On Practicing Gratitude...

gratitude journals should always be polka dotted...

It’s Holy Week.  In a few days people will return to Facebook and social media after their 40 day fast during Lent.  Others will consume sweets again or other forbidden foods.  Catholics will no longer frequent Fish Frys on Friday nights, finally able to eat meat any day of the week they please.  If my dad were alive he’d be counting down the days until he could enjoy scotch again, his yearly Lenten “fast.”

In the past I’ve fasted from television and online/impersonal shopping during the season of Lent.  I hadn’t planned on doing anything this year, but a few days before Ash Wednesday I saw Momastery’s

challenge on Facebook to “fast from ingratitude” for Lent this year by noting three things you were grateful for each night.  To be honest I dismissed it pretty immediately.  I felt like I didn’t have much to be grateful for at the moment and in light of these past few months I didn’t think I should have to practice gratitude.  I felt like I deserved to be ungrateful.  I was angry with the turn my life has taken and the ways that everything feels heavy and hard.

In short, I was in the midst of the Infinite Sadness and practicing gratitude felt like more work than I wanted to do.  It required me to claw and scratch, to work at something that I just wanted to come naturally.  And in this season gratitude has not come naturally.

But as Ash Wednesday approached I found myself rethinking this stance.  It’s a poor way to live, really.  I had felt like Eeyore for weeks and if I wasn’t careful I knew I would find myself so deep in that mindset that it would require much more than I had to get out.   Still, I waffled, not sure of what I wanted to do.

Then something happened on that Wednesday that made me so deeply and profoundly grateful.  I broke down in the shower at the gym that morning, desperately needing some sign that hope and light still existed in my life and I begged God for just that, hope and light.  And then, later that day, two incredible friends gave me an early birthday gift that was so thoughtful, so loving, and so generous that it took my breath away.  It was a gift that made me feel loved and cared for, that supported my marriage that has borne the weight of so much stress these past few months and that gave me something to hope for and look forward to after many months of feeling hopeless and dark.  It was light and hope all in one.

And so I knew I needed to keep looking for things to be thankful for.  If God had given me such a big gift of hope and light maybe there was more I was missing while I held onto my “right” to be ungrateful.  And maybe this would be what I needed to pull myself out of the Infinite Sadness.

things I'm grateful for

I’ve been writing down three things every night and it’s been a good practice.  There is so much to be thankful for.  Even in the midst of the hardest season of my life so far, there is still hope and light.  Noting things each night helped me to feel profoundly grateful in the moment each day.  Most things were as small as gratitude for the way Toots shines when she laughs or Monster’s sweet little voice when he tells me “I like you Mommy.”  But to acknowledge them, to see them as the gifts that they are is a choice, an act of work at times.  It’s good work, though.  And I think I’d rather scratch and claw my way to a life of gratitude than wallow in Eeyore land. 

The Infinite Sadness

Well, it’s been a spell since I’ve posted.  Truthfully I was waiting until I could write about anything besides grief and loss.  Turns out grief and loss have a tendency to eclipse everything else and if you wait until you are able to write honestly about happier topics it may be months in between posts.  So today I’m embracing what’s true and sharing some things I’ve learned about grief and loss in these long months.

In February I slipped into the Infinite Sadness. 

Suddenly, without much warning, about a month ago I fell into what I’ve come to think of as the Infinite Sadness.  Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness was a Smashing Pumpkins album from the mid-nineties.  I was in no way cool enough to be listening to The Smashing Pumpkins in the mid-nineties, but I remember kids in middle school wearing tee shirts with that album cover on them.  Of all the albums in the mid-nineties that I was in no way cool enough to listen to, that one has stuck with me for some reason.  I found my mind ruminating on that phrase “melancholy and the infinite sadness” as I was consumed with a heavy sadness a few weeks ago. 

It was a different kind of sadness than the one I’d been dealing with these months following my dad’s passing.  For much of January I had started to feel better.  Sure thoughts of my dad and this loss were never far from my mind, but they remained docile, manageable.  The moments of sadness spread out, and something like peace could be felt for long stretches. 

The Infinite Sadness was different.  It was heavy and thick.  I couldn’t shake it and found myself crying multiple times a day, every day.  I couldn’t look at pictures of my dad, couldn’t hear my dad’s voice on the answering machine, couldn’t handle any of life’s little inconveniences without falling to pieces.  I was coming undone by the weight of this grief but I couldn’t seem to shake it.  It threw me for a loop because for weeks before I seemed to be doing better.  And then all of a sudden waves of sadness crashed over me, knocking me down.

