“I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense. It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had her [Lewis’ wife] for their subject. Now, their target is gone.” -C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Every so often, it happens. Every so often, I lose control of any emotional stability that I have and I break down when I think about my Dad, his death, and how much I miss him.
And nearly every time, it’s triggered by some sensation-based memory of my Dad.
The triggers are different, but always associated with him in some unique and special way. They can be as small or insignificant as seeing a bottle of Mountain Dew (his favorite guilty pleasure drink and what I often saw him chug when I was little) or a certain episode of Home Improvement (one of his favorite shows), or as big and significant as hearing someone talk about their father or seeing a father and son together in public.
I think often of my Dad; and I think often of those triggers.
One of my earliest lessons as a small kindergartner helped me to understand the five senses: sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste. I always enjoyed those lessons and associating certain experiences with the correct sensory mechanism, but I never realized how ever-present those senses are—and how powerful they can be. That power seems to take on new strength, ironically, when we lose someone we love. Even though the catalyst of those particular memories is gone, the slightest sensation can bring us right back to that moment as if our loved one had never left us.
Like the sight of a bald dude.
My Dad would get a real kick out of this, but anytime I see a bald person in public, it makes me think of him. My Dad lost his hair early. He chaperoned one of my 3rd grade field trips, and I remember all of my classmates asking why my Dad didn’t have any hair. Looking back, it wasn’t so much a loss. It was more of a forfeit. Dad’s hair line started to recede a bit in the front, and he absolutely refused to embrace the George Costanza horseshoe that he criticized anytime he saw it. “Just give it up, buddy,” he’d say under his breath as we passed someone who was clinging to any combover or wrap-around-patch he could possibly muster. At age 30, Dad decided to shave it clean and he never went back. For the next 20 years he sported the chrome-dome, and I’ll be honest—he rocked it. My Dad was one of the few men who was given the silver lining of a great head shape during the throes of his follicle tragedy. He had a really good head shape: not too round, not to square, and no weird bumps or crevices. Whenever I pass someone whose hair is thinning, or on occasion pass that man in the mirror who (reluctantly) is experiencing the same thing, I laugh and think about my Dad.
A sound, too, can also bring me back to the many memories that I have of him—mostly associated with music. Certain 90’s country songs (particularly this classic) can pop me right back into the cab of his old pick up truck, bouncing along in a car seat with the windows down as Dad would thumb-drum the steering wheel. If you were in the truck with Dad, you were listening to good country music and that was your only option. Now, when I hear those songs we used to listen to together, I’m instantly transported back with him. Right by his side. Listening. Singing. Tapping my hands along to the beat.
A whiff of aftershave can bring me to memories of my Dad as well. When it came to the application of cologne, Dad did not quite understand the “less is more” rule. He didn’t believe in the “hint” or “leave them wanting more” approach. Instead, he favored a more liberal assault on the senses. He didn’t need high-end scents either. Dad’s go-to aftershave was a green bottle of Brut that could burn your nostrils with just one whiff. A small bottle was likely to last the average person a couple months to a year, but I’m pretty sure Dad thought the bottles were single-use-only. He would eventually work his way up to the men’s line of Bath & Body Works fragrances, and I remember on multiple occasions either myself or Mom having to beg him to dial it back a bit.
“Dad, just because it’s from Bath & Body Works doesn’t mean you need to bathe in it!” I’d tease him.
Now that he’s gone, I admit that I miss those scents. On occasion, I’ll pull out one of his bottles of aftershave that I kept after his death just to take me back to those memories that I have of him (and to clear out my airways).
Running my hands across the quilt that my Mom had made for me from all of his old t-shirts and sweatshirts, I’m immediately drawn to elements of him that awaken my touch memory. Specifically, placing my hands on top of his work coveralls with the stitched name badge embroidered onto the front brings me back to familiar memories of him.
My Dad was a maintenance technician at a steel plant, and coveralls were his jam. He worked a lot (mainly because he enjoyed his work), and there was rarely a day in this life that I didn’t see him in coveralls. They were typically dark blue, and very, very heavy. I remember picking them up on occasion when Mom had just finished doing the laundry and wondering why anyone would want to wear such heavy clothing. Looking back, I likely didn’t appreciate the fact of how difficult my Dad’s job could be. He wasn’t always working in a temperature-controlled building. During the winter, drafts would sweep through the open garage doors that trucks would use to pick up massive steel coils, so my Dad needed the protection. Every time I feel those coveralls, I think about how hard he worked to provide for our family, and how amazing it was that I never really knew how hard he worked. Dad didn’t want to be a burden to others, and he rarely (if ever) complained about having to work in such a physically demanding job.
