch a football game, especially if it was the big game of all big games. Steve had engineered a projector in his basement to project the cable feed onto his entire wall. If you think you’ve watched a great game on a beautiful television, try watching it on an 8×12 foot wall projection. You’ll take your 70-inch flatscreen and chuck it out the window (don’t do that).

Even though the lights in the Superdome went out that night, it was still a fun game to watch. And, like most who tune into the Super Bowl, I kept a sideways glance at the screen when the commercials came on to make sure I didn’t miss something funny that all my friends would be talking about the next day. Per usual, there were commercials that made you chuckle or pulled at your heartstrings. The Gangnam Style guy was apparently a big fan of pistachios. There was the Budweiser baby Clydesdale. There was also a weird Dorito’s commercial about a goat that made me never want to eat Doritos again.

But there was one commercial in particular that grabbed my attention from the opening chord. As I sat in the glow of the giant wall projection, there was a beautifully-elegant, simple, and rustic guitar intro that caught my ear. It had a country-simplicity to it that I loved. This was the type of country song that existed before most of the current country artists began to ruin country music (You heard me, Rascal Flatts…).

He’s a twenty years straight get to work on time… He’s a love one woman for all his life…

I loved it already.

Then, my love for the commercial turned into complete infatuation when I saw the product that was being advertised: the Chevy Silverado.

The Silverado was the truck of all trucks, in my opinion. It was rugged. Versatile. Reliable. And my Dad always drove one. I trusted his taste in many things, but I especially trusted his taste in trucks.

As the commercial rolled on and my eyes glazed as flashy Silverado after Silverado rolled across a field of amber grain or a windy mountain road, the lyrics of the song continued to speak to me.

He’s the shirt off his back, Give ya his last dime, He’s strong.

It was unbelievably ironic to hear this song paired with this particular product. This was the exact truck that my Dad drove, but it was also a song in which every line spoke to the man he was. This was a song that told the story of my Dad and how he lived his life.

I remembered hearing the song through the first verse during the commercial and immediately getting to my phone to Google the lyrics. After a few seconds, I found the song. Strong by Will Hoge. It was a song I had never heard before, sung by an artist I had never heard of. His voice, however, made it feel like I had been listening to him sing my entire life. Mainly because he was singing about a topic that was so familiar to me. The name “Scott Bradshaw” is never mentioned once in the song, but I felt like every lyric was about him.

I listened to the song on the way home from Steve’s that night. I downloaded it from iTunes and added it to my phone. And each time I heard it or listened to it, I said the same thing to myself: One day, I’ll play this song for Dad and let him know that I think of him every time I hear it.


I had no idea that our time together was running so short. When I thought about playing that song for my Dad, I envisioned playing it many years into the future, possibly when my Dad was in an advanced age and balder than he currently was (not possible). I thought, naively, that I would have a ton of time to play that song for my Dad and share it with him, along with my feelings.

I never got a chance to play that song for my Dad and tell him what it meant to me—what he meant to me. His death from suicide shattered our lives unexpectedly, and now I would have to settle for playing the song at his funeral. I just couldn’t believe it. I am fortunate that God has blessed me more than I deserve and that I have very few regrets in my young life. This, however, is one of my greater regrets. I wish that one day, while riding around together in his Silverado, I would have taken the time and shared the song and my emotions with him. I had the opportunities, but I also thought we would have so much more time together. There were many more drives with the windows rolled down and the radio up to be had.

Alas, we didn’t.

So, the first time I was able to play that song for my Dad was in his memory. Sitting in the first pew of the dimly-lit church our family had called home, Mom and I gazed upon the cherry casket resting a few feet in front of us. As we sat there with hundreds of our family and friends sitting behind us while the clock neared 10:00am, the familiar guitar strum began to emanate from the speakers.

I ask you to place yourself in that moment. I ask you to close your eyes, imagine that day, visualize that church, and listen to the song that I chose for my Dad.

Strong

Will Hoge

He’s a twenty year straight get to work on time
He’s a love one woman for all his life
He’s a shirt off his back give you his last dime
He’s strong

He’s a need to move something you can use my truck
He’s an overtime worker when the bills pile up
Everybody knows he ain’t just tough
He’s strong

Strong

He’ll pick you up and won’t let you down
Rock solid inside out
Somebody you can trust
Steady as the sun
Ain’t nothing gonna knock him off the road he’s rollin on
He’s strong

It ain’t what he can carry what he can lift
It’s a dirt road lesson talkin to his kids
Bout how to hold your ground and how to live
Strong

He’s strong

He’ll pick you up and won’t let you down
Rock solid inside out
Somebody you can trust
Steady as the sun
Ain’t nothing gonna knock him off the road he’s rollin on
He’s strong

