The Walk: Guest Blog by Jeffrey Yetter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until we speak again,
Jeff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shockwaves

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

“He’s gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt everything, and I felt nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Time Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is life after the line.

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

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

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

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

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

Save me, O God!

The water is already up to my neck!

I am sinking in deep mud.

There is nothing to stand on.

I am in deep water:

A flood is sweeping me away.

I am exhausted from crying for help.

My throat is hoarse.

My eyes are strained from looking for my God.

(Psalm 69:1-3)

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

O God, out of the greatness of your mercy,

Answer me with the truth of your salvation.

Rescue me from the mud.

Do not let me sink into it.

I want to be rescued from those who hate me

And from the deep water.

Do not let floodwaters sweep me away.

Do not let the ocean swallow me up,

Or the pit to close its mouth over me.

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

Out of your unlimited compassion, turn to me.

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

Answer me quickly!

Come close, and defend my soul.

Set me free because of my enemies.

(Psalm 69:13-18)

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas from SeeyaBub.com!

On December 24, 2016December 22, 2016 By seeyabubIn Holidays1 Comment

A few months ago, I decided to launch this blog thinking that a few people would stumble across it and that it might help someone who is struggling with depression or the loss of a loved one to suicide. I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I didn’t expect what all the readers, and God, have provided in these few short months.

Over the past two months, Seeya Bub has had a few thousand views and has reached individuals in the United States, China, the United Kingdom, Canada, the Philippines, India, and a whole host of other countries.

To those of you who read each post, what’s been more important than any number or marker on a map, however, has been the overwhelming response of your heart. I can’t tell you how many nights I sit at my desk with my mouth agape, baffled at the work God is allowing this blog to do.

There have been the conversations with those of you who struggle with mental illness and suicidal thoughts. Hearing you open up and tell your story has been the privilege of a lifetime. From the moment I started this blog, I knew I wouldn’t be able to provide simple answers—but I could provide comfort, an open ear, and a shoulder to cry on when needed. You matter. Your story matters. And your life here on this earth is vitally important and consequential. I am honored to walk with you and share my Dad’s story in the hope that it might change and improve yours.

There have been the messages from survivors of suicide and individuals who have a friend or family member that struggles. There’s so much confusion, especially when a parent is suffering from a mental illness. How do we go from that person being our ultimate provider to suddenly having to take care of the caretaker? Your confusion is real, and it’s maddening, and it’s frustrating—but it’s a lot less overwhelming when you share that burden in community. I hate that you and your loved one are suffering, but I love that God has connected us so we can struggle and suffer together. Hearing so many people deal with their loved ones more tenderly after reading this blog has made it all worth it.

And to those of you who have lost a parent, regardless of the circumstances around their death, your pain and love for your loved one has touched the deepest parts of my heart. The loss of a parent is so profoundly painful. They’ve always been there, and they’ve always known just what to say when times got tough. And when they aren’t around anymore to say those things, the void hurts so deeply. I’ve found comfort in your experience and your journey, and I’m learning from you how I can continue living life when life seems unlivable.

To those of you who have shared stories about my Dad, all I can say is thank you. You have no idea how comforting it is to hear stories about my Dad. You would think, having known him my entire life, I would know everything there is to know about him. But I don’t, and as time goes on, one of the most difficult and troubling realizations is that I might be forgetting things about my Dad. When you tell me stories about my Dad and the things he did in this life, it’s like he’s right there next to me again. He’s still living in on your memory, which makes him even more vivid in my own. I can’t wait to share these stories in future posts.

This Christmas season, I simply say thank you. For reading, for sharing, and for connecting. For validating my story while processing your own. You’ve inspired me to make this the mission of my life—promoting a message of hope in the face of fear, light in the presence of darkness. I am completely astounded by the response, and I promise to continue serving all of you, and God, with all my heart and energy.

Dad and I were fans big fans of Garth Brooks…well, let me rephrase that. I was (and still am) a HUGE fan of Garth Brooks, and Dad liked him up until that whole “retirement” stunt. Recently, Garth (yeah, that’s right, we’re on a first name basis….well, at least I am) released a song with his wife Trisha Yearwood and the legendary James Taylor that is simply dubbed “The Thanksgiving Song”. The lyrics spoke to me at a heart level, and I wanted to share some of them with you:

What I’m thankful for ain’t on no list

For it only in my heart exists

For time has helped me understand

The things I can’t hold in my hand.

For those that came before my turn

Oh, from whom I’ve gathered lessons learned

That light the path that lies ahead

I see them as I bow my head.

Yes I’m thankful for the Lord above

The gift of His unending love

The promise kept that there is something more

These are the things I’m thankful for.

To all of you, I’m thankful that you’ve agreed to walk alongside me and all those who suffer from mental illness and grief. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you and yours, and thank you for making the start of this journey such a remarkably blessed experience.

Dad, You would be astounded by all of the people who have visited this blog and read your story. You wouldn’t want the credit for any of it, but I give you so much credit for all the good things that have happened in my short life. You taught me all the things a Father should (and then some), and although the lessons didn’t always set in (I still can’t change my own oil in the truck), the important things you taught me will always be there. I miss you more than anything, and especially around Christmas it’s hard to think that you won’t be there to enjoy all the fun and food and family. But you are there, in my heart, and I’m thankful that you made me the man I am. Until that first Christmas that we spend together in heaven, seeya Bub.

Shopping for Dad

On December 15, 2016 By seeyabubIn Holidays2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Christmas Quilt

On December 8, 2016 By seeyabubIn Holidays3 Comments

It’s really hard to think of a present you’d like to have on Christmas when all you want is your Dad to come back.

2014 marked my second Christmas without Dad. My second Christmas without seeing his smile as he opened gifts. My second Christmas without watching him laugh at A Christmas Story over and over and over again. My second Christmas without him snoring loudly as he napped on the couch after eating entirely too much holiday food. My second Christmas without the sound of his laughter, the presence of his joy, and the love of his heart.

I fought desperately (and still do) to hang onto those memories of Christmases now gone. On the surface, the holiday season looked the same. The Christmas trees, the lights, the presents, the cookies, and the family get-togethers. But Christmas now felt different. The feelings of joy and anticipation had given way to the pangs of loss, regret, and overwhelming sadness. All the emotions I had once felt around Christmas were so clouded by loss that it was nearly impossible to enjoy any part of the season. I thought a second year in the rotation might take off some of the rawness of the pain, but in actuality, it didn’t. It still hurt, and the pain still ran just as deep.

There was a guilt in time progressing, in life moving on. How could I just continue to exist without my Dad? How could I just continue celebrating Christmas after Christmas without him? It didn’t feel right, but I also didn’t know what other option I had. Christmas was going to come whether I wanted it to or not. Man is in an eternal fight against time, and I was on the front lines.

I couldn’t stop these thoughts from racing through my mind as I created my makeshift bed in the family room of my parents’ home. Our yearly tradition of a Christmas Eve celebration with my Mom’s side of the family had just concluded, and I was settling in for the night in the family room where I last saw my Dad alive. Even though I had bought my own house, I had made it my tradition of staying with my parents on Christmas Eve so we could all wake up under the same roof for Christmas morning. If anything, Dad’s death had made me want to do this even more, to hold on to some sense of tradition and normalcy as much as I could.

As I was laying out the sheets and pillows on the couch, Mom made her way down the staircase with a wrapped package. As an only child with a devilish smile, I had often been able to convince my parents to let me open just one present the day before Christmas. Even into semi-adulthood, I had still been able to work my magic to get at least one gift the day before. But since Dad had died, there wasn’t the same fun or eagerness in opening gifts.

Seeing her come down the stairs with that package made me remember so many unique gifts that my Mom and Dad gave me over the years. There was the year when they bought me a Fischer Price castle playset with action figure knights and boulder slingshots and a working drawbridge, which became the breeding ground for countless hours of imagination as a child. Another year, my parents bought me a wonderful art desk with a revolving marker and crayon stand, and a bottom-lit desk surface for tracing. I felt like a real cartoonist when I sat at that desk! Against Mom’s better wishes, I’m sure, there was the year that Dad bought me a dirtbike. Although I never got very good at riding it, there was something about being a kid and getting a motorcycle on Christmas morning that made me feel really, really cool. And now, I sit and think back to all those wonderful gifts and want nothing more than to have the gift of my Dad back on Christmas.

I could tell from the look on Mom’s face that this gift would be a little different from the hundreds of toys I had probably received as a child. As she came down the steps with the package, I noticed she had been crying. Unfortunately, this wasn’t much of an anomaly in our home around Christmas, for either one of us. We cried at Christmas, sometimes together and sometimes alone. There was no getting around it.