The tactile memory of his coveralls and Dad coming home after a sweat-drenched day working in a hot steel plant reminds me of his determination, hard work, and sacrifice; but when I feel those coveralls, they also remind me of the joy that I felt each and every time he would come home. Our house was always a warm refuge, but it truly felt like home when all three of us were there.
And of course, my Dad and I shared a mutual love of food. Those food memories are often so strong because our family mostly always ate together and Dad really, really enjoyed family meals—both because he got to eat delicious food, and because he got to spend time with those people that he loved. If I go to Kings Island or a Reds game at Great American Ballpark, I can’t walk by a LaRosa’s pizza stand without thinking of my Dad. It was always his go-to item to eat at those places, but even at home he loved LaRosa’s. Their salads were his favorite, and oftentimes on our “bachelor nights” when Mom would have to work late, Dad and I would find ourselves at the local LaRosa’s Pizzeria chowing down on salads, calzones, pizzas, and Cokes. The first time I had LaRosa’s after losing Dad, I broke down at the table when I instinctively went to pass my olives over to him not even realizing that he would never be there to enjoy them again.
I think of him every time I walk into Grecian Delight, one of our all-time favorite restaurants because of both the food and the dear, sweet woman (Maria) who owns it and rules over the kitchen (along with help from her loving husband and family). When my Dad worked in Middletown at Southwestern Ohio Steel, he and a coworker who lunched together discovered Grecian Delight, and Dad raved about it. Dad made it a point to take Mom and I there one evening for dinner, and hesitantly (we weren’t always the most adventurous), we ate a meal there for the first time when I was ten years old. Our lives were never the same!
To this day, I still eat at Grecian Delight. One of the best parts of the time I spent working at Miami University’s campus in Middletown was getting to eat lunch at Maria’s multiple times a week! I would walk in and Maria and her husband, Dimitri, would immediately greet me with a smile and a warm hug. That delicious, warm meal (most times a chicken teriyaki pita with cucumber sauce, waffle fries, and a Greek salad) would give me comfort and bring back all the wonderful, vivid memories that Dad had introduced our family to so many years earlier.
Our senses are absolutely incredible.
Our senses have this unbelievable way of transporting us back to an earlier time and place.
And when we experience loss, our senses can also remind us of what we no longer have.
We experience life through our senses; and it’s through those same senses that we experience grief and loss. Little moments that we’ve subconsciously experienced for years or maybe even decades all of a sudden become a focal point that can bring that memory to life in an instant.
As our senses envelop us, so too does any grief that we associate with those sensations. Our senses are always there, ever-present. We cannot simply flip a switch and turn off our senses—they are always with us, and always sensing. And because we are always open to sense, we are also always, and a bit unfortunately, open to grief. That’s why grief is so inexplicable—it can happen at any point, at the slightest touch, or because of the most random vision, or as a result of the faintest scent that might remind us of our loved one and what was lost.
Those senses and the memories that we associate with our lost loved ones can feel like a curse; but with a long-term perspective of grief, we also realize that they will be one of our greatest blessings and a great mechanism that leads to our ultimate healing. Today, I’m writing to those of you who have felt the recent sting of loss and grief (and unfortunately, still in the midst of a horrible global pandemic, the audience that I write to is larger than any of us could ever dreamed it would be). I’m writing to let you know that what might feel like a weapon being used against you right now in this moment will later soothe your soul and bring you some semblance of healing and normalcy again.
Early on, our sensations can spark real pain. I do not and will not deny the pain you’re experiencing. In the immediate aftermath of a traumatic loss, every sensation that reminds us of our loved one can evoke pain and unexpected feelings of longing and heartache. We can break down at the sight of a photo, the voice of a loved one on a forgotten voicemail, or just the touch of a familiar piece of clothing or keepsake.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; there is no textbook way to grieve. We are all built uniquely, therefore we all grieve uniquely (although not in isolation). In the aftermath of losing someone we love, we all react to these sensations differently. Oftentimes, after losing our loved ones, we are looking for ways to control our days in an effort to provide stability in a world that feels rocked by the unexpected. These unanticipated sensations and memories of our loved ones, however, can shatter any semblance of predictability that we may have and throw us into a tumultuous emotional state.
Unfortunately, there is also no timeline on how long these emotional reactions might stay with us or continue to occur. For some, those feelings of pain brought on by a sensational memory might only occur upon our first exposure to whatever that stimulus might be. Other times, however, we might find ourselves having a severe emotional reaction far beyond that first exposure. Especially to those stimuli that have a significant emotional connection to our loved ones.
My Dad has been gone for nearly eight years, which in and of itself is still hard for me to reconcile. Some days, the pain is so fresh and raw that it feels as if my Dad’s death occurred just yesterday; other days, it feels as if I’ve lived an entire lifetime without him. And yes, even eight years later, there are still sensory-based memories of my Father that evoke a particularly painful reaction.