Strong
Like the river rollin’
Strong
Gonna keep on going
Strong
When the road runs out
They gonna keep on talkin about

How he was strong

Strong

He’ll pick you up and won’t let you down
Rock solid inside out
Somebody you can trust
Steady as the sun
Ain’t nothing gonna knock him off the road he’s rollin on
He’s strong

Everybody knows he ain’t just tough
He’s strong

Songwriters: Ashley Gorley / Miller Crowell / Will Hoge / Zach Crowell

Strong lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc, BMG Rights Management US, LLC

 I stared resolutely ahead at the casket, defiant, trying to deny the fact that my Father was gone as that song played through the sanctuary. I tried my best to hold in my emotions and remain stoic, but that weak dam eventually gave way. Every bit of pain I had felt over the last few days tore through me when I heard that song, because it was everything I wanted to be able to tell my Dad, face to face, one last time. I can vividly remember sitting there in that pew with tears streaming down my face as the song played, wishing more than anything that in that moment I could have just one more with my Dad. One more to play that song for him, look him in the eye, and tell him how strong I thought he was. To tell him that he was stronger than he ever thought he could be. To tell him that he was strong enough to beat this.

Mom wept next to me as the song played. She raised her hand towards the heavens as the second verse picked up because she realized, like I did, that although this song may have been written with some other inspiration in mind, it really was written for my Dad. The song was written for this man and this moment. The words spoke to everything he was to us.

After the funeral, I had so many people ask me about that song. It made me feel good that we had been able to pick a song that resonated with so many people and their memory of my Dad. It made me feel relief that people saw past my Dad’s mental illness and his death from suicide to see the man we saw. A man who fought courageously for so long. A man who smiled and loved those around him with beautiful abandon, even though he might not have felt smiley or lovely on the inside. A man that pushed through his own sadness to provide for his family and give them a home life full of wonderful memories. People loved the song because they loved the man whose memory it brought forth. People loved he song because they realized that my Dad’s final chapter was not a true reflection of the beautiful story he wrote in this life for himself and so many others.

Yes, my Father died from suicide. And yes, he is still the strongest man I’ve ever known.

My Dad, Scott Bradshaw, was strong. And he still is. And this song, whenever I need it, is my reminder.

On occasion, particularly when the weather is warm and the sun is shining, I’ll take a detour in my truck—which is ironically the very same Chevy Silverado that my Dad drove. I’ll find myself feeling particularly lonely on those difficult days. Although time may pass from the moment we last said goodbye, the heart never completely heals. And there are moments, tremendously painful but necessary moments, when I need to hear that song again. So, like my Dad would have done, I’ll roll down the windows, crank up the volume, and hear that old familiar chord rattle through the truck speakers. In my mind, I’ll look over towards the passenger seat and see my Dad sitting right next to me with a huge smile on his face. I’ll see him begin to bob his head as the music picks up. I’ll see him thumping his thumb on the middle console between us the way he always did when a particularly good song warmed his ears. And I’ll see his face turn towards me through his sun-darkened spectacles, beaming with that beautiful smile of his.

And I’ll look back over at him, with tears streaming down my face, and I’ll let him know that this song was for him—and that for as long as I live, it will always be his. It will always be the song that helps me remember him. As long as I live, this will be my Dad’s anthem. When my future children and grandchildren ask about my Dad, I’ll play this song for them. This will be the song that reminds me of the love I felt for an amazing Father. It resurrects tremendous pain when I hear the words of that song, but at the same time it reassures me that the man I knew and the man who raised me will never truly leave. Because his heart lives on in me. His memory will never die as long as lyrics like this tell the story of the life he lived.

And that song, a song of love for my Dad, will always play in my mind and in my heart. I’m grateful for a beautiful song and the hearts and minds who wrote it, but I’m even more thankful that I had a Father who lived out the lyrics every single day.

“When the road runs out, they’re gonna keep on talkin’ ‘bout how he was strong.” Will Hoge, truer words have never been written. I’m still talkin’. And I always will be

Dad with Baby Lucy and SB LogoDad, You have no idea how I wish I could wind back the clock and play this song for you. I wish that I could play it, watch you listen, and then say to you that whenever I hear the words I immediately think of you. I desperately wish I could see you thumping your thumb on the console of your truck like you always used to do. I’m sorry that the first time I had a chance to play this for you was at your funeral. So many people have heard the song and told me how perfect it was for you, which is the best testament to your life. It’s what you deserve. Dad, people still talk about how strong you are. People still talk about how courageous you were for fighting through your mental illness for so many years. I know you were hurting desperately, Dad. I know that your soul was troubled. But I pray that you’re able to hear this song in heaven and know that I think of you each and every time I hear it. I’ll always love you, Dad, and I’ll always admire how strong you were. I’ll try to live up to example you gave me—the example that you gave all of us—each day for as long as I live. Someday, I’ll look you in the eyes again and tell you that you were the strongest man I’ve ever known. Until that reunion when we can listen together, seeya Bub.

