Day Four Hundred and Twenty-Nine

The Hope of Forever

We honored my father's life yesterday. It was hard. Really hard. But it was happy too. Tears - so many tears - fell from our reddened faces, but after them, faint traces of smiles curved up from the sadness. We celebrated a good man. A strong man. A caring man who helped shape the lives of so many who knew him. I learned an incredible amount about the friend he was through the stories they shared.

It was probably the most bittersweet day of my entire life. I hold onto the hope that my father is with his Creator, but I also hold onto the longing of a dad who was taken away just as the family was getting used to "together" again.

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I spoke about my dad yesterday. With half a voice and a broken heart, I managed these words:

"12 years ago, I was sitting in the parking lot of some restaurant dressed and ready to go to gymnastics practice. Dad was supposed to have dropped me off at the gym, but instead, he took a red faced, tear soaked, broken hearted little girl to talk. I told Dad how I didn’t want him to die. News of the brain tumor was completely unexpected. His likelihood of survival – only 20% after the first year – was devastating. I needed my daddy. And so did Jake and the girls and Mommy. What were we going to do without him? I told Dad, sitting in that sky blue caravan that it wasn’t fair. Why did this have to happen to him? He looked at me and said that it was ok. Mom would take care of us. But that I had to be brave for my little sisters. I said I would. He then asked a question of me that I’ve never since forgotten. One of our family’s favorite musicians was Sarah Mclachlan. On long road trips, I remember mom and dad laying down the back seats of the van, covering us with blankets, and playing her entire CD. One of our favorites was, “I Will Remember You.” We all knew it by heart. In the car that day, sitting alone with my Daddy, he requested that I sing that song at his funeral. I promised him I would – I would do anything for him. Later on that night, I remember practicing. I practiced and practiced. Because I thought that soon, I’d have to sing.

When Dad died 12 years later, the promise suddenly came back to my memory. And Ellie, the day that I got to Spokane, reminded me, “Kendall, you know you have to sing at Dad’s funeral, right?”

We looked at each other and laughed. Ok, with this voice, there’s no way I’ll be singing. We’re supposed to be celebrating, not suffering! And I think Dad would completely understand. But, Sarah Mclachlan, she can sing for us at the end of the service.

A week ago, when I went to see Dad for the very last time, it was hard. It was hard for all of us.  But in an uncomfortable funeral home, with all the weird smells and creepy cleanliness, he actually looked comfortable. Like he was ok. At peace. We stayed with him for a while, and with our last goodbyes, we exited the room into the foyer. And playing over the radio, right after we’d said goodbye, was that same song.

Losing our father so young comes with feelings that none of us can really fully comprehend at the moment. We’re all still waiting for him to just appear again, with a “haha, tricked ya!” grin spread across his face. Just like when he used to tell people that it was ok to touch the huge divot of a scar on his forehead, and when they did, he’d scream in pain, like they’d hurt him or something. The look on their faces was priceless. He was ornery. And it was funny. But this time, I know he’s not coming back. This isn’t a joke. It’s our new reality. But I think it’s a happy reality too. That day in the funeral home, maybe Dad was trying to tell us that he’s ok.

And I believe that. Completely. The last twelve years of our lives have been hard. After the divorce, our family was split across the state. For a large portion of their childhood, Ellie, Shelby, and Morgan didn’t see much of Dad. They lived with Mom in Seattle, and Jake and I lived with him in Spokane. This physical distance created an emotional distance in all of our hearts. There have been multiple nights each one of us fought back tears, and questions, and resentments. In some aspects, my sisters felt like they had lost their daddy a long time ago.  It wasn’t until this year that things really began to change. Even though it took ten years to get us all back on the same side of the state, all that pain was worth the peace and healing that was beginning to cover my family. In August, Dad suffered two strokes. One of them placed him in the hospital and impacted his ability to continue caring so faithfully for his mother and himself. At this time, he was living in the Seattle area. In a decision that would change the course of our family forever, he began packing his bags. He was ready and excited to move back to Spokane, where the rest of the family was. And a few weeks later, we packed two UHauls and drove our family back together. In only a month, my dad, grandmother, brother and sisters saw more of each other than they ever did in any given year.  Finally, my sisters could spend time with their dad, and my dad could spend time with his daughters. A true healing was beginning to comfort my family. Dad was home. And we were all together at last.