It was during these weeks that house hunting came to a head for Tommy and I.  In early February we started our search again after taking some months off when my dad died.  This time around though it had lost its shine as our innate differences rubbed against each other.  We both had vastly different priorities and couldn’t afford a house that would fulfill all of our requirements.  Neither one of us could see where the other was coming from nor were we communicating very well in the process.  In the middle of my Infinite Sadness we didn’t act quickly enough on a house that would have been perfect for us and lost it.  I slipped deeper into despair.  I couldn’t handle one more heavy thing in my life and it felt like hope was lost on us ever finding a place to live that felt good for the both of us.

It was exhausting, really.  I was tired of my thoughts, of the tears that couldn’t seem to stop falling.  I didn’t want to be in my head any more but couldn’t seem to escape.  I had a hard time sleeping at night, waking for hours at a time my mind racing.

It was hard to write honestly about everything during this time.   I worried my real life people would go on suicide watch with me.  I worried it would seem more dramatic than it actually was.  It felt like too much to share.  I was embarrassed by it.  Like I just couldn’t get over something that those around me had grown tired of.  I didn’t quite understand why, after weeks of feeling like time was starting to heal and hope may be around the corner, all of a sudden I was flung back into darkness and despair.

I realized during this time that I don’t know how to talk about sadness.  I know how to talk about stress or anxiety.  I know how to spin positive on trying situations.  I know how to talk about what’s overwhelming, but why I’m still hopeful.  I don’t know how to talk about despair, about the complete lack of hope I felt during those weeks of Infinite Sadness. 

Perhaps because this is such a new emotion for me, because for the first time in my life I am walking through something I can’t spin positive, reverse or fix, I found my sadness to be an incredible vulnerability.  I didn’t know how people would react to it and I didn’t trust it with anyone right away.   I wasn’t sure I trusted myself with it, honestly.  I berated myself for not being able to shake my sadness, for not just being happier, for being unable to control the flood of emotions that came at the slightest trigger.

And so I floundered there in the deep end of depression with only my hard, unforgiving thoughts to keep me company.

Needless to say, it was a great February.

A few things came a long that lifted me out of it finally.  Two of my nearest and dearest friends gave me a birthday gift a few days early that was so incredibly thoughtful and loving that a bit of hope pierced its way through the Infinite Sadness.  It was a gift that loved me, and my marriage, which has taken a beating in these past few months.  It was a gift that gave me something to look forward to.  But mostly it was a gift that made me feel seen.  That reminded me I wasn’t drowning alone and those who loved me saw me, and saw that things were still hard.

And then one of those same friends spoke words that helped me to change the way I grieved all together.  During one of our regular Wednesday morning play dates I opened up about my current mental state, apologizing profusely that I was still crying, still unable to fully shake this grief.  Lauren said, “Col, we fully expect this grieving to be for years and we are in it for the long haul so stop apologizing.”  It was such a simple statement, one that I’m sure any and all of my real life people would echo.  But to hear it out loud, to be freed from the timeline I’d created that forced me to bear this burden alone, there are simply no words for what it lifted inside of me.

As a grieving person I have more than once put a timeline on my mourning, given myself a deadline for my feelings.  Time and again I’ve found myself frustrated that I seem to have no control over what this looks and feels like.  Good days come just as unexpectedly as the bad ones and I never seem to be prepared for either.  I’m learning, once again, to be more graceful with myself.  And to have more faith in my people.  I have surrounded myself with some incredibly good ones and I’m not doing any of us any favors by bearing unbearable loads alone. 

I believe that God gave us to each other for more than just laughter and parties.  I believe we are called to walk hard paths together.  I want to do that with the people I love.  Both their hard paths and my own.

The Infinite Sadness may come again.  But this time I’m prepared.  I’m ready to enter into the vulnerability of sharing that which is scary to share.

Small Moments

We are eight days into the New Year, but today feels like it’s finally, officially the New Year.  That’s because today is the first day of being “back into the routine.”  Thanks to some sort of crazy polar vortex that sent temperatures well below zero we were the lucky recipients of two extra days of winter break.  Two days where it was too cold to leave the house.  Basically two days of insanity inducing cooped up-ness. 