“Ty,” she said, “I’d like for you to go ahead and open this gift tonight.”

She laid it on my lap, and the child inside me from years gone by couldn’t resist the temptation to guess what was underneath the wrapping. “It feels soft, and definitely feels like clothing,” the inner child said to me. Much too big to be socks, thankfully.

In the soft glow of the Christmas lights strung across our mantle, I unwrapped what has since become my favorite Christmas gift I’ve ever received.

As I pulled back the paper, I immediately recognized one of my Dad’s old t-shirts. I began to cry before even realizing what the gift actually was. Suddenly, I realized that what I thought might have been a jacket or a coat was a quilt—but not just any quilt.

What lay in my lap was a quilt made up entirely of my Dad’s old clothing.

Fighting through tears and a complete loss of words, I threw the paper to the side and cleared out room on the floor. I spread the quilt out across the floor of our family room, admiring an item that was more valuable than any treasure I could ever receive. Mom had found someone who lived in our local community who had made the quilt–a strong Christian woman who took the time to learn about my Dad, pray over his clothing, and create a beautiful keepsake that would allow me to hold onto him forever.

There was the Carhart t-shirt I had seen him in so many times. Always the working man, I had grown used to seeing my Dad in Carhart clothing, especially coveralls, any time he was working around the house. Seeing that shirt again reminded me of his strong and calloused hands, often darkened and dirty from a project around the house. It took me back to those moments instantly.

Then, I spotted a patch made of his softball pants and the stitched name and number (always 11 for symmetry) from the letterman’s jacket of our church team. Dad was a tremendous athlete. Known as “Scooter” since before I was born, Dad was always fast—real fast. I loved watching him play softball, and when I saw that patch, my mind immediately went back to the familiar smells and sounds of a softball field, watching my Dad scoot around the bases as I cheered from a splintered wooden bench behind home plate.

I noticed his dark blue coveralls from Matandy Steel, the job where he worked for what was nearly the last decade of his life. So many times, I had seen Dad come home weary and exhausted from a long day at work, his hands and face smudged with grease from the machines he worked on all day. But my Dad loved his job, and he loved working, and I always associate those coveralls with pride and loyalty. My Dad was proud of his work, and we were all proud of the work he did.

My eyes drifted over to a green shirt with a soccer ball on it in the upper left corner, and I flashbacked to my short-lived career as a youth soccer star participant. Dad had coached my team—the Green Machine—in a local YMCA league. I saw the shirt, and remembered him running up and down the sidelines, yelling out instructions. I remembered his perfectly drawn out substitution sheets, which I eventually replicated when I started coaching. I remembered the smiles on the faces of all my teammates who, like so many other children, were drawn to my Dad’s goofy sense of humor. He didn’t know much about soccer, but there was never a better coach.

Then I noticed the shirts from Gulf Shores, Alabama (our family’s vacation spot) along with the red “Lifeguard” swim trunks he had worn on so many wonderfully sunny beach days. Dad loved going to the beach, and I loved going there with him. Our days were never boring at the beach. We would lounge in the sand and eat snacks. We would swim deep out into the ocean and see how far we could go before Mom would start freaking out. With our gloves always in tow, we would toss a baseball back and forth for hours as the sun baked on our shoulders. From early in the morning until the sun deemed our day done, we relished those moments together near the water. They were the happiest of times.

There were the Hamilton Joes t-shirts he had worn to all the games that I announced. I am confident that I am one of only a few sports broadcasters at any level whose parents attended nearly any event I announced. I saw those shirts, and I immediately flashed back to the countless times I had looked out from the press box window and saw my Dad completely at peace in the stands of a baseball game—watching the players, talking to his friends, and listening to his son. I loved having him there.

The UFC shirt I had made fun of him for wearing so many times after being completely dumbfounded regarding his fascination with the “sport”. The “Miami Dad” shirt I had bought him a few Christmases ago when I was an undergrad. The Cincinnati Reds t-shirt he had worn to so many games we attended together. They were all there. Everything I had remembered my Dad wearing was stitched together in front of me in a beautiful testament to the life he lived here on Earth. To anyone who didn’t know my Dad, it would tell them all about him. And to those of us who knew him, it brought out the best of his memory.

I cried. And I thanked my Mom. And I hugged her. And I told her how much I missed Dad. The flood of emotions I had been trying to hold back that entire day suddenly burst forth when I realized that wrapping myself in this quilt would be as close as I would ever get to hugging my Dad on this side of Eternity.

And that’s exactly what I do. When I miss my Dad, I wrap myself in that quilt. I wrap myself in the lifetime of wonderful memories he gave to me. I wrap myself in the knowledge that I will see him again someday, and that we will celebrate many more Christmases together. My Dad gave me so many great gifts while he was here with me, but I am so thankful that he gave me a Christ-like model of fatherhood—one where joy, humility, and unconditional love always prevails.

This quilt was a gift from my Mom, but I know that it was a gift from my Dad, too. I can feel his presence in every stitch. I can hear his laughter when I look at the patches. I can see his face and hear his voice every time I’m near it. A great quilt is nothing without a story to go behind it, and this one has a story I’ll tell for years and years to come.

Maybe you’re reading this blog having just lost a Dad or a Mom or a loved one. Maybe you’re reading this blog in the midst of unmistakable tragedy. Or maybe you’re reading these words years down the road from a loss but still reeling from the heart wrenching loss that feels as if it will never end. Maybe for a variety of reasons, you find yourself alone on this Christmas, and you can’t help but feel as if no one understands your desperation. If that’s you, I have a simple message.

God gives us quilts. For me, it was a quilt, but for you it might be something else. A photo. A family keepsake. A bottle of cologne or candle that reminds you of the person you miss. I don’t know what it will be, and I don’t know when you’ll receive it; but I do know that when we hurt, God’s heart hurts as well. And as a loving God, I know He will find ways to ease your pain.

I find so much comfort in the words of Psalm 139:13. “You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb” (NLT). If our God has known you so intricately and for so long, we have to believe that He knows exactly what we need in our deepest moments of hurt. And we also must believe enough in His promises that what we need will be provided.

Maybe it will be this Christmas, or maybe it will be months down the road, but I pray that you receive your quilt, and I pray that you receive the comfort that comes with it. Pray to God that He gives you your quilt, and believe, deep down, that He can provide.

And God gives us people who know we need a quilt. God uses His people to do extraordinary things, and he always positions them in our lives for the moments where we might need each other most. I didn’t ask for a quilt—mainly because I didn’t know I needed one. But God knew I needed one, and put the idea in my Mother’s heart to have one made for me.

This Christmas, I’m thankful that my God has put a mission in my Mom’s heart—a mission to help preserve the memory of her husband, my father. When it comes to gifts that honor my Dad, my Mom is an all-star. She thinks of ways to honor him that I never would. I’m confident that God has been developing that type of attitude in her throughout her entire life, knowing that our family would face a storm unlike any other.

I don’t know who will give you your quilt, but I’m confident that if you open your heart to grace and community and fellowship, God will give you an army of people who will help you walk through the wind and rain of life’s storms. He’s given it to me, even at times when I didn’t deserve it—and no matter how far I might stray from him at times, I rest easy knowing He will always be putting “quilt-givers” in my life to pick me up when I fall.

History records the day when the White House was attacked by the British in 1814. As the home of our nation’s most powerful executive burned to the ground, First Lady Dolley Madison grabbed the official portrait of our first President, George Washington, in an effort to preserve our national history. She escaped from the flames with the portrait intact, and made her way to safety.

Although I never want my house to burn down, I’ve already made up my mind about what I would grab on my way out, and it’s not a presidential portrait (Sorry, George).

The quilt my Mom gave me on that Christmas Eve is my most cherished family heirloom. For generations, that quilt will be able to tell the story of a man my children and grandchildren will never have the gift of knowing on this Earth. But more than that, it’s a reminder to me of the tremendous life I spent with my Dad for 26 years. Now, on Christmas Eve, I have a new tradition, and even though it’s not the one I want, it’s the one I will settle for until better days. On Christmas Eve, on that same couch where I said goodbye to my Dad, I wrap myself in his quilt, and it’s like he’s still there with me in some way. A quilt provides comfort, and so does a loving Father—and I’m thankful that I have both wrapped up together in the warmest of memories.