But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 (NIV)

Papa Sully: Guest Blog by Jeff Sullivan

Ty: I have a confession. A confession that is completely unnecessary for anyone who lives near any of the local golf courses in my community.

I have been, and likely always will be, a terrible, horrible golfer.

I’m almost embarrassed to even call myself a golfer. I do a lot more sand digging and deep-woods exploration than I do golfing when I hit the course.

I could fill an entire book with stories of my atrocious golf exploits. There was the time my friend Chris (most of my horrible golf stories involve him) coerced me into trying out for the high school golf team. I quit halfway through after slamming one of my wooden (yes, I had woods that were actually made with real wood) into the ground, only to start again with about four holes left in the round. I think my groupmates gave me eights on all the holes I skipped.

There was the time I nearly got into a fight with a man who “claims” I almost nailed his wife with an errant Nike Mojo ball. It wasn’t my fault. I yelled fore as loudly as I could, but I guess it didn’t carry the two holes over where my ball landed within a few feet of his wife. I told him rather than yelling at me he should probably get his ears checked. He didn’t care too much for that response.

Then there was the sign from God that almost made me give up the game entirely. This was when I hit a tee shot that went so far right so quickly that it actually nailed a tree to the right of the tee box, bounced straight back, and nailed me in the chest. I HIT MYSELF WITH MY OWN BALL. I didn’t think that could even happen. Between Chris’ hysterical laughter and my writhing on the ground, the local residents must have thought we were going insane. They weren’t far off in their estimation.

As bad as I am at golf, I’ve always wanted to be a great golfer. And in high school, I always remember thinking one thing: I wish I could be like Jeff Sullivan.

Jeff Sullivan SwingJeff didn’t know me in high school, but I knew of him. Rather than equitably distributing golf talent across all the boys at Fairfield High School, God had taken mine and consolidated it all into Jeff Sullivan. Jeff was a graceful golfer. He would hit shots that I wouldn’t even believe I could hit in my own dreams. Natural talent? Maybe a bit. But more than anything, Jeff is one of the hardest working athletes I’ve ever seen. He spends more time honing his abilities than anyone, and it shows in his competitive spirit.

I got to know “Sully” in earnest when I helped emcee the Fairfield High School Athletic Hall of Fame where he was there to support a friend being inducted—he’ll be inducted soon enough, I have no doubt. If it weren’t for my ability to speak in public, I’d never come within a hundred yards of one of those functions.

Jeff and I are miles apart on our golf capabilities, but we have one very unfortunate thing in common: we are both grieving. We are both members of a club where unexpected loss is the common denominator. And although the mechanisms causing our grief are very different, we are both trying our best to honor our loved ones in ways that keep their memories alive. He reached out to me shortly after the Seeya Bub launch, shared his story, and together we’ve been finding ways to support one another through a similar journey.

Jeff has an unbelievable story to tell. He’s been sharing his exploits on a fantastic golf-themed blog he created called Sully’s Sunday Feels, but I’ve invited him to share his story of grief, loss, and the journey that follows here at Seeya Bub. Together, we are creating a community of sufferers to prove one truth: Yes, we all grieve differently, but we never, never have to grieve alone.


Jeff: Thursday, May 12th, 2011. A day and date that I will never forget for as long as I live. This is the day that I unexpectedly lost my Dad.

Before we get into that day, I want to tell you a little bit about the time leading up to that day.

For those of you that know me, especially throughout high school and college, you know a couple things for certain.

  1. If I’m not working, I’m prooobably thinking about, practicing or playing golf.
  2. Wherever and whenever I was doing that, my Dad was there. If for some reason he wasn’t, it was because it was physically impossible for him to be and you better believe he was always the first person I’d call after a tournament.

Another thing you might know is that my birthday is two days before the date I mentioned above. We’ll talk more about that in a minute.

Me, my Dad and my brother were ALWAYS playing sports growing up. It didn’t matter what time of day, what the weather was like or what he had going on. If there was an opportunity to help us be better at a sport, my Dad was going take that opportunity to do whatever he could for us.

Like most kids, when I was younger, I had no idea what he and my mom did in order for me to be able to play whichever sport I wanted when I was a kid, and that support continued all the way through college. I didn’t realize or appreciate the time and ungodly amounts of money spent to allow me to do that, and now that I’m old enough to understand, it’s unfortunately a little bit too late for me to show that appreciation to one of them…

Now, what role did my Dad play in my love for golf? THE role. Well, maybe with a little help from Mr. Eldrick Woods. For those of you that are unfamiliar, that’s Tiger’s real name. What a nerrrd, amirite?! (Don’t tell him I said that.)