I was ready to get back into our routine after over two weeks home.  It was fun having Monster around and Toots more than anyone enjoyed having a buddy during the day.  But the holidays were hard and we had a lot of time to just be home missing my dad.  This grieving process is long and difficult and, like most of the truest, deepest life experiences, not straightforward.  It involves a lot of cycling back through emotions you thought you’d overcome, feelings you want to be done with.  These last two and a half weeks were no exception.

Last January I decided to forgo typical resolutions and instead try to center my year on one word, one idea to focus my intention for the year.  In 2013 I tried to abide.  Some days I was better at it than others.

This year I honestly wasn’t really thinking about anything, “one word” wise.  But as 2013 drew to a close and fresh snow ushered in 2014 I heard my “word” clearly and knew there was no denying it.  I read a letter my sweet cousin wrote to my mom about my dad and knew that this year I needed to focus on the idea of “small moments.”

The untimely death of my beloved dad has taught me a lot, much of which I’m still processing and working through.  One lesson immediately obvious in the weeks following his passing has been the idea of “small moments.”

After my dad died so many people shared stories with us about him.  Through notes, emails, cards and in person people said the most wonderful things about my dad.  I learned so much about him after his death.  These were character traits that I’d always known about the man who raised me, but their stories and illustrations brought him to life in a whole new way.  Over and over again people told us of how my dad had helped them, shared kindness or provided comfort in simple, everyday moments.  When people remembered my dad they didn’t talk about the big things he accomplished or any of the “life highlights” he experienced that look good on paper.  Instead they talked about how my dad had helped them out one time, or made them feel better in small, everyday moments.  One old friend shared about how my dad had written him a comforting letter in college when he was homesick and lonely.  Another shared about how my dad comforted her so kindly after her mom caught her with cigarettes in her purse.  He told her everything would be ok and gave her a hug.  People remembered times he greeted them so warmly, treated them so hospitably, made them feel like they were the most important person in the room.

The things about my dad that really stuck with people were moments that I doubt he even really remembered.  Paying attention to others, treating them well, taking time to send that letter, listen to that story, or give that hug were just a part of how he lived day to day.  And yet this was what defined him.  This is why people mourned his death and loved him so well. 

There are the big things we do, the moments we think will define us, the actions we do with a lot of thought and attention because we think that it will be our mark on the world.  But what I’ve discovered in my dad’s passing is that it is the small moments, the daily acts of kindness that we often don’t think twice about that stick with others.  That is what defines our legacy.  My dad lived in those small moments well, so effortlessly and naturally.  In 2014 I want to practice living as my dad did.  I want to pay attention to the small moments and live them well, aware of others and their needs more than my own.

I can get too caught up in the big picture.  What will my career look like?  How can I achieve my big dreams?  When I think about my legacy I often think about the things that will look good on paper, the successes and achievements that are “brag worthy.”  I want to shift that this year.  I want to leave a legacy of small moments of kindness and love.  I want to remain aware of others always and stay present in each and every ordinary, mundane, regular encounter with others.  In 2014 I don’t want to let any opportunities to help, lift up, comfort or love others in the small moments pass by untended.   

And so that is my (two) word(s) for 2014: small moments.

For Those of Us Still Longing on Christmas Morning...

I haven’t really known what to do with Advent this year.  In these weeks leading up to Christmas I’m hearing a lot about Anticipation and Hope and Light and, well, my life right now is not that.  It’s hard to anticipate the coming King of hope and light when life feels a little hopeless and dark, you know?  It’s hard to exist in the joyful spirit of Christmas when your spirit is anything but joyful.

A few weeks ago I attended an Advent service let by my friend Charity’s mom, Ruth.  For some reason I always seem to sense God’s presence more thickly when I’m in Ruth’s company.  She has a way with words that pierces right into my soul, making room for God to flood it more fully I guess.  So when some plans shifted around and I had the chance to attend her Advent service I made it a point to do so even though it meant meeting my family late for dinner.

I was a little nervous about the service, afraid it would be all about the joyful anticipation of Christ, about how the world was about to get a big ole’ dose of Hope and Light.  In other words, I was worried it would be about a whole bunch of crap that would make me feel even more out of place in the world around me.

But instead Ruth talked about longing.  About how our heart longs to see light.  About how we are longing for light in dark places.  And, as though she were talking directly to me, Ruth talked about how some of us are sitting in places of deep longing right now.  Longing that goes unmet. 