Dad, I would love for you to see this quilt, but I would give anything to see you wearing the clothes that make up the patches again. You would be so proud of Mom for finding such a wonderful way to honor your memory. When times get tough, I grab that quilt and think about you. I press my face against your work uniform, and remember how those patches used to feel on my face when I’d hug you as you came home from work as a child. I remember how sweaty those softball uniforms used to get after you had played a game on a hot summer night. I remember all the days we lounged together on the shores in Alabama, and how we all felt closer to God and each other being close to the ocean. I long for those days—and I know we will have them again, only better. My quilt only has meaning because of the meaning you gave to our lives when you were here. That quilt tells a story because you made life so special, each and every day. And although it will be sad to go through yet another Christmas without you to provide the fun and laughter, I feel you watching over us each and every year. Until our first Christmas together again, seeya Bub.

“And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19 (NLT)

The Gift Tags

On December 1, 2016December 8, 2016 By seeyabubIn Holidays5 Comments

Christmas is exciting, and this was no different—but how could that be when everything about life was suddenly so different? The tree was glowing in our living room with all of the familiar ornaments we had put on it since I was a kid. The presents were wrapped underneath, ready to be opened. Our dog was running around like crazy, because she knew there were definitely a few toys wrapped up for her to open as well. It was Christmas in our home again—no different, but different.

The anticipation that Christmas always builds was building for all the wrong reasons. Apprehension clouded over the entire morning. It was Christmas 2013—the first Christmas without my Dad. And no matter where I looked, even though he wasn’t there, all I saw was him.

I sat on the couch where I always sat when we were opening gifts. Mom came down the stairs and sat in the chair across the living room. And we just sat there for a moment. We were usually always waiting on Dad. He would wake up, and just lay there for a while, and change his clothes, and brush his teeth, and after 15 minutes of harassment from me as I held back from ripping the presents apart, he would eventually come down the steps. But on this Christmas, no matter how long we waited, I knew he wasn’t coming. But I didn’t want to admit it.

I loved Christmas, but in that particular moment I wanted to be anywhere but sitting around the foot of our Christmas tree. It felt wrong. How could we even celebrate Christmas? Dad wasn’t here, and it wasn’t Christmas without Dad. How could we even bring ourselves to smile when we opened presents, knowing that this was Christmas from now on? I felt guilty—beyond guilty.

For better or for worse, however, I kept a brave face on for my Mom—even though I knew, deep down, she was having the same exact feelings of guilt, emptiness, and sadness.

We just didn’t know how to do this. There’s no manual or textbook on how to celebrate a holiday after you lose a loved one. It felt like we should be doing something different, but it also felt like we should be holding on to everything we had done previously so the tradition would always be there, even if my Dad wasn’t. Everything we did felt wrong, even if it was probably the right thing to do. Christmas had taken on a whole new emotion—I went from loving Christmas to just wanting to get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible. It was heartbreaking.

And it was heartbreaking because Christmas was always such a wonderful, wonderful time in our home. It was a perfect balance of excitement and tradition that all Christmases should be. Mom would make our favorite breakfast quiche and cinnamon rolls, filling the house with the smell I’ll always associate with the holidays. We would stay in our pajamas all day long and play with the toys and games my parents had bought me. We would watch A Christmas Story way too many times, and my Dad would laugh at the same jokes over and over and over again (especially when the lead up to the tongue-on-pole fiasco). It was Christmas the way Christmas was supposed to be.

And now, all of that was gone. The food and the gifts and the movie-marathon were still there, but a dark cloud of emptiness enveloped the whole thing. It was now everything that was wrong with Christmas—going on without my Dad and still celebrating. It felt wrong to want Christmas to just be right again.

But I looked at Mom, and she looked at me, and we both knew that we had no choice. We couldn’t simply abandon the tremendous memories we have of the 25 Christmases we got to spend as a complete family. Those were important treasures, and we couldn’t hate the previous holidays because we weren’t enjoying the current one.

So, we went on. We passed gifts between the two of us, interjecting a few for the dog, Lucy, as she grew restless. We smiled when we opened presents, and thanked each other just like we always had. It felt strange just giving gifts between the two of us, but if I closed my eyes periodically, I could pretend that my Dad was still there with us. And even with my eyes open, I could still feel him there with us in that moment. A few minutes into the gift-giving, however, I found my Dad right there with me in a much different fashion.

Dad had always been the professional gift wrapper in our household. His attention to detail and desire for perfection bled into every aspect of his life, and Christmas gift wrapping was no exception. It may have taken him a ridiculously long time to do, but his creases were perfect. Each gift was a work of art, and each gift wrapping had its own personality. He was very creative when it came to unique bow combinations. He would use ribbon in interesting combinations and patterns to create different effects on the boxes. On occasion, he might try and trick you by taking a small gift and putting it in a huge box (or multiple boxes set inside each other like Russian nesting dolls). I never gave him enough credit for how well he wrapped presents, probably because I was so jealous that mine looked like they were wrapped by a three year old.

The gift tags were always his finishing touch. Dad would always label each package, but it was rarely a simple “To: Ty / From: Dad”. There was only usually one tag that would have that standard moniker, but the rest were all creative. Each one had to be goofy or silly or different. “To: Ty / From: Santa.” “To: The Boy / From: The Dad.” “To: Tyrone / From: Pops.” “To: Bub / From: Papa Elf.” Although each tag was familiar in that it was written in Dad’s recognizable, precise, ALL-CAPS handwriting, each tag was distinct and had its own personality. Most of the time they were goofy and corny, just like most of my Dad’s jokes. I’m sure, over the years, there were a few eye rolls from me, an embarrassed son, but my Dad never quit smiling when he saw me read them.

But on that first Christmas morning without him, my eyes grew wide when I grabbed a seemingly normal package. I looked down at the tag, and thought my eyes had to be playing tricks on me. There it was. The precise handwriting in all capitals that I had begun to emulate as a seventh grader. The sharpie that he always used to label his gifts. I looked at the package, and there it was—a label, written by him, that said “To: Ty / From: Dad”.

I looked up at Mom, completely astonished. She looked backed at me as tears streamed behind her glasses. “I found a few of them when I was getting out the gift wrapping stuff. It makes it feel like he’s still here with us, doesn’t it?”

Then, I lost it. All the emotions I had been trying to hold inside burst forth. All the hurt and emptiness and sorrow I was feeling in that moment exploded to the surface, and there was no holding it back. “I miss him so much,” was all I could get out, over and over.

Mom got up from her chair, walked over to me, and just hugged me. We cried together, as the reality of our new holiday tradition set in.

Each year, I get a few packages that have my Dad’s Christmas tags on them. And each year, it’s gotten easier and easier to look at them and remember the great Christmases we spent together, rather than obsessing over the heartache that I so often feel. It’s gotten easier to watch A Christmas Story and laugh at the parts we would have laughed at together. But just because it’s easier to deal with doesn’t mean it hurts any less. The pain is still just as real as it’s ever been, but over the years since Dad’s passing, I’ve learned to appreciate the great times we had together rather than obsessing over the time that was stolen from us. And I’m thankful that I have a Mom who loved me enough, even in the midst of her own heartache, who still wanted Christmas to be a special time filled with love for one another.

I rest easy in the midst of the pain when I remind myself of the reasons why we celebrate Christmas. Even though my Dad might not be there to open the gifts and enjoy the food, I have a Heavenly Father who sent his Son to this Earth so I wouldn’t suffer alone. I celebrate because God knew I would encounter this pain, and he cared enough to do something about it. I have no doubt those little Christmas tags were a gift from God when He knew I would need them most. They were the reminder I needed when life felt too tough.

And I also rest easy knowing that I will celebrate Christmas again with my Dad, and it will be an even better celebration than the ones we had when we were together here. That’s really hard for me to come to terms with! Those Christmases growing up felt so perfect, but God tells me that the ones I spend when we are reunited in heaven will be even better? When I read my Bible, it convinces me that every day in Heaven, not just one day a year, will be like Christmas. My mind can’t fathom that level of happiness. My heart can’t contain that type of love. But my soul longs for it, and I know that I’ll be laughing again with my Dad someday and celebrating Christmas with him again. I can’t imagine how God could make his gift-wrapping skills any better. But as long as those old familiar package tags are there, I’ll be happy.

Until then, I’ll make the most of the Christmases I’m given with the other people that I love. I’ll laugh when I’m having fun, and I’ll allow myself to cry when I miss my Dad. But most importantly, I won’t feel guilty or ashamed for experiencing either emotion. I’ll thank God that I long for those Christmases of long ago, because they must have been pretty tremendous for me to want them back so badly. It’s a weird thing to long for something you know you can never have, but it’s reassuring when you know, deep down, you’ll have something so much better to celebrate on the other side.