Namely, my Father’s handwriting. I’m not sure what it is, but to this day I still experience deep-seated, emotional grief every time I see my Dad’s handwriting. Maybe it’s because my Dad’s handwriting was such a characteristic part of who he was. His all-capitals-style handwriting was precise, measured, and methodical—just like my Dad. Maybe it’s because our handwriting is something so commonplace that we grow accustomed to seeing every day that, once it’s gone, feels as if every note and every expression of it is a cherished heirloom that we must hold onto. Nonetheless, seeing my Dad’s handwriting still brings with it a visceral emotional reaction from me. I still keep a pad of paper that he had in his truck with random measurements that he had taken from work written on it. Those measurements mean nothing to me; but the hand that wrote them means everything. Eight years removed, I still have to keep that pad of paper stowed away in a box. Just looking at those random scribbled notes can break me down, and I can’t really explain why. It’s a difficult thing for me to understand and make sense of. For now, seeing his handwriting has not yet elicited a positive emotional memory.
But other memories, although they initially brought pain, have now transformed into something much more therapeutic.
In time, those same sensations can bring us real, lasting comfort. With time, the very same things that once triggered our trauma become the very things that heal our deepest hurts. Our exposure to a sensory memory of our lost loved one in the immediate aftermath of the loss can be significantly different from the reaction we will have months, years, or even decades down the road. What reopens a wound in one moment can soothe and salve it in another.
Over time, I began to associate many of those sensory details less with what I had lost and more with what I had gained during the 26 wonderful years of life when my Dad was physically in it. Immediately after losing my Dad, I had an unbelievably difficult time looking at pictures of him. They caused me too much pain because I just wanted to reach out and touch him through the picture, knowing that this would never happen again on this side of Eternity. Now, however, those very same pictures that once brought a tear to my eye can put a smile across my face. Don’t get me wrong; the hurt, heartache, and hunger for his presence are all still there. But the negative consequences of those feelings aren’t as intense. When I look at pictures now, I’m able to channel the positive memories that I often associate with each picture, rather than focusing on the fact that my Dad is no longer here. Instead, the consequences of those feelings of loss are reminders of how much I loved my Dad and how much he loved me.
And ultimately, thanks to my faith in God, they remind me that I’ll see him again.
Honestly, I’m always a bit amazed that eight years after losing my Dad, I’m mostly able to look at pictures of him without sobbing like I did in those early days (especially because photos can be a very difficult trigger for so many people who are grieving, even years and decades down the road). Every time I see a photo of my Dad, it’s a reminder of how far I’ve come through this journey. It’s a reminder of how much God has loved me and protected me through this inexplicably difficult loss, just as He promised He would. It’s a reminder that where we are in the immediate throes of a traumatic loss is not where God wants us to remain. And it’s a reminder that grief isn’t an impediment to our growth in this life. Grief can be a temporary stop on our journey, but in time, we grow as much in our grief as we do at any other juncture of our development.
Although there’s no definitive timeline, our grief tends to change as the calendar lurches forward. The more time that stands between us and our grief, the more perspective we earn and gain.
The difficulty is maintaining this perspective in the midst of a storm of grief. One of the most difficult parts of these sensory-based reactions to our loss is that we tend to think those temporary reactions are going to be permanent when, in reality, they are far from it. In the immediate aftermath of losing a loved one, we often dread what is to come thinking that our immediate grief is going to be our permanent companion. That is not true. This thinking can defeat us if we allow it to. We must remember that our grief is a non-linear journey that takes time, and that we can’t forcibly wind forward the hands of the clock when it comes to our grief. We may fall and falter with certain steps, but oftentimes we make more progress than we can possibly know or recognize, even if we are not always able to see it from our own vantage point.
As grievers, we must resist the urge to talk about our sensory memories in defeatist, extremist language. I know this sounds like mental gymnastics, but I’ve written this truth many times in this forum: our words matter. And when we are talking about words mattering, it’s not just those words that we speak to others which have consequence. So to do the words that we speak to ourselves. Our internal dialogues are so pervasive and impactful. The conversations that we have in the inner recesses of our own mind, whether positive or negative, have a tremendous capacity to dictate and determine how we progress through the grief journey.
Your right now is not your forever; but you have to think, speak, and behave in a way that acknowledges this.
If you say to yourself, “I’ll never be able to eat at the restaurant that my Dad loved,” that’s (unfortunately) likely to be true. But if you say to yourself “Right now, I can’t see myself eating at that restaurant…but someday down the road I hope to be able to go back,” you then approach your grief with the perspective of a person who will change, grow, and even heal over time.