For an hour I sat in that service thinking about what my heart longs for.  There were obvious longings, and some less so.  I sat in the deep, aching longing and knew some of the things I yearned so gut-wrenchingly for would never be met. 

It’s easy to feel sort of lost in this holiday season when your state of being goes so far against the grain of everyone else’s.  You start to resent everyone who is so excited about the magic of the story of Christmas, the story of how God brought light and hope and love to earth in the form of a tiny human baby, when you are longing so deeply for light and hope and love and feeling so lost in darkness.  It’s hard to feel any sort of anticipation for God when you’re left feeling a little unsure of whom He is in the first place.

So this is for those of us who are left longing for light in this Advent season.  The ones uncertain that God really is who He said He was and can do what He promised He could.  The ones who will wake up on Christmas morning still feeling alone even though Immanuel, God With Us, has supposedly arrived.  To those of us who hate the story God is currently writing for you I can only offer this:  You are not alone.  I’m holding space for you, with you.  Sometimes my grief feels as though it’s a small child mid-tantrum, trying to break free from the hold I attempt to contain it in.  I like the idea of holding space in these moments, of giving my sadness room to thrash and wail and beat. 

I could tell you about how I’ve thought a lot about the Israelites that first Christmas who longed for a Messiah.  Things were dark, the future uncertain and their hearts longed for light.  And it came in the form of a baby.  I’m willing to bet that more than a few were a little unsure of God if this was his master plan for a Messiah.  I’m willing to bet that more than a few were still left longing in the face of that tiny human baby.

And sometimes, I can find comfort in that.  Sometimes I can be reminded that the story isn’t finished and light will eventually be revealed.   That Jesus is Immanuel even if I don’t feel it to be true.

But sometimes there just really isn’t any way to wrap all the darkness up with words that bring light.  Sometimes darkness is still just darkness, and longings remain unmet.  And in these times I’m finding that comfort only comes in the form of those who simply let it be what it is.  Who sit in the darkness with us and don’t try to force light.  Who don’t short-change our longings with inadequate substitutions.

If this Christmas finds you sitting in it, just know you aren’t alone.  I’m here.  Holding space for you.  With you. 

Denial and Anger and Other Stages of Grief I'm Not Ready to Deal With

Denial and anger are two of the first stages of grief.  I understand these emotions more than I could have possibly imagined.  I seem to vacillate between the two in these weeks following my dad’s death, continually moving back and forth between disbelief and rage.

Denial is a strange one.  I think I understand why it’s necessary to process death though.  I don’t know that our brains can fully comprehend the idea that someone is here one day and simply gone the next.  I’m not sure we would be able to allow another person to immerse themselves in our day to day lives so fully, depend on them so completely if we really understood that in a moment they could be gone.  And so when that very thing happens you must function with a certain amount of denial, believing the person to just be on a long trip or out to pick up coffee.  You do this until you can get used to life without them.

It’s funny, even though I saw the death certificate with my own eyes, hugged his hard, decidedly un-lifelike body at the wake, even hid the box of his remains after his cremation from my mom, I still have this strange little hope that I’ll come home one day and see him reading the paper at the table.  Or that he’ll come walking through the front door, explaining it was all a misunderstanding.  Or even that I’ll run into him at Mariano’s where he’ll marvel at what an amazing grocery store it is.  Even if I never see him again there’s a part of me that thinks he’s out there somewhere else in the world, alive still and blessing the world with his Irish eyes, just not able to be with us anymore.  I understand why people find comfort in reincarnation now.  I understand a lot of things I never used to. 

Before all this I thought that it would be the worst to have a loved one missing, their whereabouts and status unknown.  It seemed like torture to wonder year after year if they’d come home, to hope day after day that this would be the one on which they’d walk through the door.  It seemed easier, to me, to know for sure that they were gone than to be stuck in that endless cycle of mostly false hope, unable to move on with your life.  Now, I would give anything for a shred of hope that my dad would one day walk through that door again.

Anger bubbles beneath the surface and I never know when it will lash out inappropriately.  I yell at Toots for changing her mind about milk or water when really I want to yell at God for writing this part of my story.  Hard to open packages infuriate me and when my kids and I all got sick two weeks ago and no one slept I literally pounded on a wall at 2 am and considered taking a carton of eggs outside in the middle of the night so I could throw something that would break. 

I’m afraid of getting stuck in these stages, trapped between anger and denial.  I don’t want to become a person who lives only in states of fury or disassociation from reality.