Dad, Every time another Christmas tree goes up, I shake my head and shed a tear because it feels like it was just yesterday we celebrated our last Christmas together. You loved that time of the year. You made the season so special for Mom and me, and I’ll never forget the tremendous memories we made together. At times, it really doesn’t feel right to even celebrate Christmas. I feel guilty having fun and smiling without you here to join in. But I know you’re watching, and I know you’re still smiling and laughing. Dad, thank you for giving this boy a lifetime of memories that are more valuable than any other gift you ever gave. Thank you for showing me what it’s like to love other people the way God loves us. The sacrificial love that God showed us when He sent His Son to this world is the same love you showed to everyone you came in contact with, whether it was Christmas or not. This season, help me live more like Him and more like you. Until a better Christmas, seeya Bub.

“Every good present and every perfect gift comes from above, from the Father who made the sun, moon, and stars.” James 1:17 (GW)

Playing Catch

On November 25, 2016December 8, 2016 By seeyabubIn Foundation Posts3 Comments

I love the sound of a baseball hitting a glove on a good throw. Not the kind of throws I usually make, but the throws my Dad made. POP. POP. POP. POP. Back and forth, on and on and on. Well, our throwing sessions were more like “Pop” (his throw), “Thud” (my throw). Pop, Thud. Pop, Thud. Pop, Thud.

On and on and on this went, most nights of the week after dinner. Although I wasn’t a great athlete, I could manage to throw a baseball back and forth from a stationary position. And I loved everything about it.

I should probably spend some time expanding on this whole “not a very good athlete” moniker. In reality, I was a terrible athlete. No matter how hard I tried, and no matter how much I may have loved sports, God chose not to bless me with athletic ability or the perseverance to train hard enough. And when I say terrible, I mean terrible…across the board. It wasn’t just baseball, which I promptly retired from once they started throwing the ball at you instead of putting it on a tee. It was basketball, which I played for 3 years and never scored a bucket. It was soccer, which I was moderately functional at if they allowed me to be a keeper. On the hardwood, the basepaths, or the field, one thing was always consistent…I would give it a shot, and it wouldn’t go well.

Which is surprising that my parents were willing to suffer through the humiliation of watching their athletically inept son suffer so many setbacks, often times with our family name stitched on the back of my jersey. My parents even went so far as to support me publicly. You know those buttons you can order from the team photographer that have your headshot on them? I almost expected to show up at games and see my parents wearing buttons of other kids on the team. That’s how bad I was. But they never did. Even in front of people, they wanted folks to know that I was their son, and no matter how bad I was, I would always be their son, and they would always be my parents, and I would always be loved.

And I knew I was loved by the fact that no matter how errant my throws, my Dad still made it a point on most nights to ask me if I wanted to go play catch, long into my twenties, even after he had worked a long day in exhausting heat. My Dad worked as a maintenance technician in a steel plant (which he loved), and on some nights, even though I knew he would have preferred a quick nap after dinner instead, he would ask if I wanted to toss, go grab his glove, and meet me out in the sideyard.

On the topic of that sideyard…it wasn’t technically our sideyard. It was our frontyard, which bled into the sideyard of our neighbors. If you threw property lines out the window, it was a perfect place to toss. The houses were out of range from any of my misguided throws. They were also out of reach from any of my Dad’s perfect throws that would miss my glove because of my previously detailed athletic struggles. The grass was always well kept by both homeowners, and of the utmost importance, our neighbors willingly allowed us to take over their yard, if only for a few minutes each night, so our games of catch could continue.

I loved those nights. Those perfect summer nights, sweat dripping down our brows, the pop-pop-pop echoing down our lazy suburban street. But as much as I enjoyed hearing that perfect pop in my glove, I actually lived for the moments in between the pops. The conversation between a father and son, each one living a different life but connected in a way that only a father and son could quite understand. We would talk about anything. And everything. When I was in high school, we would talk about my classmates, the funny things that happened after school, and my ongoing struggles with girls. When I moved on to college we laughed about crazy things happening within our family, my academic endeavors at Miami University, my ridiculously busy schedule, and my ever-present struggles with girls. And when I graduated from Miami and started my career, we would talk about the difficulties I faced transitioning from a student into a professional, my desire to go on to graduate school, things I needed advice on like money and cars, and my ever-present struggles with girls. The conversation changed over the years, but one thing never did—and I’m not talking about the struggles with girls. I’m talking about our love for one another and interest in each other’s lives.

You might think that growing into adulthood would slowly strangle a boy’s desire to play catch with his Dad; but if anything, as life becomes more complex and the world becomes more suffocating, what a boy longs for most is to return to a time when all you had to do was play catch. All you had to do was keep your eye on the ball, let your glove bring it to a stop, make a solid throw back, and position yourself to do it all over again. When you’re a kid, you think that those games of catch will never end. When you’re an adult and you realize that each time you play catch is one moment closer to your last, you panic. And you do anything you can, anything you have to, to grab onto those moments and never let them go. If your arm is tired, you grimace and keep throwing. If it’s growing dark, you squint and hope you can still see the ball. You hope and pray for a stronger arm and a sun that never sets, so those games of catch never have to stop.

Which explains why I did something unthinkable, something unreasonable, and something that seemed entirely foolish. I lived with my parents for a few years after college, because working in education isn’t as lucrative as…well, most anything else. But I had saved, and I knew I wanted to buy a home.

I looked at a number of different spots, and even made a few offers on different homes, and just when I thought I might cool my jets on the home search, an interesting home came on the market. The house right next door—yes, the house with the sideyard that my feet knew all too well—was up for sale.

Well, it actually wasn’t up for sale to just anyone. Those same neighbors who had graciously allowed our games of catch to continue hadn’t put the house on the market just yet. But they knew I was looking, so they had my Dad relay a message. He came home one night after a bike ride he had taken (too often by himself), and said, “I know you probably don’t want to live next to your Old Man, but the neighbors wanted me to let you know that if you’re still looking for a house that they’d be interested in selling theirs to you.”

I went over that very evening to talk with our neighbors about buying the house next to my parents. They took me through the small brick ranch, walking me through each of the rooms and all of the great amenities the house offered. I knew that I would have a lot of painting ahead of me, and the yard had grown completely out of control, but no feature inside the house could dare stack up to the property itself. Once and for all, I could own that sideyard. I could call my Dad any time I wanted. He would walk out into his yard, and I would walk out into mine. And we would just toss. And the world would be right.

So I made an offer. Probably not a fair offer considering the market value of the house, but the only offer I could make. An offer made by a young man just a few years out of college, trying to get ahead in life but too enticed by the allure of “things” and “stuff” to have a considerable savings. I left the house thinking “They’ll never take it. I’ll have to keep looking. Wow—you even asked them to leave all the appliances at that price?! What were you thinking?” Disappointment was beginning to set in.

I love when God defies your expectations. I’ll never forget the message I received the next day from the owner, Steve. “Beth and I talked, and we want to accept your offer for the house. We really feel like God is telling us that if we are going to sell the house, we need to sell it for you. Let us know what we need to do to get the process rolling.” To this day, I know that it was God telling them to sell the house, because they couldn’t possibly have seen the building tsunami that would come my way, but He saw it all along.

I called my Mom and Dad, and shared the news the same way with each of them. “Well, it looks like you’re going to have another horrible neighbor.” I could tell they were both excited, each for different reasons. There was something reassuring about knowing I was going to venture out on my own, but I was venturing close enough that if a pipe burst, or an appliance broke, or if I needed to borrow a lawnmower, the kind folks next door would always love me enough to help me through.

And deep down, as much as I may have bought the house for the low interest rate and the instant equity…I bought it because I wanted to keep playing ball with my Dad.

And boy did we play. There was something freeing about knowing I now owned the sideyard, so we tossed more than we ever had before once I took ownership of the house. In fact, we played the very night I closed on the house—just because we could. It was the only proper celebration I could envision. Yes, there was plenty of work to be done on the house. Yes, there were rooms to paint and weeds to pull. But more importantly, there was catch to be played. And that mattered more than anything.

The conversations that we had always had continued too, even though the content had changed since I was now a homeowner. We talked a lot about ways we could now improve our games of catch: keeping the grass cut a bit shorter, possibly adding a few lights in the yard, cutting down a few tree limbs. At one point, we had even made up our mind that the bumpy and uneven terrain of the sideyard required an entire regrading. We were preparing to tear up the entire thing, truck in dirt, relevel, replant, and re…watch it grow. We continued to talk about work, and school, and yes, my still ever-present struggles with girls. I always joked with Dad that buying a house next to my parents was never going to help me land a girlfriend, but he insisted that when those girls took one look at him and saw what I could look like when I grew up, they’d be hooked like never before. So I would remind him that he was bald, and had been since the age of 30. And of course, he would remind me “Yeah, but I make bald look good, boy.”