If you say to yourself, “I am going to completely fall apart every time I see a picture of my loved one,” that’s likely to be the case. If you say to yourself instead, “In this moment, I feel very sad when I see pictures of my loved one…but someday, I know that I’ll have a more positive memory and reaction when I see those pictures,” you immediately recognize that, in time, you will find ways to positively process your grief.
If you speak to yourself in fatalistic, “now or never” tones, that language does not recognize the ability for little steps and developmental moments of growth throughout our grief. Grief isn’t an “all or nothing,” “now or never” experience. One day, a sensory memory might bring with it a ton of pain. And the next time, it might feel a little better. And then each and every exposure after that gets easier and easier until, in time, it transforms into something greater that can help us heal.
You will always have scars when dealing with a traumatic loss; but with time, what feels like a weapon against our soul can transform into a bandage.
If you are grieving or struggling with loss, I am speaking directly to you in this moment: Be kind to yourself. Don’t feel as if you have to plow through your timeline of grief as fast as you possibly can. Don’t feel the need to open yourself up to every sensory memory of your loved one at this exact moment, but be open to the possibility of it down the road. Approach that memory on your own timetable, when it feels right, and be patient with yourself as you figure out what hurts and what helps. And open yourself up to the possibility of change throughout your grief.
The reality is this: Our sensation-based-memories are an inexhaustible currency of life within which we can, in the right time, find our most valuable riches. Time, however, is that magic ingredient. Just as some precious metals require age to galvanize them and make them more beautiful, so too do those sensory memories of our loved ones. They require time to take off the sharp veneers and edges that can cause us pain so those memories can glow through and help us tap into those positive reactions.
In time, you’ll be okay; and in time, those memories will be more than just okay. They’ll be precious. They’ll be cherished. They’ll provide hope at just the right moment.
And so will you.
Dad, Losing you was difficult for so many reasons, but it felt even more difficult because you had lived life so fully. You always lived your life with gusto. You loved the visual beauty of nature, the joy of a great meal and a Coca-Cola (or three), and the smell of a summer’s eve bonfire. You shared this love and passion for life with everyone around you, and when you were gone, it made it difficult to enjoy all the things you loved. In time, however, I found that one of the greatest ways to honor you was to experience life just as you always enjoyed it. As time went on, I found myself crying less at the sensory memories I have of you and instead craving them because they provided me healing. Dad, thank you for always living your life in a way that led to wonderful memories. Thank you for being unique, having a personality, and just generally being a character! Thank you for teaching me what things would be helpful as I grieved before I knew that I’d ever need it. Dad, I know there is a day waiting for you and I on the other side of Eternity within which I’ll get to experience all of these things made anew. I’ll get to feel the warmth of your hug, hear the sound of your laughter, and see the smile and familiar twinkle in your eye. I long for that moment, but in the meantime, I’ll cherish the memories that I do have while embracing the things that remind me of you. I love you, Dad. Until that day, seeya Bub.
“You came near when I called you, and you said, ‘Do not fear.’ You, Lord, took up my case; you redeemed my life.” Lamentations 3:57-58 (NIV)
Over time, I learned—we all learned—how to support Dad when he crashed, and I think we learned by watching how he supported all of us. We didn’t get it right every time, but we tried to be there for him because that’s what he always did. My Dad was the guy who was just there for people. He listened, he didn’t judge, he empathized, and he gave us all reassurance and confidence that the crash didn’t define us. That’s what we all tried to do to support Dad. It was imperfectly executed, especially by me, but we tried. We gave it our best effort.
Dad, The comfort I felt in your arms walking home after my failed-and-unintentional-bike-stunt was a feeling that I can instantly snap back to at any moment—and it’s a feeling that I desperately miss. You were my rock. You were my safe haven. You provided protection from the dangers of the world, but you encouraged me to not play it safe. Dad, thank you for giving me the feeling of safety that allowed me to ride freely. Thank you for being there on all those days when I needed you most. I never questioned whether or not you were at my side, and even since your death, I’ve known that you were there. I think about you each day and wonder what life would look like if you were still here. Even though there’s sadness at that longing, I know that you’re in a place where the pain you experienced here exists no more. I’m thankful that you’re basking in the glow and warmth of Eternity where the pain of crashing is no more. Dad, I love you, and I miss you like crazy. Thanks for always being there for me—both in this world, and in the next. Until I can thank you face-to-face, seeya Bub. 