Jeff Sullivan and DadI was 9 years old when “Papa Sully”, as my high school teammates would later name him, first took me to the driving range. One trip, and I was hooked. As I mentioned before, this was when Tiger madness was really starting to hit its peak. Tiger had already won 3 U.S. Junior Amateurs and had just locked up back-to-back U.S Amateurs. The next year, he would turn pro, and I was probably on my Dad’s last nerves!

Every single chance I got, I was trying to get him to take me to the driving range or to head over to Golden Tee or Lake Gloria to play. The really cool part about playing and practicing with him is that he was a lefty, so I would always just try to mirror what he was doing. Eventually, there came a point when I was able to take his 7 iron and hit it almost as far as he could. As much as he loved that and got a kick out of it, I’m sure the competitor inside him hated losing. Hmm, wonder where I got that from?!

Once Tiger turned pro, Sundays turned into the best day of the week, always. Early in his career, you could almost guarantee that Tiger would be in the hunt on Sundays, so my dad and I basically planned our entire day around that.

First, I’d bug the crap out of him to make a tee time, typically at The Mill Course (shout out to the place where I had my first win!) and we had to make sure it was an early one! We’d finish that round around noon and from there it was lunch time. Skyline or Penn Station. To this day, there has never been a trip to either one of those places when I haven’t thought about him. We’d talk about our round, I would probably be a little upset for no reason and was too hard on myself while he probably just laughed on the inside at how silly my expectations of myself were. After that, we’d start talking about Tiger, who was about to tee it up just a couple hours later and most likely bury whoever his challenger was that week. My dad and I would commiserate with every bogey and jump off the couch and celebrate every birdie. It was just great. This is how my love for Tiger was born.

Fast forward to high school and college golf. Now, for the sake of length, I’m not going to go into all the great times, wins and celebrations I had with my Dad during these years but instead, I want to focus on the thing I regret most now that he’s gone. My completely idiotic and utter misunderstanding of what was really important.

College is where this stands out to me the most. If you know college golf, you know that it’s not easy for parents to make it to tournaments and even when it is, who in their right mind would want to watch mediocre, spring, college golf when it’s 37 degrees and raining?! Papa Sully, that’s who. A lot of people don’t know this, but he actually tried to find and took certain jobs in life just so he could make it to as many of my events as possible. He also worked at a golf course just so I’d be able to afford to practice as much as I wanted to (shout out to Meadow Links and Golf Academy for letting me hit a zillion balls and destroy natural turf from 2000-2004). A typical week during college golf season for my Dad was to drive from Hebron, KY to Laredo, TX and back which took him about 3 days. And then, as soon as he was back, he’d be heading somewhere else in Kentucky or Tennessee to come watch me play again. My teammates would always be so bummed when I told them he couldn’t make it, but that might have been like twice a year. Oh, on top of this, he was also spending a LOT of his money on things I needed to play the game. Right before a tournament started he would buy me new gloves in the pro shop because he saw my hands slipping on the range or go buy a towel and umbrella if I forgot mine. Whatever I needed, it was done thanks to him.

Now that you know the lengths that he went to support me, let me tell you about how stupid I was. I had, and still have VERY high expectations of myself any time I step on the golf course. I had these for a few reasons. Number one, I know the amount of work I’ve put into my game and I always want to win. Number two, I always wanted to help my team win. Last, but certainly not least, I wanted to make my Dad proud because I knew how much he had done for me. At the time, I thought that shooting low scores and winning was what made him proud and what would make me happy. Boy was I wrong.

Younger golfers who may read this: If you don’t take ANYTHING else away from this, PLEASE take this advice. No matter how you perform on the golf course, as long as you prepare, give every shot all that you have and carry yourself well, I PROMISE you that you’ll never walk around from any round of golf with regrets.

Unfortunately for me, it took losing the one person who mattered the most to make me truly understand that.

My skewed perceptions of what mattered, and my extreme competitiveness made me do some things that I’ll never be able to take back. So many times, my Dad was there to greet me after a round and because I was so dumb in those moments, I would walk right by him, slam my clubs in our team van and just sit in silence, pouting for absolutely no reason other than my own selfishness and lack of perspective. Other times I literally threw plaques and trophies in the trash because they weren’t for first place. I didn’t support teammates like I should have, and I didn’t respect my coach like I should have. I hope that those of you who end up reading this understand how sorry I am for that and can or have forgiven me. Most importantly for me, all my Dad wanted was to be there and to spend time with me. It didn’t matter if I shot 65 or 105, all I had to do was have fun playing the game and enjoy that time with him, but I didn’t. That is my biggest regret and something I will never be able to take back.