So it continued. Pop, thud. Pop, thud. Pop, thud. Night after night after night after night. We cherished those moments, enjoyed them more than any other part of our days.

And now, I cherish them more than I ever did because I haven’t played catch in that sideyard for two years. Instead, I find myself in that sideyard in the middle of the night, with nothing but the moon and the occasional passing car. The terrain is still bumpy, because we never got a chance to embark on our ambitious regrading project, and the moon provides the only shine because we never installed those lights. Instead, it’s the same grass I’ve always known, but it’s often wet at 1-or-2 o’ clock in the morning. Oftentimes, I lay in that wet grass and look skyward, knowing not whether my face is wet from the grass or the flood of tears that stream down. Sometimes, I talk. Other times, I listen. Hoping and praying I’ll hear that “pop” again. But I only hear it in my memories, in my dreams. I only hear an imaginary “pop”—never the real thing. The sideyard that was once a stadium of backyard heroes is now a memorial to summertime fun lost forever. And on bad nights it’s the new sounds, the sounds of horror and heart-wrenching disaster, that drown out the “pops” that I so desperately long to hear again.

I would do anything to play catch with my Dad again. I would do anything to relive the entire experience. I don’t know if it’s theologically sound, but when I think of Heaven and the life to come, I often think that a lot of my time will be spent playing catch with my Dad. We will talk, and laugh, and even in Heaven where life should be perfect, I’ll probably still be a terrible athlete. But none of that will matter, because I’ll be spending time with my Dad.

So Dads, keep playing catch with your sons. And sons, keep playing catch with your Dads. And no matter how old you get or how tired your arm may be, don’t ever stop playing. The time to toss will eventually come to an end, but the memories you’ll create with each and every throw will live with you forever.

Dad, I hate to tell you this, but my arm hasn’t gotten any better since you left. I’ve tossed a handful of times since you died, but never in that sideyard. That sideyard is hallowed, sacred ground for me because it’s where I feel your presence most. When I step out in that sideyard, I can still hear the pop of the glove, but more importantly, I hear your laugh. We had so much fun on so many summer nights, even if I wasn’t a shadow of the athlete you were. Thanks for being a dad who was never too tired, too old, or too busy to play catch with his son. More than anything, I am longing for the days where you and I can toss forever and never grow tired—of the activity or the conversation. Until then, seeya bub.

“Train a child in the way he should go, and even when he is old he will not turn away from it.” Proverbs 22:6 (GW)

The First Bad Day

On November 17, 2016December 8, 2016 By seeyabubIn Foundation Posts7 Comments

“Dad doesn’t have depression. I don’t care what they say. He’s not depressed.”

I repeated these lines over and over and over again in my head as I paced around my room. “Dad laughs too much,” I said to myself. “He’s too happy. He can’t possibly be depressed. They obviously don’t know what they are talking about.”

This was the very first “bad day” I had ever experienced with my Dad. I came home from high school during my junior year, and there were a number of cars in our driveway. I immediately picked out a few I knew: my Grandpa’s, my Aunt’s, my Dad’s boss. It was a weird collection for a get-together that Mom had probably reminded me of but that I had most likely forgotten.

When I entered the house, I realized quickly that this was no happy get together. The odd conglomeration of family members, friends, and coworkers were sitting in our living room, which was strange because we never sat in our living room. It was a museum, the room of the house that was kept perfect and spotless in case someone stopped over. My Mom has always kept our entire house spotless, but the living room was always perfect. Today, even in the midst of all these intruders, was no different. And to top it all off, they were all actually sitting on the living room furniture! No one sits on the living room furniture! It’s uncomfortable. It’s not broken in like the couch downstairs. Why weren’t they downstairs?

One look at my Mom told me that folks sitting on our living room furniture would be the least of my worries on that day. She had been crying. She cried on occasion, but I could tell from the swollen look in her eyes that this was no ordinary crying. This was a desperate cry, a cry related to severe hurt. She looked at me tenderly, offering a very warm “Hi, honey.” It was a greeting filled with compassion; the type of compassion that you get when you’re about to be hit with something awful. It was the type of compassion that said “Your world is about to change. Your life is about to be more complicated than it’s ever been before. And more than anything I’d wish that I could take you back to the days where you ran around in pajama sleepers and watched Sesame Street all day, but I know that your innocence is about to be taken from you—violently and swiftly.”

My Grandpa spoke first, which is not a coincidence in our family. He’s always been the leader, the mouthpiece, and the voice of our family. It doesn’t hurt his case that he’s naturally loud, but we always looked to him as a leader for more than his volume. He just assumed that role, in both good times and bad, but especially in bad times. Any time that there was bad news to deliver, my Grandpa just naturally did it. And he often did it in a way that would surprise you. On most ordinary days, my Grandpa could be impatient, opinionated, and slightly cantankerous—always caring, but just delivered in a more colorful package. But on this day, he was different—tender, quiet, methodical, and deliberate.

“Ty,” he said, “We don’t know where your Dad is.”

“What do you mean you don’t know where he is? He’s probably at work. Call his cell phone,” I said, starting to wonder whether or not this whole argument of “wisdom comes with age” was actually accurate if they couldn’t even think to call someone’s cell phone.

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he replied.

Then, Mom chimed in. “I don’t really know how to tell you this, but your Dad suffers from depression. This hasn’t happened in a long time, but when things get really bad, he just…sort of…disappears. He takes off and we don’t quite know where he goes.”

“Dad’s not depressed,” I hit back. “He’s not depressed. Come on, he’s happy all the time.”

They both looked at me with a sympathetic eye. They knew this wouldn’t make sense to me, but they also knew they were right. They knew I would have trouble accepting the fact that my Dad had depression, and knew I probably didn’t even understand what depression was. “This hasn’t happened in a long time. The last time it happened was right before you were born, and we are fortunate that it hasn’t happened since,” Mom said.

Right before I was born? How could I not know about this? How had this never been mentioned in a conversation? Noted in a family history? Brought up at some point, any point? How could I not know something as significant as the fact that my Dad had a random desire to run away from his family?

Before that moment, I had used the phrase “shell-shocked” many times, but never knew what it meant, how it felt. All in all, I had lived a pretty comfortable, safe, and sheltered lifestyle. I was an only child, which meant that nearly any time I wanted the attention of a parent, I had it—many times without even asking. All of my grandparents were still alive, even including a great-Grandmother who was in her late eighties—a feat I knew many of my classmates were not so lucky to have experienced. I think back to those years, and beyond a few members of our church and acquaintances of my parents, I can’t think of one significant, life-altering death that had happened before that moment. I knew I was lucky, but in that moment, hearing that my Dad was missing, I immediately felt like the unluckiest kid in the world.

My Grandpa and Mom continued to talk, but I honestly wasn’t listening. It was like they were talking to me from across an open field—I could hear their voices, but the sounds they were making were too faint, too distant to mean anything. It washed over me, but it didn’t sink in. They continued to talk, and I would catch random pieces: he hadn’t taken his medicine, the police were looking for him, Uncle Lee is driving around hoping to spot him, his cell phone is turned off.

My mind began to spin, much more than it ever had. Where was Dad? Why was he gone? Why did he feel the need to leave? What was depression? Why would he just run off? Would he lose his job? Would we go broke? Would we lose our house? Was he mad at my Mom? Was he mad at me? Was it something I said? Did I tell him that morning that I loved him? Was it my fault?

These questions choked off any ability for me to listen to anything my Mom and Grandpa were saying, and they understood that I didn’t understand. Finally, I had the courage to voice this frustration and lack of understanding. “I just don’t get how he could be depressed. He was fine this morning.”

They continued to talk, offering to answer any questions I had, but I was so confused that I didn’t even know what questions I should be asking. So I did what any high school student would do in a situation where their world is suddenly turned on its axis—I said I was okay, didn’t ask any more questions, grabbed my backpack, and retreated to the solitude of my room. It was a small room that hadn’t changed much since I was a kid. Just recently, my parents had redone it, swapping out the childish baseball theme for a more rustic, vintage, young-adult baseball theme. I loved that room, but in that moment it felt like a jail cell. I shut the door behind me, as murmurs of a very complicated adult conversation were still drifting up the stairway. The famous blue carpet that I had picked out as a kid was still there, and I tossed my things down on it, flopped on the bed, grabbed the remote, and sunk into the mattress.