I think Dad was missing the peace he found after only a few days in Spokane. He got to see his grandson turn two. He got to cook dinner with his children. He got to see his baby girl in the hospital after she got hit by a car. He got to see old friends. He got to Hit golf balls and play catch with his son. He got to talk with his sweet Shelby the day before he passed.  Dad did so much this last month, and though he might have been tired and really sick, his effort to bring this family back together was undeniable.

Dad has always been a strong man. He’s a fighter. He fought for his life and got 12 years for it. He fought for another month and got his family back for it. His resilience courage, and positive attitude are characteristics that I’ve always admired and respected him for. In the midst of each diagnosis, with his life on the line, I only ever heard him doubt his comeback once.  He worked hard, both mentally and physically, to recover his health and live a life free from restraint. When most people would have just given up, he gritted his teeth and gave just a bit more. And that’s how I like to think he battled the last few months of his life too. After the stroke, maybe he could have just given up. But he knew he couldn’t. He had unfinished business to make right, and he wasn’t going to leave us until he did.

My dad was born on June 23, 1966. And in his 46 years of life, he’d seen a lot. From the very beginning, he was a sports freak. His passion for baseball would eventually get him a spot on the roster at Spokane Falls Community College. He was good and had a dream of one day playing professionally. But when the kids started popping out, he took a step back from the game he loved to play and began raising a beautiful family. He would never give up his passion though. All five of us kids were raised at the ballpark. Fond memories of slush puppies and licorice ropes bring us back to the days of fastpitch softball at Franklin Park. He wore a striped uniform sometimes and that one was our favorite. Growing up, we knew Dad to be a handyman too. He built all the cupboards in our home, the front porch, the balance beam and high bar, the fence, the bunny cage, and it makes sense that in all the time he spent sorting through the lumber section of Home Depot, he’d finally end up working for them years later. He loved working with his hands. My dad loved camping at Priest Lake in the summers and playing snowshoe softball there in the winters. He loved Dave Matthews Band and the Hard Rock Café. He loved his coffee, his candy, and his shiny white car. My dad loved Klondike bars, collecting pins, and Adam’s baseball cards. He loved t-shirts and blue jeans and completed his ensemble with Adidas shoes and a baseball hat. He hated when he forgot to take off his prescription sunglasses when he went inside and hated even more, the thought of eating anything green. Give my dad a piece of broccoli and he’d look at you like you’d lost your mind.

I remember crying one time because I actually thought my dad had lost his mind. I couldn’t have been more than 10 when I came downstairs and found my dad looking sharp and smelling great. “Uh, Dad,” I asked. “Where are you going?” In a completely straight face, he told me, “To see the Barenaked Ladies.” I immediately started balling. “Why would you ever want to go see naked ladies, Dad?” I later found out that the Barenaked Ladies was a band made up of men…and none of them were actually naked.

Another classic story: Out of Sunday School one day, a little boy at church was asked by his parents what he’d learned. He told them that he’d learned what the four gospels were. “Well, what are they?” They asked. He smiled and said, “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Johnie Mays!”

My dad was loved by so many. He was a kind and gentle soul and one you could always count on for a gigantic hug. Unless you were one of his baseball players. Then he’d just yell at you and tell you to catch the ball. He’s touched countless lives and given so much hope to those who’ve heard his story. He battled courageously and gave it everything he had. My dad was a good man. He was a brave man. And he’s a man I’ll forever miss seeing. But I have the hope of a new life he’s living now. For me, that’s the best news that could ever come out of this."

 I love you Daddy. I miss you. And I'm sorry.

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Thank you, friends and family, for your continual support through this difficult time. Grieving the loss of my dad would've been impossible without your encouragement, kindness, and service to us kids. We are forever grateful for the people we have in our lives. And thank you, Josh and Amy, for pastoring my dad's celebration with words of truth, reality, boldness, and sincerity.