Drawing of me losing my cool courtesy of budding artist, Izzy.


Have a dressed up day!


. . . put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Colossians 3:12

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

when you don't know how to bury the man that gave you life

I look around my house and it is a mess.  The wedding boxes are all out and at their correct locations but the very small Christmas we had is scattered.  Laundry is spilling over.  The sink is full of dishes.  The counter is full of papers.  Trash and mess are on things under things and around things.
 
I don't care.
 
One of my first blog posts was an attempt at humor and what I would do if something tragic happened and my house was a mess.
 
And it has.
 
And I don't care.
 
My daddy's gone. 
 
The day before he died he told my sister he'd been dreading this day for so long.  Leaving Mama.  Dying hard.  He told her where the money was to buy the gun he wanted to give his grandsons.  He shook their hands and mumbled words full of love.
 
He high-fived our baby Beau. 
 
He told my girls to take care of their mama.  He told me Max was smart and not to let him waste it.
 
He listened with closed eyes as we told him we loved him.  We told him we adored him and were proud to be his daughters.  We told him he was the best daddy there ever was.
 
He waited on the daughter not there.  Her and her's.  His first-born trying to wrap up things that needed to be done while she hoped and prayed she'd see her daddy again.  He listened to her words over the phone and held on until Mama told him not to any longer.
 
My mama lay by my Daddy's side and whispered words we could not hear.  Sweet nothins' he'd probably call them.  Love words.  Good-bye words. But only for a little while words.
 
The strawberry shake he wanted sat melting until my sister picked it up, drank, and passed it around.  We all shared that shake as we sat by his side and touched whatever part of his body we could reach.
 
When I got in trouble at school about the Indian chief named Bowels he laughed. He had snakes in his belly button and warned me not to swallow watermelon seeds and pushed the mower up the hills I couldn't. 
 
When I cried about the orange house paint that wasn't and never would be he told me people don't always say what they mean and never mean everything they say.
 
I can't go to bed.  If I do I'll have to get up and go bury the man who gave life to me when he held my mama and loved her the way a man was made to love a woman. 
 
I just care about figuring out how to bury my daddy tomorrow.  How to hold up my mama when all I want to do is fall.  How to get my bluebird through her wedding day without her Pete-pa.
 
How to understand God's timing.  How to thank God enough for allowing my Daddy to go easily and quickly.  How to understand not understanding it all.
 
I thought I'd care if my house was a mess and people stopped by.
 
But I don't.
 
I really don't.
 
 

2 comments:

Greg and Donna said...

Its funny that the shape of our houses really don't matter I the grand scheme of things. I am thankful for your precious last moment memories of your Daddy ~ you will cherish those for the rest of your life! I love you and prayed for you and your family yesterday.

Jennifer said...

I've read and re-read this post over the last few days and thought about how we can't choose the timing of hard things or understand why things happen as they do. I've learned to hold tight to what I do know ... mostly to the ONE who holds us all.
Love you!