None of this made any sense at all. It just didn’t compute. Didn’t match the image of my Dad. My Dad, like many Dads, was Superman. He could do anything. Anything I couldn’t do, he could do with ease. And anything I could do? Well, he could always do it better. A carpenter by trade, Dad had a unique talent for building things. Not just any things, but big things. Like the garage-and-foyer-on-our-house things. A maintenance technician by practice, he could fix things that other people had built to be inferior. From little problems like toys and light fixtures, to big things like cars and motorcycles, my Dad was a tinkerer and a fixer. If it was a sport, he could play it. If it was a board game, he could beat me at it. He could outrun me, outshoot me, and outanything me—anytime, anywhere. And I was constantly in awe (and I little frustrated I didn’t inherit more of his genes).

But now, I was confused. Confused over how someone with so much talent and so much potential could do something so seemingly senseless. “If Dad can fix things,” I thought, “why can’t he fix himself? Why can’t he fix his personality? Why can’t he fix his own sadness?” My Dad was too smart for this. He knew better. He knew where he belonged. He belonged here. At home. With me. And Mom. And our dog. And our perfect life. Simple, yes. But also perfect.

In another family, this might have made sense. A family where there were fights and bitter disagreements. In fact, I was surprised more people in those situations didn’t run away. But our home was always a happy one. It was a home where, for the most part, we all got along and supported one another. Don’t get me wrong—we had our share of disagreements. I would get mad at my Dad. And my Mom would get mad at my Dad. And my Dad would get mad at my Mom, and Mom would get mad at me. But we were so tight-knit that those types of scuffles and that type of conflict was inevitable. You can’t have friction unless two items are making contact, and our family, partially due to our small size, was a home where friction led to fights—but that friction never led to fire. The friction never consumed us. We loved one another. We always made up, and we never stopped loving each other.

Until now. Now, I thought, some sort of friction had forced my Dad to run. Far, far away from us. Where had he gone? I really didn’t even know, but it felt like he might as well have been in another country, another world entirely. I had never felt so distant from my Dad. Someone getting lost unintentionally was one thing—but someone running away intentionally was an entirely new feeling. I felt rejected by him. I felt abandoned, even orphaned in that moment, even though deep down I knew he would return. I just didn’t know when, and that uneasiness was a feeling I had never felt before—and never wanted to feel again.

But eventually, he came back home. You would think that the details of a moment so significant would be burned permanently into my brain, but there are so many details that completely escape me, including the amount of time my Dad was gone. I know for certain that he didn’t come home that night, because I remember my Mom trying to help me sleep, containing her own sadness in a way only a mother can in that moment. I remember waking up the next day, and saying to myself (as most people going through a severe personal shock will say) that the day before was nothing but an imagined nightmare. And I remember going downstairs, seeing my Dad’s truck was not in the driveway, and seeing that his work boots were still not strewn near the front door. I knew in that moment that yesterday and this new life were as real as real could be.

But beyond that realization, I don’t remember much about those next few days. I remember family members and friends treating me as if I was a toddler who was too young to deal with bad news. Family members offering to take me out for ice cream. Friends offering to take me out “just to get my mind off things”. I appreciated all this extra love and concern so much, but I probably didn’t show it because I was so upset. I remember a general feeling of emptiness and wandering, attempting to navigate my new world. It was the world I had always lived in, but it was now so severely altered by earthquakes and storms that the landscape was completely unrecognizable.

And then, who knows when, I remember my Mom telling me they had found him. He was in his truck, somewhere a few hours away from our home, and he was safe—uninjured and unharmed. He would be home before the night’s end, and our family, although shaken, would be put back together.

In that instant, this feeling of loss and confusion completely morphed into a deep and unbending rage. A fury I had rarely felt wash over me flooded every piece of my body. I wanted to hit someone—even hit my Dad. And I was a fairly wimpy teenager, so hitting someone was not a natural reaction. But in that very moment, I felt the need to injure, even if my muscles lacked the capability. There was a vitriol that coursed through my veins, unfamiliar and unyielding. I was hurt, and it was my intent now to hurt someone else.

I was downstairs, fuming, when I heard a click. A door swung open, and then swung closed. Shoes were removed and thrown to the side, as was customary in our house. A low, hushed murmur of conversation. The rocking chair in the living room creaked as someone found a seat. More hushed conversation between my Mom and my Grandpa, who were in the room with him. Until finally, my rage could simmer no more.

I made my way up the stairs, and there he sat. My Dad. Superman. But he didn’t look like Superman. He looked like a dog that had just been scolded. His head hung low, and his eyes were glazed over and empty behind his glasses. His shoulders were hunched, and his legs looked weak, even though he was seated. I could tell there was not an ounce of physical damage to his body, but he looked more wounded than I had ever seen him. The smile that always graced his face was long forgotten in that moment, and there was no sense that it would ever be found.

Until he saw me. And although I didn’t see a full smile, I saw a trace of it—a familiar grin crossed his face. It wasn’t a sadistic grin of a mischievous troublemaker, but the only grin that can emerge when a smile has been beaten to a pulp by the worries of this life. He looked at me and instinctively, reflexively, greeted me the way he always had, even if the same emotion was absent: “Hey bub.”

How dare he, I thought. How dare he run out on me, and come home like nothing happened. How dare he put my Mother through this, after all she had done to make our home a happy one. How dare he make everyone worry about him unnecessarily for the past few days.

I didn’t explode in the way I expected to, but I also didn’t cry. I felt my anger fade back into the recesses of my mind, but it was still there, and still very real. I stood there, somewhat frozen, staring at him. Maybe I was trying to let my stare do all the talking. Maybe I was trying to show him, visibly, how hurt I was without saying a word. Maybe I was trying to make him feel guiltier than he ever had in his entire life. In that moment, I didn’t know what I was trying to do, so I just stood there.

But then, the anger, although more controlled, bubbled to the surface. Although my memory fails me in so many other moments related to this episode of life, my words to him, because of their hatred and desire to wound, are never forgotten—no matter how hard I wish I could erase them. In my best adult impression, I tried to punish him the only way I knew how—by withdrawing my love.

Pointing at his face from the other side of the living room, I delivered a stinging and sincere threat. “So help me God, if you ever run out on us ever again, ever leave us again, I will never talk to you. Ever again. I will never forgive you if you do this to us again. Got it?”

His arms, probably still awaiting a hug from the boy he held as a baby, the boy he cradled into existence, the boy who he had picked up after so many failures, limply hung by his side. He looked down at the floor, and nodded yes. He understood. The threat had been delivered, and he agreed to the terms. Having established a new contract for our relationship moving forward in this new, unstable terrain, I passed on the hearty welcome. It was unnecessary, in my opinion. Why welcome someone home who had voluntarily ran away from it? I lowered my hand, stormed up the steps, and slammed my bedroom door in a move that was all too teenager-ish. What may have been said or happened in the moment after that door slammed is a mystery to me. Did my Dad cry? In that moment I hoped so. Did my Mom and Grandpa tell him how upset and scared I had been? I hoped so. Was he hurting? I hoped so. I didn’t want to hurt alone. And if anyone deserved to hurt, it was him. That door, for tonight and many nights to come, would remain shut to him—and so would the door to my heart. And the echoes of that slam, which replay in my mind more than I would like to admit, haunt me in ways that I’ll never be able to overcome. I will live with that guilt forever and ever.

I look back on that moment, and even as I write it, I would do anything to change it. I would do anything to go back to that moment and not be such a predictable teenager. I would go back to that moment and, instead of hurling hurtful words at him, I would have given him a hug, told him I loved him, and tried to understand the sickness he must have been confused by.

I am thankful that I look back on that moment and want so desperately to change it, however, because it shows that my perspective on depression and mental illness has evolved so much. When I first found out about my Dad’s depression, I blamed him. But as time went on, and I read more and learned more, I blamed depression. I blame depression for attacking my Dad’s mind. I blame the physical processes for making him feel like life was just too much. I blame the forces I don’t understand for hijacking his thought processes. And as Dad went through seasons of depression (although rare) in the years that followed, I offered a much more empathetic and loving response. I was a son of a father who suffered from depression, and when I understood what depression was, I could love him unconditionally—the way he had always loved me.

Too many people in our world, adults and children alike, look at the depressed and immediately fault the person. Just like my perspective has evolved, so must our culture’s view of this illness grow as well. We must create a world where depression is viewed as an illness, not a personal flaw or character weakness. It is time we begin to treat the mentally ill as sick, and in doing so, give them the freedom to talk openly about their feelings, and most importantly, seek treatment when it’s needed. We must abandon the view I first had of depression and simply begin to understand that if those who were depressed could simply “snap out” of their darkness, they would do it in a heartbeat. Nobody welcomes these feelings. No one embraces depression with open arms. Reacting to those who suffer with the love and compassion they so desperately deserve is our only appropriate response. Be mad at depression, not the person it ruthlessly attacks. Ultimately, we all must believe that a warm embrace and an “I love you” do more to heal than a slamming bedroom door.