That attitude didn’t start to change after college either. I remember a tournament that I ended up winning by 10 shots, and I was pissed off when I walked off the course in the final round because I didn’t break the current course record. I mean, who the hell did I think I was?!

When did it start to change? Thursday, May 12, 2011 at 5:30am.

5:27am –  I wake up from a dead sleep to see that my brother is calling me. That’s weird, probably just a butt dial.

5:28am – My brother calls again but I don’t answer and tell myself I’ll call him back when I’m up for the day which would have been around 6:30-7:00am.

5:30am – My mom calls me. Okay, this is crazy, and something isn’t right. I answer and immediately know it’s something terrible. All she can tell me is that the police called, and something has happened to my Dad but she can’t say what other than that he is at a hospital in Springfield—roughly an hour or so from where I was.

When she told me that, deep down I knew he was gone no matter how much I tried to tell myself to have hope. If the police call you and they can’t say what happened, it’s pretty obvious.

My Dad had a history of heart problems for a few years leading up to this day but hadn’t mentioned any recent issues in the weeks and months leading up to the day. The last time I talked to him was on my birthday, May 10. Two days before he died, and you know what we talked about? You guessed it. Golf.

He was out on the road and based on what I was told, he had a heart attack, was able to call 911 from his phone and pull off the side of the road; but by the time they got to him, it was too late. I’ll never, ever forget showing up to the hospital after what seemed like a 4-day car ride. I walked to the front desk praying that they were going to tell me something. I told them I was one of Rick Sullivan’s sons here to see him and they told me where the room was. There was no mention of what state he was in or what had happened, so I had a small glimmer of hope that he was okay. I walked down the hall, turned the corner, looked at my brother Matt and step mom Sheryl, they looked at me, and then I saw my Dad.

I’ll never be able to find the words to describe that moment when I saw him laying on the table with a breathing tube that was used to try and resuscitate him still in his mouth. Utter disbelief. Anger at the receptionist who could have warned me about what I was walking into. Shock. All the strength in my body left me, I dropped to the ground and sat against the wall, head in my hands, sobbing, while my brother and Sheryl walked over and tried to console me (they had already been there for a while). I glanced over and saw the bag with my Dad’s clothes and belongings in it, shirt and jeans torn from where the paramedics cut them off him. All I remember saying out loud was “No way, no…way” (with some sporadic adult verbiage inserted throughout) because I couldn’t believe that he was gone. this wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. Sometimes I’ll still have dreams with him in them, but then I wake up and know that yes, it was real, and my biggest fan is gone. Physically, that is.

The days following that were a blur and for those of you that have gone through something similar, you know what I mean when I say that.

The year or so following that were hard to say the least. The moments immediately after traumatic loss are actually some of the easiest because your friends and family all know that you’re in pain and want to offer support. It’s no fault of their own, but after a couple weeks or months go by, people just forget and that’s when loss was the hardest.

The one place I could feel okay about things was the golf course.

I actually ended up at my home course the morning after my Dad had passed. I was off work and that was the first thing I could think of. How do I get my mind off this? Well, that was impossible, so the next best thing was to go to the place where I knew my Dad would want me to be. It wasn’t just any golf course though, it was my home away from home, Fairfield Greens South Trace. Most of you know how much I love that place and how much passion I have for our city tournament but may have never known why. Now you know. That was my Dad’s favorite tournament to come to. That’s where he got to watch me play the most matches. He and I played countless rounds together there and I also know he had something to do with the love and support I felt from everyone there after he passed whether they were friends or employees. Dave, Crutch, Kess & Mrs. K-dog, Wyatt, Meow, Ryan, Sara, T.J., Schnee, Trotter, Tyler, Siggy, Verbs, the rest of the Sunday Skins game buddies and the list goes on. Without all of you, there’s no way I’d be the player and person I am today, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that. You helped me through the toughest time in my life to date and I hope you are all proud of who I’ve become.

Jeff Sullivan on GreenFrom that day forward, my golf is played for him. Not only to win, but to show him that I can be the man and player that he always wanted me to be. To show great sportsmanship, character and class on the golf course. That’s why I play the game now. In 2011 and 2012 I wanted to win our city tournament SO bad, even more than ever before because I wanted to do it for my Dad. I couldn’t get the job done until 2013 and I will remember that win more than any other as long as I play the game.

I’m 7 shots behind with only 15 holes to play. 99 times out of 100, you don’t win that battle, but this was a day when I knew I had something more on my side. That something was Papa Sully. From holes 4 through 16 I was able to rattle off 7 birdies and tie for the lead. On #17, I had a putt to take a one-shot lead from about 12 or 14 feet. I guessed wrong on the break, but somehow the ball wiggled its way into the hole and I took the lead heading into the last hole. Pumped full of adrenaline, I blew a 7 iron over the back of the green to a back pin and then hit one of the most nervous flop shots of my life to 8 feet. Make this putt and you win for pops.