I find myself running through a list of reasons of why this is still so hard.  I defend myself not being able to interact normally when the subject of my dad comes up or make it through the day without crying.  We’ve been living with him for seven months.  That was seven months in which he had become an indispensible part of my every day life.  He was so young; we were still so dependent on him, all of us.  It was so sudden; we didn’t have time to prepare.  He was just so good.  There really aren’t enough words to encapsulate all the wonderfulness that is now simply gone.  And maybe these are all significant reasons for why this still feels almost as hard as it did three weeks ago.  Or maybe death is just this hard.

I understand that acceptance is the final stage of grief in as much as I understand that I have not reached acceptance.  It almost feels as though my whole being fights against acceptance these days.  I think about how my mom will have to attend weddings alone from now on or how he’ll never take Toots to the park or build a Brio train for Monster and something deep within fires up, actively pushing this truth away.  My lack of acceptance may just be the truest thing about all of this right now.

On Being a Principal Mourner

As I said in my post last week, I'm reeling from the sudden, unexpected death of my beloved father.  I haven't been able to write, or think, about much else these past two weeks.  I wasn't intending to post much of what I am writing these days- unsure if I should share in the thick of it.  But I came across this post from Laura over at Hollywood Housewife today. In it she writes "About my summer meltdown, I feel a little differently about it after a few month's distance.  But I am so glad that I wrote what I did when I did.  I'm glad I have those thoughts from when they were raw.  And I'm glad I shared them.  If we waited until we had enough perspective to wrap it all up with a bow, then you're not actually capturing the experience.  You're masking it in the lesson, in what it meant later.  But I crave to read about (and write about) what it is now."  And that's what I want to do.  Write about what it is now.  In the thick, heavy, tear soaked mess of it.  And write about it again when I've gained some perspective.  And so here goes… it's going to be a little heavy around here for a while…

Principal Mourners.  That’s what they call them.  The ones who lay awake that long, first night listening to the sobs of their loved ones echo through the house.  The ones who cry as they pick out flower arrangements and choose songs.  Who stand for hours receiving the grief of all those who came to the wake and are given privacy to say their last good-byes.  Who walk behind the casket down the long church aisle, their sorrow on display for all to see.

******

People arrive almost immediately.  How did they know?  How did they find out so quickly?  The news of death spreads faster than fire it turns out.

And the people come bearing gifts.  No one arrives empty handed the first few days.  The groceries and meals I expected.  But how did they know we were running out of toilet paper and paper towels?  Who told them I’d been searching the house for a fragrant candle to bring some light into our darkness?  What made them pick out the softest, most perfect blanket and did they know it would be the only comfort my mom sought out those first days?

People surprise you in so many ways those first weeks.  The number of people is shocking.  I never realized how many people cared about us enough to show up.  And then you find yourself leaning on someone you never expected to be the rock you needed.  And others you always thought would be that rock surprise you with their distance, too lost in their own grief to help you with yours.

******

Whenever Monster catches me crying he takes my face in his little hands and searches my eyes for tears.  Upon finding them he proclaims, “Mommy’s happy!  Mommy’s happy!” with manic desperation, as though he could will me into a state of happiness.  I understand his behavior completely as I watch my mom sob over my dad’s body.  It is all I can do not to grab her by the shoulders and shout, “Mommy’s happy!  Mommy’s happy!”

******

My grief overwhelms me.  I’m afraid to overwhelm others with it.  I feel dangerous, as though my sadness has the power to extinguish all the happiness from a room forever.  It’s a heavy burden I carry everywhere with me.  A burden I’m afraid to unload because it means I’m moving on, moving further away from my dad.  The first week an image of him making a characteristic face or gesture would flash vividly and brilliantly in my head, then violently sucker punch me with the reminder that I would never see him make that particular face again.  The second week I sobbed and sobbed because those images were becoming a little less vivid, had already started to dull around the edges in his second week of absence.

******

The irony for the Principal Mourners is that everyone you’ve every loved shows up to offer support of one kind or another but you are unable to fully acknowledge or appreciate it.  You can’t survive without it, but you don’t have the mental or emotional capacity to connect with just how wonderful people really are.  You have no choice but to receive and receive and receive, keeping a list of all the thank yous you hope one day to be in a place to genuinely offer.