Dad, I would do absolutely anything to go back to that moment when you came home and change the way I acted. I know you don’t want me to feel guilty, but now that I know more about what you went through, it pains me that I treated you the way I did. It breaks my heart to know how alone you must have felt in that moment, and now that our time together on this earth has ended, I would give anything to have it back. Had you been able to simply “snap out” of your depression and never suffer again, I know you would have. I want you to know that I would never judge your love for me and our family based on an illness that periodically overtook your mind and senses. Although I’m so thankful you don’t suffer from the darkness you once felt anymore, I wish I had just one more opportunity to hug you and tell you that I’ll always love you. Someday, I know I’ll be able to hug you once more. Until then, seeya bub.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever. Revelation 21:4 (NLT)

Great Days

On November 10, 2016December 8, 2016 By seeyabubIn Foundation PostsLeave a comment

At the age of 26, I never thought I’d have to tell people that one of my parents had passed away. Even more, I never thought I would have to explain that my Dad, a constantly happy and smiling man, was a victim of suicide. That he struggled against depression and had many dark days that most people never saw. Often times, it just doesn’t compute because the people who knew my Dad never saw him struggle. And I’ll admit…there are a lot of days where it doesn’t make sense to me either. But explanation or not, the pain is real. There is a unique pain that emerges when a boy loses his father, and the greater the man the greater the void is left when he’s gone.

I created this blog knowing full-well that I could never tell my Dad’s story. He is the only one who could ever tell that. Instead, I wanted to tell my story of my Dad. I wanted to talk about what it was like having a father who embodied everything a good father should, but who struggled with an illness that he couldn’t control. I wanted to tell the story of an amazing Dad. I wanted to give our friends and family an opportunity to relive the excitement and fun he brought to all of our lives, and introduce an amazing man to millions of other people who never knew him. I wanted readers to know Scott Bradshaw. And I wanted readers to know how much I love him.

You can’t understand this story unless you understand the man who inspired it. I’m a little overwhelmed when I sit back and think about all of the great things I will have to tell you about him, because a man who lived a life as full as my Dad has a lot to share. No matter the story, however, there is always one common theme. When I think of my Dad, no matter what image of him is conjured up, I can always hear his laugh or see his smile. My Dad was a laugher, and if you know that, you understand his outlook on life and the way he chose to live. I don’t often picture my Dad on that last “bad day”. I picture him during the thousands of good days that came before.

I say “good days”, but they were really “great” days. Days where you laughed at the silliest and corniest jokes (after a few heavy sighs and eye rolls, of course). Days where the troubles of the world faded away because of some funny prank my Dad had played on a coworker. Days where he would talk in a funny voice at dinner. Days where you went to bed with a smile on your face, even though everything that would come at you the next day might only bring sadness and despair. My Dad had a unique way of bringing light to dark situations—an eternal optimism that I was always envious of.

You’ve seen the Disney movie Inside Out, right? It’s one of my favorites, and I couldn’t help but think of my Dad throughout the movie. The film tells the story of an adolescent named Riley, but as the title infers, it tells the tale from inside her mind using one of the most creative psychological metaphors I have ever seen. The movie is set inside Riley’s brain, and the main characters are her five primary emotions: Fear, Anger, Disgust, Sadness, and the ringleader, Joy. The characters each have their own way of directing young Riley’s actions and behaviors, and with each interaction they create a memory. Riley’s mind is made up of “personality islands”, different dimensions that create her personality and dictate her behavior. At the outset of the movie, Riley has five primary personality islands: Family Island, Honesty Island, Hockey Island, Friendship Island, and (Joy’s favorite) Goofball Island. Each island has a unique resemblance to an amusement park, and the more active the island, the more you see these personality traits exhibited in Riley’s behaviors.

I’m sure there is a more sophisticated way of explaining this, but consider the mental capacity of the author of this post. My Dad’s Goofball Island was on constant overdrive. It was the part of his personality that was most unique, but also the most dominant. Jokes, pranks, jabs, unexpected silliness, and funny stories were the tools he kept at hand for ready disposal. And this made him such a fun person—the type of person everyone else always wanted to be around.

Even before I had my own memories, my Dad was a comedian. In lieu of memories, I have photos and a few videotapes that prove my point—and even as a baby, you can tell I was captivated by his fun-loving nature. On the tape of my first birthday party, there is a segment (that goes on entirely too long) where my Dad sits on the floor operating the camera as I crawl around his legs. Shortly after he hit “Record” to capture my crawling, I notice his shoes and am drawn to them like a magnet. After a few moments of contemplation, the baby version of me attacks the toe of his shoe—with my mouth. Blame it on teething, or extremely tasty leather, but I tried to fit as much of my Dad’s shoe in my mouth as humanly possible (Maybe this was an early warning to my parents for all the “foot in mouth” moments I would have throughout the years…). Rather than scold me to remove the shoe from my mouth, my Dad lets me chew on his loafers and makes it into a funny game (Health inspectors and social workers, please hold your comments). As soon as I bit into his shoe, my Dad would shake his foot rapidly and let out a howl of over-exaggerated pain. On the first go round, Baby Me pulls back for a moment and stares at my Dad in confusion. But sensing a repeat performance, I let out a small giggle, and nervously go back for a second helping of black shoe leather, keeping an apprehensive eye on Dad the entire time, waiting for the next outburst. Once again, my Dad would rattle his foot and scream a fake scream, and my laughing would amplify. I have a feeling that, had my Mom been around, there would have been a severe (and justified) directive to stop letting the baby lick a dirty shoe. With health precautions thrown out the window, my Dad goes on doing this for at least ten minutes, with my laughter growing more and more intense with each continued mouthful of sole. And my Dad, always the entertainer, never gets tired of the act, as long as his audience kept laughing.

Beyond the infamous “shoe chew”, my Dad also had an entire repertoire of other tactics to induce hysterical laughter from the belly of his only child. One of his mainstays was a family room floor version of bull riding that would make the “don’t shake a baby” folks cringe. My Dad would lay on his back, and pull his knees close to his chest. Then, I would grab onto his legs, resting on his feet, which became the saddle. Then, my Dad’s legs would start kicking, slowly at first, and then more violently as I held on for much longer than eight seconds, wrapping my arms around his legs and holding on for dear life. Amidst all the kicking and bucking, my Dad would make bull noises the entire time, interjecting shouts of “Hang on pardner!” and “Ride ‘em cowboy!” all the while. Every few minutes I would fall off, and although his legs must have been exhausted, the bull was always ready for another ride.

One of the classic routines of our bull riding expeditions is still branded in my brain. After being kicked off one too many times, my Dad would say “Alright cowboy, why don’t you come ride this nice calm cow and slow it down a bit?” I would immediately start laughing because I knew what was coming next, but I played along every single time. Giggling, I would climb onto his legs and he would easily and slowly move his legs up and down, making random cow noises and saying “Oh yeah, this is a nice, calm cow.” Then, he would say “Oh boy, we better milk this cow. She’s probably getting full.” He would then reach around towards his feet, and as my anticipation grew, his eyes would widen. Then he would shriek the same line every time: “Uh oh! This ain’t no cow! It’s a bull!” And then the craziness would ensue—an eight second ride for the history books. Snorting and huffing loudly, my Dad would kick and kick and kick until I would fly off, rolling across the floor, laughing the entire time. There was the occasional minor injury, but what kind of bull-riding cowboy doesn’t get injured? I loved bull riding more than anything, and even though life fills up with new and exciting moments as you age, there was always a sense of emptiness that I felt the moment I became too big to bull ride with my Dad.

My Dad loved hearing me laugh, but he loved making people laugh in general. He had a way of growing laughter, and drawing people closer to him through that humor, which was unbelievably contagious.

His pride didn’t matter when it came to making a fool out of himself to get a laugh, which is why he naturally became the “Neighborhood Dad”. Growing up, my Dad would always jump in with any opportunity to play kickball, and he used this as a chance to entertain, too. As was the case with most Dads who played kickball with their kids, he could always kick the ball further than any of his younger, shorter competitors. If we were playing in the backyard, Dad made it a point to blast the ball over our house (our own version of Fenway’s Green Monster) for an impressive homerun (sorry to the neighbors across the street for any damage that might have been done over the years). But rather than trot around the bases with his head down, Dad would throw in ridiculous dance moves—dance moves typical of any father trying to embarrass his child (which he did effectively on many occasions). He would grab the infielders in a big bear hug and run down the line with them. He made it a point to celebrate the homerun—and whether you were on his team or not, you always laughed at his antics.