I hit the putt, see that it’s rolling dead center, it goes in and I look straight up in the air. I knew who made this happen, and it wasn’t me.

The exhilaration and love for my Dad in that moment was great, but the best feeling I’ve had was actually the following year. Same 18th hole, now I have only a 2 foot putt to win. I missed it and now we’re headed to a playoff. Not a playoff with just anyone, but with a great friend and mentor of mine, T.J. Oddly enough, 4 years prior to this is when my attitude on the golf course was at its worst. You know, that time I talked about winning by 10 and was pissed off? I knew that this was happening for a reason too and with T.J. being involved, it was the perfect time for me to dig deep and show everyone, including Papa Sully, that I get it. T.J. hit an incredible shot on the first playoff hole and made birdie while I missed my putt to tie him. I held my head high, congratulated him and little did I know that the response and praise I got for how I LOST that tournament would be more meaningful than any tournament I could ever win.

Jeff Sullivan Message

This post was extremely hard to write, but I can’t thank my buddy Tyler enough for allowing me to share my story on the wonderful platform that he has created with Seeya Bub. If you haven’t read any of his posts yet, you need to. I haven’t known him long but I can tell you that he’s one of the most brave and influential people I know and I can’t wait to see where his courage takes him next.

Thank you all for reading!

-Sully


Ty: Sully has a deep admiration for Tiger, but I have a deep admiration for Sully. He has done what we are all attempting to do when loss is dealt into our lives: to stand back up, to never forget, and to let that loss lead us into a more consequential life.

I have no doubt in reading this story that Papa Sully is watching over his son. Yes, guiding the extra wiggle on a clutch-putt, but more importantly he is there guiding his son’s character. Even though he isn’t physically here any longer, he is still teaching his son. He is still instructing him. He’s giving him a greater reason to play the game he loves. It’s more than wins and course records, although those things are good and admirable and worthy of the chase. It’s the character, more than anything, that matters to Jeff’s Father and his memory.

And every time Jeff steps on the course, his Dad is watching over him—just like he always did—giving him the courage he needs to step through the fire and cope with his grief.

“My son, obey your father’s commands, and don’t neglect your mother’s instruction.” Proverbs 6:20 (NLT)

 

Jeff Sullivan Bio ShotJeff “Sully” Sullivan

Jeff Sullivan is a 32 year old weekend warrior who still has a huge passion and love for the game of golf. Jeff was introduced to the game by his Dad at age 9 when Tiger Woods was making his run through U.S Junior and U.S. Am titles. Ever since his first trip to the driving range, he’s been hooked. Jeff lives in Charleston, South Carolina with his wife Sarah after growing up and living in Ohio his entire life. He played high school golf at Fairfield High School and went on to play college golf at Campbellsville University in Kentucky. Currently, Jeff writes for his blog Sully’s Sunday Feels where he shares his love of the game and purpose for playing.

One Year of Seeya Bub

“God, I just ask that you let this help someone. If my words can just help one single person avoid the same end that met my Dad, then it will all have been worth it. Give me the strength I need to do justice to my Dad and his life. Walk with me through this, God. I can’t do this alone. I’m really scared, but I know you want me to do this.”

This was the prayer that I prayed one year ago when I prepared to launch Seeya Bub. I can vividly remember sitting at the desk of my office at home, not knowing what to expect. I was crying, and my hands were shaking (more than they usually do, that is).

For a few months, quietly behind the scenes, I had been working on a blog that I had initially resisted. I had set out to write a book about my Dad, his struggles with depression, and his eventual death from suicide. I was growing frustrated because I found it so hard to stay motivated. As I shared this struggle with close friends and family members, a few of them began to suggest a blog as a possible alternative, and I would immediately shake my head no. Most blogs frustrated me because people were just writing without purpose—bloggers were just blogging to be heard, not caring at all what they wanted to say.

The more I thought about things, though, the more I began to warm to the idea of a blog over those summer months. I liked the idea of being to write and react, write and react, write and react. I loved the idea of being able to get feedback from my readers as I went so I could pivot accordingly to topics that they found useful. More than anything, however, I liked the idea of being to reach people who needed help quickly. I envisioned that someday, someone would be sitting at their computer struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts. They would search aimlessly for some sense of hope, come across my blog, and maybe, just maybe, think differently about the path of their life. I didn’t know how many of those people were out there when I started writing.

And boy, was I surprised at the amount of people who were struggling, just like my Dad was.