I feel like I’ve been initiated into a club I never wanted any part of.  The Principal Mourners Club.  I suppose I know now what to do the next time someone dies.  I know what to bring (candles, toilet paper and blankets) and I know what to say (there’s nothing to say.  Nothing can ease this pain.  All you can do is be with.).  Still, I’d rather have my dad back than the insider knowledge on what to do for a Principal Mourner.  Selfishly, I’d rather bumble around ignorantly with my father still here.  I’m not quite ready to look for any positive in this shitty, shitty situation.  One day I’ll find light in the darkness.  Today is not that day. 

my dad's eulogy

My dad died very unexpectedly last Sunday.  This is the eulogy I gave at his funeral yesterday.  I've debated internally as to whether or not to post this.  It's longer than something I would usually post, and I'm not really sure everyone would care to know about my dad.  But, his absence is felt deeply, profoundly and achingly right now and I'd like to try to keep his spirit alive somehow.  He was an incredible man, deeply loved by all who knew him.  

My dad meant the world to me.  And judging by all the wonderful things you said to us last night about him, my dad meant the world to a lot of you all too.  My friend Shannon told me, “when we lose people like your dad, I feel like the whole world should stop for a while and take notice.”  I’ve heard similar sentiments over and over again.  It seems people put my dad in a special category that not everyone makes it into and felt his death should be marked, the world should pay attention and grieve that he no longer exists in it.  This makes me happy to know that other people recognize what I’ve always known about my dad- he was one of the exceptionally good ones.

My dad was perhaps the most selfless person I know.  It’s been said before today, but you really can’t talk about my dad without talking about his constant, quiet, selfless acts of service.  He was continually putting others before himself.  Whether it was putting his name at the bottom of the ballot for the sake of the republican party, never, ever taking the choice cut of meat (and often eating whatever parts I had burned the most), or quietly moving all the cars around in the morning so everyone could get out of the driveway, my dad was always serving others.  He would never have admitted it, but since we moved in with my parents seven months ago he’s been cutting his workout short every morning so he could get back and help me get the kids breakfast. 

In these ways he humbly showed me how to live with regard to others, to serve and love them by helping.  He did it all so quietly, never admitting these selfless choices, insisting that he wanted that burnt, gross portion of meat, it was easy to forget he was sacrificing and serving his loved ones.

One of the reasons I think my dad was so eager to help others was because he simply loved people so much.  He really valued any time spent chatting with someone.  And he was always chatting with someone.  When I lived in Forest Park he came once a week to watch Liam.  Usually he took Liam out and about around town.   And proceeded to make friends everywhere.  I can’t tell you how many times I would be at a park or the library with Liam when someone would say, “Your Liam’s mom.  We know Liam’s grandpa!” By the time we moved from Forest Park I’m fairly certain that my dad knew more of the stay-at-home moms there than I did.  Everywhere he went my dad took time to get to know the people around him. 

If strangers felt welcomed and known in my dad’s warm presence, how much more did those who actually knew him, who had opportunities to spend time with him. As my uncle said earlier this week, “everyone is here because this man loved all of us at one time.”  My dad had warmth about him that made every person he encountered feel loved and valued.  He genuinely cared about what was going on in the lives of others and found authentic ways to connect with everyone he met.  He loved being around people, loved his friends and loved turning strangers into friends.

But the people he loved most were his family.  For my dad, family was everything.  He couldn’t get enough.  Growing up, extended family get togethers were a regular occurrence in our family- not just something that happened on the holidays.  And yet, for my dad, it still wasn’t enough.  He would often comment on how it had been too long since we’d had a family get together.  And we’d remind him that we’d all been over at Annie’s ten days ago.  He looked forward to time with his siblings and many nieces and nephews- one of the first to arrive and often the very last to leave.  Nothing made him happier than having our home filled with family. 

And he reserved his greatest time, energy and love for us, his wife, kids and grandkids.  I consider myself lucky to know without a doubt that my father was devoted to us.  He showed us that in a million different ways.  He welcomed my husband Tommy into our family almost instantly and seeing the friendship between my dad and husband grow over the past seven years of our marriage has been a particular highlight.  They were buds; in Tommy my dad found a partner in crime and in my dad Tommy had a fellow patriot in the war against meatless Mondays.  I am so thankful for how close they were able to get in these past few months living together.  Not everyone would welcome living with their in-laws, but I think my dad made it fun and enjoyable for Tommy.