Dad, Remember how much fun we used to have wrestling on the family room floor and laughing as you constantly beat up on me?! It doesn’t sound like as much fun as it really was, now that I write that. Dad, I appreciate that in wrestling, and in a lot of areas of my life, you never just let me win. You always made me earn it, which made me value the struggle and see the purpose of it. I’m glad that, for so long, you wrestled well. I know there were probably many days when you felt like your depression would overtake you but, somehow, you found the strength and the purpose to fight on. I’m grateful that you modeled that kind of strength, and I want you to know that when I think about your life, I think about these types of victories—not the way in which you died. I think about how proud I am of you for fighting as hard as you did for so long. Thank you for always allowing me to see the purpose in wrestling well and fighting through those difficult moments. It’s ironic that the lessons you taught me were preparing me to navigate life after losing you. I don’t always do it perfectly—I fall well short on most days, in fact. But even in your death, you have been a great Father to me. Thank you for loving me enough to teach me how to wrestle well. I miss you terribly, Dad. There have been so many moments where I just wish I could be back to those moments of being your young son again. But I know, in my heart, that we will have those days again. Until that day, seeya Bub. 
Dad, I’m sorry that you didn’t get to name me Kurt. Just kidding. I’m really glad you didn’t win that fight, because I don’t seem like much of a Kurt—even though I’m still not a maker of tiles. But to you, I was Bub, and I’ll always be that. You called me Bub all the time—whether I was an angel or a brat—and I don’t think I ever told you how much I appreciated that consistency. I want to tell you now. Bub was a term of endearment and affection to you, and the fact that you called me that—no matter the situation—meant you always, always loved me. I don’t know how you did it, but you always kept your patience with me, even when I tried to test it to the limits. Even though you’ve been gone for five years now, I can still hear you saying “Hey, Bub” and “Seeya, Bub” in that calm, familiar voice of yours; and the fact that I can still hear it is a reminder that, even though you’re gone, you still love me. You still love all of us. And you’re still helping us grow and love one another more through the example you left for us. I wish you were still here with us, though. I wish I could hear you call me Bub just once more—but I know, deep down, that I’ll hear it again, Dad. It’s going to be a tremendous greeting in Eternity when I see you again for the first time. I’m thankful to know that you’ll be there, and I’m thankful to know that you’ll still be calling me “Bub,” even in Heaven. Until then, there’s a lot of work to be done and love to be spread down here in your name, Dad. Keep watching over us, and in your subtle reminders, keep telling us that you loved us. We need it more and more. I love you, Dad. I’ll see you again someday—and until that glorious day, seeya Bub. 
From the moment she came home, Lucy was impossible to resist. I have a weak-constitution for puppy cuteness, and Lucy melted my defenses rather quickly. Airedale terriers are adorable puppies. What will eventually grow into a 60 or 70-pound dog starts out as an eight-pound ball of fur with a shortened snout and gangly legs. Lucy looked like most Airedale pups I had seen in photographs, but there was one defining characteristic that was different. Lucy had a tiny little white patch of fur right on the middle of her chest. I had never seen an Airedale with any color fur other than black and brown. Immediately, she was different from the rest; and the more I got to know her, the more wonderfully different I discovered she was.
Dad sat the blanket bundle down on his lap, and Lucy poked her head out from the blanket mound and peered around our family room. She looked straight at me with her dark eyes, and when she made her way down onto the carpet and slowly meandered towards me, I knew that I was done. My resistance would have to fall, because this pup was just too cute. With the pain of losing Willow momentarily fading, I reached down and scooped Lucy into my arms. For the rest of the night, she and I spent our time on the couch as she adjusted to her new surroundings. A few times, I glanced at Mom and Dad and saw them giving one another that familiar “I told you he’d cave” look. I tried my best to not let them get any satisfaction from defying my gutless order to not bring home another family dog, but it was useless.
And from that moment on, I don’t think I ever quit loving Lucy. Even if my stubborn pride wouldn’t let me admit it.
Lucy had that in abundance. Lucy’s calm demeanor during the first 24 hours of her life in my family was a well-executed mirage delivered by a sneaky infiltrator. When I came home on Lucy’s second day in the Bradshaw house, the docile, pleasant pup that I had left that morning was replaced with a rambunctious, mischievous, four-legged fur-covered peddler of destruction. When I came home that day, my poor Mother looked like she had barely survived a hurricane. She looked at me with a frazzled exasperation as Lucy, with toys strewn all across our normally-clean family room, bounced and barked and bolted to every corner of the house. She was worse than a baby because she was faster. I couldn’t believe she had fooled us! Lucy had spunk—and a whole lot of it.
But with Lucy, it was different from the start. She was immediately allowed onto the couch—and I was shocked! And then, the unthinkable happened; Mom actually let Lucy sleep in the bed with her! What world was I living in?! Who had abducted my Mom and who was this woman that now gladly beckoned the dog onto the furniture?
