Today marks 5 months and 8 days. 173 days after having a dad for 20,440 days, I am now without him. Even though my dad was 96 years old and ready to leave the body that was just plain worn out, it is still an overwhelming feeling of loss. When my older brother whispered, "He's gone," to me when we where both leaning over his bed, my heart fell. Minutes before, my brothers and I had been at the table laughing about who knows what while thinking there was still time left. Oh, we knew our time was short and we had said all the things that needed to be said, but somewhere inside, I still thought we had at least one more day. Dad was basically just sleeping at this point, and I would sit with him or my brothers would sit with him and watch his blanket move slightly up and down while a baseball game played as background noise on TV. I think because no one knows exactly when death is coming, there is this belief in the back of our minds there is still time, and then, just like that, his 96 years were over.
Dad did not want to go into a nursing home or assisted living facility, so he moved next door to Scott and I ten years prior. At that time, Drew was 17, Josh was 14, and Luke was 9. Dad was 86. I knew my boys would not want to hang out with him for long periods of time because after all, he was 86 years old. He could not play basketball or catch or even really swing a golf club anymore. However, Dad loved his grandsons dearly and any little moments would be something. Dad would take the boys to the driving range in our neighborhood and give golf tips from his chair. At one point, each one wanted to try golf. Dad would have been so happy if one of them had loved golf as much as him. No one ever had the same passion he did, but at least, they shared those moments.
Dad loved giving the boys gadgets for Christmas. Either something that worked with magnets or sunlight or water. He never once bought them a toy. He really wanted them to have something that made them think. Dad loved knowing how things worked. He especially loved the story about how paper is made. For 36 years, Dad worked in our hometown's papermill as the power house superintendent. Like most men of that generation, his identity was his job. He was proud of what he did. "Find something you love and do it well." This was his advice not only to my brothers but his grandsons, all eight of them.
When I look at my grown sons now, I wondered what each one remembers about him besides mowing his grass, stealing his cokes, or borrowing his car. How well did they really know him? There is a sense of loss I will always feel, but I have recently found comfort knowing his blood flows through their veins. Drew is dependable. If I ever needed anything, Dad was there. He was not the greatest with sharing his feelings. He didn't always tell me what I wanted to hear, but he was there. Josh definitely has his work ethic. Dad worked long days and many late nights. He was proud of his job and he was providing for his family. Luke most definitely has his gentle and quiet spirit. Dad never liked the spotlight or any attention brought to himself. He liked small groups of people at a time. He never felt the need to impress or exaggerate or compete. It's strange how it took his death for me to see this in each of my sons.
Like most people looking back, I think I should have made the boys spend more time with him. I should have...….. I should have...…. but the sweet reality is this. God took those little moments of all the years and sowed those into each one of my boys. I know the "Paper Maker" was and is proud of each one and not because of what they have accomplished, but because they are HIS grandsons. HIS. Such a powerful word.
Like paper, God takes us raw and rough. He removes the outer bark and reduces us to pulp until we are ready to be formed into something not only beautiful but useful and for a purpose. Boy are definitely raw and rough, and like paper, it a process shaping them into what God intends. So even when I may have regrets, God reminds me He is always working, like my earthly father, long days and late nights. I am HIS and so are my sons.
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