Mom, living with you guys for the past seven months has been a wonderful peek into just how much Dad loved you.  He loved you so much.  My dad held my mom in the highest esteem and reserved the priority of his love and attention for her.  Every morning I watched my dad take a cup of coffee up to my mom so she could enjoy it while she was still in bed.  Even though they’d been married for 33 years my dad still called my mom his bride.  In recent years we watched them do more together, have more date nights, enjoy more nice bottles of wine, share favorite shows.  It thrilled me to see how their relationship seemed to thrive in the absence of the daily grind of parenting. 

As a dad I think I speak for all of my siblings when I say he was simply the best.  He was at every soccer game, school play, football game, and speech team regional night.  He coached at least one of each of our park district sports teams.  He was the kind of dad that got on the floor and played board games with us.  My dad wasn’t the most successful, the richest, the smartest or the most driven.  But he was the guy that loved his family so much he made choices to be home with them, to invest in them, to spend time with them.  How lucky we were to call that kind of man dad. 

The greatest gift he gave to us was unconditional love. My dad loved with a grace that astounds me. I never questioned if he loved me. After my fourth (or sixth) car accident my dad still wholeheartedly defended my driving skills. (At that point even I was ready to admit that I sucked.)  I never grew up feeling like I had to be anything more than I was in the eyes of my dad.  He gave us all a sense of “ok-ness” in a world that is always asking for more.

And yet, as amazing of a father as he was, I think the highlight of his life was being “Granda.”  My dad was made to be a grandfather.  It is utterly devastating that this, his best role was also the one he had the least amount of time in.  I could literally go on for hours about my dad as a Granda, but I will settle on these few glimpses: of the 263 photos on my dad’s phone 255 of them were of Liam and RyRy, most of my text messages from him said something like, “how are the kids?  Can you send me a picture?  I need my fix!” (of course signed love, dad) and after we moved in with him if we left for the weekend without fail I’d get a text, usually on Saturday morning from my dad saying “what time are you guys coming home?"  It’s too quiet here!  Please send a picture!”  He used to build brio train track formations while Liam was taking a nap so he would have it to play with when he woke up.  If he felt especially proud of the track he created my dad would take a picture of it with his phone so he could build it again.  For the first month that we lived with them I don’t think Ry’s feet touched the ground- my dad held her any and every time raised her little arms up towards him in request, which she did constantly.  My dad loved Liam and Ryann even more than he loved us.  I know this because he accidentally admitted it one day.  The greatest grief I have had in my dad’s death has been around the fact that he will no longer be here as “Granda.”  Tim, Ryann and Jack- I am so sorry that your future kids are robbed of this relationship.  It makes me sick to my stomach to think about all they are missing.

One of the more comforting things that’s been said to us this week was that over time we would see and hear our dad in those that loved him.  His sayings, characteristics, qualities and love would be reflected in his family.  I’ve been looking for him this week and I’m comforted to see him everywhere already.  Mom I have felt dad in your love for us.  You love us and others the same way he did and I’m thankful that his love will live on in you.  Tim I’ve seen dad in you this week in all the ways you’ve stepped up and been a rock for us, comforting us in our moments of grief and quietly serving us in hundreds of small and large acts.  Ry, I see dad in your way with people.  You have that warmth and grace with others that makes a small gathering feel like a party and a huge get together feel intimate.  You make people feel the same way dad did.  Jack, I’ve always seen him in your sense of adventure and travel and in your extreme kindness.  Lately though, and most comfortingly, I’ve seen him in your interactions with my kids.  You love them patiently like dad did and if they can no longer live with Granda I’m so thankful they still live with Uncle Jack.  And I suppose my dad’s stellar driving skills live on in me.

I heard somewhere that the whole of our lives gets reduced to our birth year and the year we died with a dash in between.  That dash is everything we did with the years we were given.  At any rate for my dad that dash was all about people, family and all the friends that he considered family.  He had it figured out.  He died at peace with everyone in his life, there were no grudges left bared, no regrets about how he treated someone, no hours he spent chasing after the wrong things.  He knew what mattered most and he spent his life acting accordingly.

I could go on for hours more.  I didn’t even touch on the amazing mentor and co-worker, friend, brother and uncle he was.  I didn’t even mention his realized dream of elected public office and his service to his community.  But I look forward to hearing your stories later today and in the weeks and months to come.  In the meantime I ask you all to keep my dad’s spirit alive by living as he lived.  Help others, value people and give your best time to your family and friends.  It makes for a great life for those around you. I can speak from experience. 

Thank you.