When Lucy was little, I used to carry her around the house quite often. And unlike most dogs, she really enjoyed being carried! After a little while, it got more and more difficult to carry her around as she continued to grow. And by the time she reached 40 pounds, our little puppy, who I affectionately called “Monkey”, was a bit to heavy to carry with one arm. So I did what any normal person would do.
I would actually pick Lucy up by her front legs and toss them over my shoulder. Then, Lucy would wrap her hind legs around my waist, and I would comfortably carry her around as she nuzzled her snout on my shoulder. Looking back, it’s the most ridiculous thing I could ever imagine doing as a dog owner.
Thankfully, my Dad, our dog-whisperer-in-residence, was there to take care of most of the discipline and direction when we first got Lucy. My Dad loved working with animals, even when the animals weren’t easy to work with. I think he saw teaching pets as a challenge that he wanted to conquer, and he had a way of showing love through firmness. Quickly and efficiently, Lucy was housebroken and learning how to sit, lay down, and yes…play hide and seek with Dad. My Dad had a special talent, and we all benefited from it.
Dad, being a playful guy, did everything with Lucy. If he was home, he wanted to be near her. If he had a bonfire in the backyard, Lucy was with him. If he was eating dinner, she was patiently waiting for a scrap nearby. If he was taking a nap, she was on the couch cuddled next to him. There were hour-long walks to the park, trips to the dog beach at Hueston Woods, and countless other memories that the two of them created together. They are memories filled with laughter and companionship, but joy more than anything else.
And Lucy was there to help me—and all of us—find a small ray of light in the midst of the dark clouds that enveloped our family. Lucy—sweet Lucy—would help to save us as best she could.
When I was extremely young, my family never took beach vacations. To this day, I’m not sure why because we all loved the beach so much. My very first time seeing the ocean was on a family trip to Panama City, Florida as an eighth grader. Our entire family (grandparents and cousins included) spent a wonderful week on the Gulf Coast, and I remember the momentous nature of that trip, even as a middle schooler. A 12-hour, multi-day car ride had finally concluded, and my Mom and Dad walked me out towards the ocean once we arrived. With my parents, I saw the ocean for the very first time and I got to experience its magnitude. I got to touch sand, and taste saltwater, and splash in the world’s largest pool. Even as a young kid, I appreciated the significance of this experience.
After a really, really long drive, my family finally arrived to our condo in Gulf Shores. Shortly after arriving, I think we all knew then that we had found our family vacation spot. There was something about it that made us feel like we were home.
As I’ve written before, Dad was a tremendous athlete. And also as I’ve written before, I was a horrible one. But Dad never let my lack of athleticism curb an opportunity to play. At the beach, Dad and I could throw a frisbee for hours—as long as the wind cooperated. We would warm up close to one another and gradually step back as we threw until we would finally hit a point where we had to wind our torsos like a corkscrew to get the frisbee to sail over the white sand. Dad and I would leap and dive into the sand to catch a frisbee—his leaps and dives always significantly more graceful than mine—and we would yell at each other for not being able to properly hit our target. “Did you actually expect me to catch that?!” we would yell across the beach at one another. “You’re gonna kill a kid with that thing if you don’t learn how to throw it!”
And at the beach, Dad never played it safe. More than anything, I think Dad and I probably got the most enjoyment of our daily game of “See Who Can Swim the Furthest Out from the Shore and Make Mom Freak Out the Most” (catchy, no?). Much to my Mom’s displeasure, Dad and I were notorious for jumping into the water and swimming straight ahead until our arms gave out. The water would grow colder and colder the further we would swim, and periodically Dad would stick his arms high above his head and straight-dive down to see if he could still touch the bottom. If he could, we still weren’t out far enough. All the while, my poor Mother would sit anxiously in her beach chair watching our bobbing heads grow smaller and smaller in the waves. The best version of the game was on the beaches where there were life guards on duty, and in those scenarios, we tried to see how loud we could get them to blow their whistles at us! We knew we were really killing the game if we could swim far enough to encounter a deeper sandbar, and if we did, we would sit out on the sandbar and rest until it was time to swim back in. Dad would wave to Mom on occasion from the depths of the mighty ocean, and it was amazing how peaceful the deep ocean water can be. All the ambient noises of the beach fade away when you’re that far out (you especially can’t hear life guard whistles or motherly-shrieks).
My Grandpa even told a story at Dad’s funeral about his love for always being the last one up. On occasion, my family would take vacations with our extended family, which included my Grandpa Vern, Grandma Sharon, my Uncle Lee, my Aunt Beth, and my two cousins Jake and Megan. Those were always wonderful vacations, and every day, my Grandpa and my Dad were always the last ones up to the condo. But even my Grandpa couldn’t hang with my Dad.