I tried my best (with the help of some wonderful YouTube videos) to figure out how to manage the technical aspects of a blog, how to deliver posts to as many readers as possible, and how to work in visuals that would honor my Dad. I had done my best to patch everything together, and all that stood between me and the tremendous anxiety I felt was a “Go Live” button and a quick social media post to announce to the world what I was doing.

Just a few hours later, I found myself back at that same desk where I had written the words of that first post, sobbing as I held my head in my hands. I was crying, not from sadness, but from a place of overwhelmed gratitude. Within just a few hours of launching the blog, hundreds of family members, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances had visited the site and read the post. These same readers were sharing Seeya Bub on their own social media networks, encouraging their friends to read and follow. I was receiving messages and comments of unbelievable support.

Most touching in those initial days of the launch were the private messages that I received from readers who were either struggling from mental illness and suicidal ideations, had previously struggled, or had unfortunately lost loved ones just like I lost my Dad. These messages were full of extreme pain and unfathomable hope. These were messages of courage and strength, pushing me to talk about these difficult topics and share my Dad’s story.

God hadn’t answered my prayer on that night. He took my request, made it bigger than I ever could have imagined, and has delivered on my wildest expectations each and every day over this one amazing, spectacular year.


This week marks the one-year anniversary of Seeya Bub’s official launch, and I can’t help but be completely overwhelmed and nostalgic when I think about all of the wonderful things that have happened since that first post.

God is leading me on a journey that I never could have imagined, and I’d like to share some of my reflections over this past year with you today.

Readers. I honestly had my doubts about whether folks would read the words I posted on this blog. Yes, I know my story matters, but it’s a busy world. Taking the time to read and really think about someone else can be hard to do in a hectic life—and I’m guilty of it myself. When I hit that “Go Live” button, I wondered if people would find my message valuable enough to read, and read again, and again.

When I sat at my desk a few hours after launching the blog, I just kept saying “Wow” and shaking my head over and over again. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I couldn’t believe the response. And I still can’t.

And ever since then, you’ve continued to read. I’m sitting at that desk one year later having had over 6,500 views at Seeya Bub. It’s astounding, and heartwarming, and emotional for me to see the response. So if you’re reading now and you’ve read in the past, please know how thankful I am to you. Thank you for following the blog, thank you for sharing it you’re your friends, and thank you for pushing me and encouraging me when times got tough or words and messages were hard to come by. You’ve encouraged me to keep writing. You’ve reminded me that my Dad’s life mattered—to me and to you. And you’ve reminded me that I need to share it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Pulling Off the Mask. As hundreds of people poured through the visitation line at my Dad’s funeral, there was one common phrase that was repeated over and over and over again: “I had no idea that he was struggling.” I wasn’t surprised to hear this. My Dad was always a jovial guy. He wore a mask better than anyone. He was able to easily hide the depression that would often hijack his brain. It was hard to explain to folks how someone as fun-loving, compassionate, and generally happy as my Dad could find himself in the pit of depression so deep and inescapable.

But Dad was there, and after I launched the blog I found out just how many other people are there too. From the moment Seeya Bub went live, I began receiving messages from people I knew—and some that I didn’t—sharing similar stories. Stories of mental illnesses that make it debilitating for them to get out of bed. Stories of near-fatal suicide attempts. Stories of darkness, and stories of spiritual intervention from above.

And that was evidence alone that God was doing what I hoped he would do with my message. The story mattered, but the telling of the story was what mattered most. So often, just like my Dad, the stories of depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts remain untold, hidden behind a mask of protection. Let’s be honest—it’s scary to share our feelings, and when we don’t even know why we feel the way we do, it’s even scarier. And when we aren’t able to share our feelings, we grow isolated. We feel alone. We feel like there has to be more to life and that, if there isn’t, life might not be worth living.

I know that’s how my Dad must have felt. And thanks to those of you who have been courageous enough to share your own struggles with me, we are pulling off the mask of mental illness and helping people fight back the isolation and despair. Make no mistake—this is a battle. We have to fight for ourselves and those we love. We have to fight against the shame that is erroneously coupled with mental illness. But every time we pull off a mask, we are delivering a swift punch to mental illness and depression.

Ultimately, we have to let people know that it’s okay to not be okay…but it’s not okay to stay that way.

Speaking about my Dad. After my Dad died, I wondered how I would tell people what happened. I dreaded the funeral because I wondered how many people would try to pry for information about what really went wrong. I worried that I might not be able to ever speak about my Dad. I worried that his death might become a distant memory. And I worried that other families would continue to suffer, just like mine, without my Dad’s story being able to help them.

I tried to talk to people about my Dad and his memory. Sometimes I would make it through, and other times I would fall apart and be completely inconsolable. I knew that I wanted to write a book about losing my Dad, but if I couldn’t even have a conversation with folks about losing my Dad, how was I ever going to be able to write chapter after chapter about his death?

