A week ago today, my dad would have turned 70. Instead he died at 52. Today I noticed it'll be eighteen years in July since he passed away. Yet there are seasons where I think about him everyday.
This is one of those seasons.
On Saturday, my sister Amber will present a workshop at a Women's Conference. Over the last month she has been preparing the workshop. Two weeks before her event, I organized my office files and stumbled across a box of my dad's papers. In this collection of treasures, I found a brochure of a workshop he designed. The general theme mirrored what my sister's workshop would be on. As I read, I shed some humble tears then dropped the pamphlet in the mail for Amber.
After eighteen years, I still miss him, especially when I've a complex question. When I was a child, he always had the answer. I still believe he would have the answer now, if only I could hear his words.
Instead I have had to learn on my own.
Today I had a big question on my mind. Around dusk, I took a drive to the cemetery. Several months had past since I'd last been here. But as I stood near his grave and looked at the spectacular snow-covered mountains and watched the brilliant sunset, I reflected on how many times I'd come here over the last eighteen years.
The first year after his death, I was so broken. That graveside was my sanctuary, I cried, I prayed, I questioned life.
I'm no longer broken. I've learned to face each day with a different strength than before, a strength I have learned from pondering my father's life.
Since his death, other family members have come and joined the family plot. Now in addition to my dad, I visit others when I come. All of them remind me of who I am. My roots, my inspirations, my examples.
Tonight, I'm keenly aware how much a parent leaves a lasting impression on their posterity. Tonight as I reflected on life, I found the answer to my complex question. Tonight I heard my dad's words.