Standing there at the beach, I told Steve how much I missed my Dad. I really didn’t have to say anything, because Steve knew—and he was experiencing the grief himself. Steve had been tremendously close with my entire family, and my Dad treated him just like he would treat his own son. Instead of only crying, though, I was able to share tremendous memories and stories of my Dad, telling Steve all about the funny things he had done at the beach on our family vacations. I shared stories about Dad’s Banana Boat expedition, his wave-runner sandbar collision, and how he was always the last one up for dinner. Little by little, the tears were slowly replaced with a smile and laughter. I didn’t miss him any less; I just had a different focus. Instead of focusing on the loss, I was able to focus on his life. Instead of focusing on the time we didn’t have together, I focused on all the wonderful times we did.
I spend a lot of time on the beach during dusk as many of the families on the shore will begin to retreat to their condos. And I do this for a simple reason: that’s what Dad would have done. I’ve learned why he loved it so much. As the beach starts to quiet down from a busy day of frivolity and fun, there’s a quiet stillness that begins to wash across the shore. That stillness is enticing and comforting, and it’s in those moments that I often feel closest to God. And I think about how peaceful those moments must have been to a man who struggled with depression. Dad treasured that peace. And now, I treasure the memory of his life during those peaceful moments, and I try to live it out every chance I get.
Dad, there has never been a time when I’ve gone to the beach without thinking of you—and there never will be. You made our time at the beach together so memorable, but more than that, you taught me so many important life lessons while we were there. You taught me to slow down and relax. You taught me to soak in God’s beautiful creation. You taught me to be kind to people and get to know them, because God created them, too. You taught me to let go of all the busy things from back home and simply enjoy the life that was in front of me in that moment. I take these lessons with me everywhere I go, but especially when I go to the beach. Even though I’m still able to have fun when I go, it just isn’t the same without you. I miss our throwing sessions, and sometimes I’ll just carry a baseball in my backpack to turn over and over in my hands and think of the time we spent together. I miss trying to see who could swim the furthest out, and watching you beckon me further even when I felt like I couldn’t keep swimming. I miss walking along the shoreline with you and listening to your stories about oil rigs in the distance or planes flying overhead. You had an inquisitive, appreciative spirit for all life had to offer. And more than anything, I miss watching you enjoy those moments on the shore by yourself being the last one up. It’s strange, but sometimes it’s like I look down from the balcony and I can still see you sitting there. Dad, I know you’re still with me. I know that you’re guiding me and watching over me in everything that I do. Thank you for always being my best teacher. Thank you for being a Dad unlike any other. And thank you for always teaching me that the last one up wins. I love you, Dad. I miss you tremendously. I sure hope there are beaches in heaven, because if there are, I promise I’m going to swim further out than you. Until that day when we can be beachside together again, seeya Bub. 
The greatest miracle? She said yes! And I’m the luckiest man alive to know that I’ll get to spend the rest of my life loving her.
I cherish the unexpected when it comes to the way our paths crossed with one another. I know that God has been orchestrating little life moments all throughout my 31 years with the knowledge of eventually bringing us together. I know that God had a master plan, slowly but surely fitting all the puzzle pieces together at exactly the right moment.
Both Paige and my Dad have a mutual love and appreciation for all things nature. From parks to puppies, Paige has always loved being surrounded by God’s creation. Secretly, I have a fear that I am going to be that husband who comes home and finds that his wife has picked up six puppies on her way home from work because she “just couldn’t say no to them!” (Note to Paige: Mentioning this on the blog is not an endorsement for you to actually do this.) My Dad had a way with animals that I’ve never seen before. Our family dogs always looked to my Dad as their favorite human. My Dad was able to befriend dogs in our neighborhood, horses on nearby farms, and I even have one picture of him petting—yes petting—a baby deer in the park close to our family home. Both Paige and my Dad just loved being in nature. My third date with Paige was at Sharon Woods, and I remember watching an indescribable sense of peace wash over her as we navigated the trails, creeks, and waterfalls (I tell myself it was my presence, not the natural surroundings, that provided this peace, but I digress…). My Dad had that same sense of calm and wonder any time he was in nature—which was often. My Dad would find any excuse to be outdoors, even if his son would claim it was “too hot” or “too sticky” or “too-not-television”. I think my Dad, and Paige, both feel that they are at their best when they are taking in God’s creation—and I’m thankful that they both remind me to slow down, look around, and join in the wonder.
All throughout this journey, from the moment I decided I wanted to marry Paige to the moment she said yes, I felt tremendous joy; but it was a joy accompanied by sadness because I really, really wanted to have my Dad there for everything. In each and every moment, I wanted him there right alongside me. In moments like this, a boy needs his father. My Dad deserved to be there for all of it.
