Welcome.

I wrote this little piece some years ago. I share it here in honor and memory of my earthly dad, Darrel, who died just shy of thirty years ago.

We, his family, still think of him. We miss and love him of course. He was a noble father and dedicated husband. Though he commenced to the great world of the spirits in August, I share this today in remembrance for and love of him.

Happy Birthday, dad. Love and miss you. Looking forward to our reunion.

I still remember that mid-August day. I dutifully recorded it in my journal:

“Today was the very last day of school.

Hoping that I passed Anatomy, I’m now a…college graduate!…

This morning at 2 AM,…[we] went toilet papering…

We did a great job!…It was loads of fun!

I was so scared of being caught, so no laughs from me –

until we sped…home…”

Lighthearted and carefree, I hitched a ride that evening with a roommate to a neighboring state to my aunt and uncle’s home where I was to meet my mom who would take me home to Nevada. When I arrived, I saw our white suburban, but my mom wasn’t there. She was enroute back to Nevada. As the day concluded, I turned to my journal again and wrote:

“I had no idea my toilet-papering morning would

bring the conclusion now at hand….

I am frightened yet unafraid,

doubting but hopeful,

wanting but fearing,

and amid everything, I am fairly calm.”

I learned that one of my brothers and my grandpa had found my dad unconscious. He was a cowboy, had gone riding, and the horse came back to the main ranch without him. Not one to be easily thrown from a saddle and riding a well-broke horse, it was obvious something had happened to him. The unfortunate something turned out to be a cerebrovascular accident, and it took his life. Ten days in a coma, and finally, after prayerful pleadings, fervent fasts, and heavenly confirmations, our family made the decision to unhook the machines, and a short time later, our dad took his final breath on earth. He left a widow with seven children.

As one of those children, I stood in room #183 of the Intensive Care Unit studying the facial features of my father – trying to etch them into my memory forever. Though his hair was thinning, his face was well proportioned. His nose was a little Roman looking but not overly large.  His eyes were blue, and his ears cradled his head fittingly. He was, even in his 40’s, quite handsome and impressively muscular.

I let my mind drift to more pleasant times – like when dad would come home after a long day of riding. He would take a seat in one of the kitchen table chairs and stretch his legs all the way out. On cue, we children would come running and with our willing hands, we would unlace his ropers. Often as we would pull his boots off, he would say, “Now children I won’t live to be very old (he always had that premonition), but I want you girls to grow up and become like your mother, and boys, I want you to grow up and marry girls like your mother.” He loved our mother, and we knew it.  Though we were financially poor, we were extraordinarily rich because of the keen and devoted love between our parents.

A small smile spread my lips upward as I thought of my cowboy dad.  He favored western movies – especially ones featuring John Wayne. Only after the chores were done on the weekends did our family delight ourselves in the simple pleasure of gathering to watch a favorite western movie. I have fond memories of my father cocking his head back in roaring laughter during a few funny lines in a western. I can still see him now in that position, and it brings a reminiscing smile to my face.

Growing up, I was a night owl. I often napped after coming home from school and so was awake when it was time to sleep. With nine of us in our family, there were always lots of dishes to be done. I remember many nights in the kitchen with dad. He would say to me, “Let’s do these dishes up for your mother and surprise her in the morning, shall we?” We would stand side by side at that kitchen sink. He would wash, and I would rinse. He always used way too much soap in the dish water; it would be up to his elbows. But there he was – a man that had already worked a 16+ day – getting in some service for his sweetheart. What an example!

My dad was in an ecclesiastical position once that necessitated his presiding in church meetings. I seem to remember it happening more than once that he stood up and begged forgiveness from anyone in the small congregation whom he might have offended unawares. I still remember the stinging feeling in my heart when I heard his humble supplications. I’ve never forgotten the power of those moments.

As I stood uncomfortably gazing at my bedridden father, I thought of how I was a non-runner in a family of mostly runners. One year in high school I decided I would give track a try. I trained for the mile, and every step was arduous. At the hometown track meet, my dad came right down inside that track and ran around and around with me, cheering me on (until he was booted off the field). Gosh, what a cool dad!

So there I was: without a dad but with memories. “God gave us memories,” stated James Barrie, the Scottish poet, “that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.” Barrie is right: June roses do show up in December. For me and my family, God kept us in the palm of His capable hand, and in time, the sting of dad’s seemingly untimely death softened, understanding grew, and heaven’s blessings became readily apparent – even in dad’s earthly absence. For sure, he was terribly missed, but he hasn’t been forgotten. We have tender memories, warm recollections, and firm faith filled beliefs – all of which have eased the temporary separation.

Come mid-August, I think of that fateful day when I learned my dad had fallen unconscious. I think of my mom and my six siblings, of our lives since then, and I suspect come December, I will happen upon a rose memory lying somewhere beautifully preserved in the fallen snow of an untimely death.

Unto all the world: Happy Birthday, dad! Love you!