In the off-case that Dad didn’t kick a homerun over the house (which I’m sure was intentional), his base running became another shtick in his routine. Dad would run to first, and then he would engage in battle with the opposing fielders. Dad would take a few steps off of first base, daring the youngster who fielded the ball to throw it at him—which they always did. As soon as they would throw the ball, Dad would pull off one of his greatest evasive maneuvers. On a low throw, he would jump high, high, high into the air and do the splits, hooting and hollering as the ball went under his legs. On a high throw, he would roll to the ground and jump back up like a circus tumbler. From second to third, he would do the same thing, but he would use a new technique, always more outrageous than the last. Sometimes it involved a teasing dance to try and provoke another throw. In other instances, he would call out the fielder and let them know they were too “chicken” to make the throw—which was always accompanied by a ridiculous chicken impression. Occasionally, he would pull the oldest trick in the book—a shocked face and point with a click “Look over there! A wild elephant!” followed by a quick sprint the second his opponent turned their head. Either way, Dad went from second to third, and then from third to home. And the celebration at home plate was just as obnoxious—and hilarious—as the celebration for an “over the house” shot. Teams rarely mattered in these scenarios, because everyone was in stitches regardless of where they stood on the field. My Dad was an artist who worked in humor, and the only pay he would accept was unbridled laughter.

As we both got older, the kickball games became fewer and fewer, but his timing and delivery got even better. My Dad was still very athletic as he aged, but he definitely spent more time on the couch in front of the television. One of Dad’s favorite lines that always made me laugh occurred any time that a Victoria’s Secret commercial would come across the tube. Lingerie-clad models would strut across the screen into our living room, giving their best lip pouts and “I know you like what you see” looks. My Dad would immediately perk up the second he heard the commercial and would stare at the television, transfixed by the beauty in front of him, as my Mom and I sat nearby on the couch. As the commercial continued, Dad’s bespectacled stare grew more and more intense, his eyes as wide as golf balls. All the while, Mom’s fury would continue to build as she watched her husband oogling over the models on the screen. As the commercial closed, without ever breaking eye contact, Dad would shake his head back and forth and deliver an exasperated (but perfectly crafted) punchline: “Man….they sure are ugly.” I would roar and howl every time he did it, even though I knew it was coming every single time.

And as his tactics and material got better, his audience grew larger. Every venue became a stage, and every group became an audience to entertain—even when he should have been more serious. One his most infamous (and cringe worthy) performances happened, of all places, at our church. Good comedy knew nothing of appropriate boundaries in my Father’s eyes, and this was evidence that any audience could be a good audience. The incident, thankfully, happened on a Sunday when I wasn’t at church, but when my Mom called me after the service, I could tell this particular act had probably crossed the line.

Just a few weeks before, my Dad had invested his hard-earned money in an extremely valuable toy—a set of “Billy Bob Teeth”. Yes, Billy Bob Teeth. Billy Bob Teeth, for those who might be more refined than my Dad was, are a set of false teeth that would make any dentist shriek and run the other way in pure terror. These teeth look alarmingly real, and alarmingly horrific. The teeth stick out at all different angles, rooted in diseased looking gums. Some are crooked, others are jagged, and all are yellowed. Politically correct? No. Appropriate for church? Absolutely not. Funny in a juvenile humor sort of way? Without a doubt. Here’s a visual of Dad to help you get the full understanding:

On many Sundays, my Dad would fulfill his churchly duties and serve as an usher, taking up the morning offering. On this particular Sunday, he made history in our church by doing something no other offering taker had ever done (or most likely would ever do again). After the music had concluded, our pastor, Ted, made his way to the front of the stage in between the tear-stained altars, and beckoned the offering takers to come forward and grab their plates. My Dad liked Pastor Ted for many reasons, and one of those reasons was that his humor, as juvenile as it may have been at times, was always in sync with our pastor’s.

As he was being summoned to his post, he exited the pew and made his way to the front of the church to grab the plate and face the pastor. While making his way down the aisle, my Mom noticed his hand reach into his pocket and pull something out. In a moment, my Mom’s heart sank. It was the guilt of a mother who forgot to check her son’s pockets to make sure any Gameboys, frogs, or other toys were left at home before you entered the sanctuary. I can only imagine the anxiety she must have felt, because she knew what was coming. The boy in question, however, was not her son, but her husband. Surely, he wouldn’t embarrass her in front of our pastor, our congregation, and God.

Surely, he proved her wrong. As he reached down to grab the offering plate, he simultaneously slipped the Billy Bob Teeth into position, and as he raised his head, he sported the familiar goofy face he had created any time he wore them. Pastor Ted surveyed his Men of God, his money collectors, one of which was always called out to offer a prayer to bless the offering and our church. His surveying head fell on my Dad’s face and the perfectly positioned Billy Bob Teeth, and his eyes grew wide.

And he laughed. Hysterically. The pastor of a conservative Christian church was doubled over in laughter in front of a crowd of repentant sinners. The pastor’s laugh carried into the over the church’s sound system, but because my Dad was facing the pastor at the front of the church, no one quite knew what was causing the laughter.

Then, Pastor Ted did the unthinkable. He asked my Dad to pray and bless the offering! And my Dad did—with the teeth! He stayed in character for the entire performance, using the Billy he had created to bless the money and offer it up for the building of God’s kingdom. As the pastor continued to laugh, my Dad said “Ay-man” in his best Southern drawl, spun around on his heel, and faced the congregation. As he made his way back through the pews to collect the offering, the laughs spread from the front row to the back. My Dad left the teeth in his mouth the entire time, and he got laughs from almost everyone—except my Mom, who was justifiably embarrassed. And so was I when she called me to tell me this story on the phone. My Dad was a funny guy, but I was just as embarrassed as she was, and I couldn’t laugh at this joke (although I definitely laugh about it now).

I hate to say this, but as I grew older, there were things about my Dad’s humor that I didn’t appreciate the way I should have. When I should have been laughing, I responded with the serious, stern face of an early-twenty something who was trying to be much more grown up than I actually was. When my Mom recounted this story to me on the phone later that afternoon, I experienced the same anxiety she probably felt. It seemed like there were some places that were so sacred, so holy, that not even Billy Bob Teeth were welcome. As I grew older, I began to take life too seriously. Young adulthood is a time where you feel like you can’t laugh at certain things because, well, you’re not a kid anymore. And this particular joke seemed inappropriate. Even though he got great laughs, there was a part of me that was so glad I wasn’t at church that Sunday. I’m ashamed of it now, but I even threatened that I wouldn’t go back to church with him if he ever tried to wear those teeth in the sanctuary again.

But my Dad never let the “sticks in the mud” like me ruin his fun, and I thank God he didn’t. He continued to get laughs, no matter how embarrassing it may have been. And although I wasn’t laughing then, I’m laughing now when I think about just how wonderful and fun-loving he always was. It’s amazing how many people I run into that were in church that infamous morning, and how they still laugh about the situation. They weren’t embarrassed—they were entertained! And they were smiling. And most importantly, they were probably closer to God because they saw a man who truly enjoyed living in God’s creation.

My Dad understood Proverbs 15:15 where the wise author says: “Every day is a terrible day for a miserable person, but a cheerful heart has a continual feast” (GW). My Dad enjoyed life and he enjoyed hearing people laugh because he knew their days would be just a little bit better having experienced even a few moments of cheer. That was Dad’s gospel.

What was even harder for me to understand as I grappled with my Dad’s depression was how a man who was so funny and who laughed so much could suffer from such underlying pain and sadness. How could a man who had always been able to make me laugh not be able to cheer himself up? How could a man who, to everyone else, always seemed unbelievably happy be so ill underneath the veneer of satisfaction and contentment?

I struggled with that question for a long time. And although my understanding of mental illness and depression has become much more extensive, I still struggle with it. I still have days where I just can’t equate the stories I have of my always-joyful, always laughing Dad with the defeated and distraught image I have of him during that last conversation. They are questions I might not be able to have answered on this side of the grave, and I’ve done my best to come to terms with that.

But what is more important, so much more important, is that I’ve learned to laugh more because of my Dad. I have so many great memories of him to laugh at because he lived life not to just get through it, but to enjoy it and make it colorful. From childhood until the week he died, he could always make me laugh. He could always make me smile. He could always make me feel better about life and other people.

And even though he’s been gone for over three years, he still does this every single day.

Dad, I hope you know how much I miss hearing your laugh and the joy you brought to all of our lives. I wish you were still here, so I could watch you come up with new routines and corny Dad jokes. You were always so funny, which made life more fun. From the moment I was born, you tried to teach me the importance of a good laugh. And each and every day, I’ll try to laugh more so I can honor you.