“Why does it say diamond ring?” she said to me nervously, and then, I placed my hands on her shoulders, and I told her how I felt about her. As I did this, photos of us together began to scroll on the video boards at the fields. Then, I got down on one knee (one very nervous, shaky knee) and asked her to marry me. She said yes, and all the promise of the next chapter of my life overwhelmed me with earth-shattering joy. I was able to envision our life together and see years into the future—and I absolutely loved what I saw.
As our family members started to trickle out to the after-party, our dear friend Megan took some amazing pictures of us at the fields. As we smiled and posed for shot after shot, Megan asked us if there were any other pictures we would like to get before we left.
Of all the things I’m fortunate to have in this life, I’ve always said I’m most fortunate to be the son of Scott and Becky Bradshaw. Now, I can add one more title to the list. I’m the luckiest man alive because I’ll get to call Paige Garber my wife. Although she never met my Dad, I know that she still loves him—and that’s the greatest type of love anyone could ever give. It’s unconditional, Christ-centered, and life-changing. It’s the same type of love that my Dad gave to everyone he knew. It’s the love I still feel him providing from Heaven. It’s the type of love that sustains, builds up, and encourages in spite of difficult circumstances. It’s a love I wish I could have reminded my Dad of on his last day here with us.
Dad, You would have absolutely loved Paige. You are so alike in so many ways. I often think about what it would have been like to watch the two of you interact with one another—laughing at the same jokes, enjoying sitting around a bonfire together, and just generally appreciating the beauty and simplicity that life together affords. It would have been one of the greatest honors of my life to introduce her to you, but I would have felt that same honor in introducing you to her. Dad, I desperately wish that you could have been here for our relationship. I wish that you could have given me the wisdom and guidance that only a father can provide to a son when it comes to love and marriage. But even though you aren’t here with us right now, I can still feel your presence. I can still feel you prodding me along and helping me make the right moves in this life. I can imagine you would have said to me soon after meeting Paige, “You better hurry up and propose before she wises up!” And Dad, you’re exactly right. She is more than I deserve and more than I could ever hope for, and I thank God for that. On the night I proposed, and every night for that matter, I’ve wanted to have you in our life and in our relationship. You may not be here with us, but in so many ways you are here with us. Your memory lives on in everything I will do as a husband, and I’m thankful that I could watch your patient, kind example over the many years that you loved Mom and me. You are here with me, and you always will be. I promise that no matter how life might change, I’ll never, ever let your memory go. Thanks for loving me from afar, Dad. Thanks for loving us—all of us. I love you, and wish we were here together. Until that day when we are united again, seeya Bub. 
Jeff didn’t know me in high school, but I knew of him. Rather than equitably distributing golf talent across all the boys at Fairfield High School, God had taken mine and consolidated it all into Jeff Sullivan. Jeff was a graceful golfer. He would hit shots that I wouldn’t even believe I could hit in my own dreams. Natural talent? Maybe a bit. But more than anything, Jeff is one of the hardest working athletes I’ve ever seen. He spends more time honing his abilities than anyone, and it shows in his competitive spirit.
I was 9 years old when “Papa Sully”, as my high school teammates would later name him, first took me to the driving range. One trip, and I was hooked. As I mentioned before, this was when Tiger madness was really starting to hit its peak. Tiger had already won 3 U.S. Junior Amateurs and had just locked up back-to-back U.S Amateurs. The next year, he would turn pro, and I was probably on my Dad’s last nerves!
From that day forward, my golf is played for him. Not only to win, but to show him that I can be the man and player that he always wanted me to be. To show great sportsmanship, character and class on the golf course. That’s why I play the game now. In 2011 and 2012 I wanted to win our city tournament SO bad, even more than ever before because I wanted to do it for my Dad. I couldn’t get the job done until 2013 and I will remember that win more than any other as long as I play the game.
Jeff “Sully” Sullivan
Dad, Even though you’re not here with me, I know you’re always with me. I know you’re always watching over me and guiding me and pushing me to be a better Christian. On the days when I feel sad that you’re not around, it’s always moments like this one that remind me that you’ll never leave. Yes, we haven’t talked face to face since that horrible July day in 2013; but I feel like we’ve been talking ever since. Little things happen in my life that allow your memory to shine through, and I’m so grateful for that. Dad, you would be so proud to know that your story is inspiring people to live better lives. You have no idea how many people miss you and love you and wish you were here. Remind them, and remind me, that you’re always here as long as we live life the way you did. Remind us all that love is more important than absolutely anything. I’m reminded each and every day how much I love you. Thank you for teaching me what it means to be a Father. Thank you for giving your entire self to me. And thanks for never taking it easy on me when we played checkers. I love you Dad, and I miss you terribly. Until we can share a seat at a table even better than one at Cracker Barrel, seeya Bub. 
Seeya Bub 