All I can say is this: God provides. And He equips. And where we fall short, He is there to give us the strength and inexplicable courage that we might never possess without His presence.

I started writing posts months before I knew I wanted to launch the blog. And once I started, I couldn’t stop. I began remembering stories that I had forgotten. There was something strangely addicting about writing about my Dad and how much I loved him and missed him—it was like I was out hunting and capturing memories before they could escape forever.

And as I grew more comfortable writing about my Dad, I also found a brand new comfort when it came to speaking about him. Yes, it still hurt not having him here, but I could talk without breaking down. I could feel grief and joyful memories at the same time. I could share his story without falling to pieces each and every time. As I grew more resilient, I found new opportunities to talk about my Dad and remember his story—and I knew the more I shared his story, the more it could help people who are hurting like he was.

Processing my Own Grief. Most importantly, Seeya Bub has given me the ability to work through my own grief and loss over losing my Dad. It isn’t why I started the blog and it might sound selfish, but I’ve grown so much as a result of sharing my story of my Dad with all of you. Losing a loved one brings on unbelievable grief, and when the grief is so unbearable it is easy to bury things below the surface—sometimes, it’s the only way to survive and get through. Regardless of how deep you might bury those feelings, however, they find interesting ways to work themselves back to the surface.

Writing about my Dad and losing him gave me a unique opportunity to recognize those issues and how they were affecting me, both consciously and subconsciously.

This griefwork has been the most difficult part of life after losing a loved one. There are some days when I just flat out don’t want to do it. I’ll sit down at my computer, fall apart, and realize that I’m too emotionally distraught to write anything productive. Other days, however, the writing is strangely soothing. I can remember a story that brings a smile to my face and write about it positively. I couldn’t imagine ever being able to do that in the days that followed my Dad’s death. The courage that this experience has given me is something I’ll always thank God and all of you for giving me.

No matter the feelings, being able to write and share my heart with all of you has been an unbelievable (and unintended) blessing. Knowing that you read reminds me that I’m not in this grieving alone.


(I hope) there are many, many more years of Seeya Bub to come, and in the one that is approaching, I ask all of you for your support. I also hope you will say a prayer for me while you’re at it. Over the next year, I am planning to write about some very personal and difficult topics regarding my Dad’s death. I’m going to share more of my life without him and how much I miss him. Each and every time that I sit down to write, I get nervous about sharing these pieces of my story and my soul because I don’t know how readers will react to them.

In this year to come, I simply ask that you continue to do what you’ve been doing. I ask that you continue to pray that God will give me the skills I need to reach hearts and minds through this endeavor. Together, I hope that God will help us help others.

On this one year anniversary of Seeya Bub, I also want to take a moment to say thank you for one more thing. Thank you, to all of you, for loving my Dad. Being able to talk with those of you who knew my Dad has been unbelievably therapeutic. You share stories about the difference he made in your life, and about the joyful memories you have of him. What’s even more mind-blowing, however, are the tender messages I receive from people who never knew my Dad, those who have come to know him solely through the blog, who say what a tremendous man he was. I will never be able to say thank you enough for those kinds of messages. Knowing that you enjoy the writing is special, but knowing how highly you think of my Dad brings a tear (and many more) to my eyes every single time. He was an amazing man with an unbelievable heart, a resilient spirit, admirable talent, and compassion beyond understanding. I’ll always love him—knowing you do too comforts the heart of this grieving son more than I could ever describe.

In the year to come, I promise to keep honoring my Dad. I promise to help anyone who is hurting and suffering in any way I can. As long as you read, I’ll be here to write. We are in this together. We are in this for my Dad and all the other people who suffer.

It’s only been one year on a journey that’s got years of life left on it. I’m packed and ready, and I hope you are, too.

One Year PhotoDad, You would be completely astounded to see how many people are touched by your story. You would be overwhelmed by how many people loved you and how deeply they loved you. I know that you’re watching over this journey and giving me the guidance from above that I’ve always needed, and I’m thankful for that. But I wish I didn’t have to write. I wish that you were still here with us. I desperately wish that that fateful July day in 2013 had ended differently. I would do anything to have you back here with me, with us, but I know that you’re at peace. I know that you are basking in the glow of God’s glory in Heaven. And if you can’t be here with us, I’m certainly glad you’re there. Dad, continue watching over me. Continue giving me the words I need to reach the hurting, grieving people in our world. Give me the wisdom and insight to share your story. Thanks for always watching over me. Until I can thank you face to face, seeya Bub.

“Rise up; this matter is in your hands. We will support you, so take courage and do it.” Ezra 10:4 (NIV)