I'll See Ya Later

On August 5th, 2010, my dad died.
He was a believer.
He went to heaven.
He was 84.
It wasn't sudden or fully unexpected.
It is painful.
It is strange.
Like living in a foreign land.
It will take a lifetime of adjusting.
He was a good father.
He was my daddy.
I loved him beyond words.

I spoke at his funeral.
This is what I said.

As you might imagine, we’ve been considering farewells a lot these past
few days. Marking “I stay here” and “you go there” in
the road of life, farewells often leave me wishing I could instead just say,
“See ya later.” In Dad’s case, it is good to know his
“there” is where I will actually see him later for He rests
in the presence of his perfect Creator and Redeemer...whom he knew well.

Of course, what we knew well of my father varies a bit in this room. He may
have been your buddy, soldier, coworker, or neighbor. Or husband. Or a
lifelong friend. Perhaps some of you didn’t have the pleasure of knowing
him long at all. To my brothers and me, he was a father. And to my children, he
was a grand-father.

But then, most everything about my dad was grand...on a scale bigger than most.
His laugh was contagious, filling any room to capacity with his zest for life.
His jokes were always hearty and, yes, sometimes a bit dirty. Rather than read
a book here and there, he kept bedside stacks, pouring over everything from
Louis L’Amour to Gray’s Anatomy. He smoked all things tobacco and
taught me to pack his pipe...along with how to fish, spit, and mow an even
lawn. He dressed down at home and up when out, and before even I knew Craig was
my husband, my dad did - and told me so. He believed in prayer and what he
termed “living right” and never met a soldier he didn’t like.

My father was most certainly not perfect nor did I see him so. But, to me, he
will always be grand. Big. But never too big to braid my pigtails
or spray me with the hose or instruct me on the finer ways to grab a snake.
Never too grand to tell me I was pretty. Or funny. Or smart - even when
I felt none of those things were true.

These are just some of my memories, only a few of those I’ll tell our
children. They comfort me. Make me happy.

Your memories of Dad are entirely your own. For you, I hope the good takes
firmest root and laughter accompanies each recollection. I hope your tapestry
of history with him comforts you and, if you didn’t know him well, I hope
you now know him better.

But, ultimately - and above all - I hope that today is less about the sorrow of
“I’m here” and “you’re there” for, if it’s
so, then today becomes a bit more peaceful...perhaps even less of a
“farewell”

...and more of an....

“I’ll see ya later.”