This is a repost of sorts, of something I wrote several years ago for Father's Day. I've done some very minor editing for grammar, flow, and to correct a couple of details that I am reliably informed were inaccurate. No corrections or adjustments were made to counter the "rose-colored memory glasses" effect, as I like the view through those lenses just fine.

For you, Daddy.

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It's been 16 years...

Mom and Dad had gone to Matador for the weekend to visit the folks. My family and I were supposed to go with them, but my older brother and his went with them instead. We stayed home so as to give them some time with Mom and Dad. “We'll go next time” I said.

Next time...

That Sunday morning I was at Albertson's picking up a few things for breakfast when my wife called. “Come home NOW. Just...come home.” It sounded bad, but not too bad, so I finished checking out and drove back to the apartment. My wife met me at the door with the news that Daddy had been out with his brother-in-law checking on the herd, waaay out in the boonies past Whiteflat, and Daddy had had a heart attack. A few minutes later, a follow up call, and Daddy was gone. There would be no Next Time.

How many times have I regretted not going to Matador that weekend? I would have been in the pickup with them, and while I hold no illusions that I might have been able to save him, at the very least I could have held his hand and told him good-bye.

I'm going to scatter-shoot here, as to present a flowing, coherent narrative of the man would take volumes, and more time that we're willing to spend.

He was the hardest working man I ever knew. I was a teen, he was in his 40's, and he could work me until my tongue dragged the dirt, and then he just kept going. Good weather or bad, AM or PM, weekday evening or weekend, if there was something that needed doing, there was no putting it off. He did the job until it was done, unless circumstances prevented it. If they did, he was back at the task as soon as he got home from work the next day. “It had to be done” seemed to be his unspoken motto.

The stock tanks had automatic valves that kept them full. One winter I came in from feeding the cows and told Daddy there was a puddle of water in the front corral. We went out to look and sure enough an underground line had broken. We went back inside, pulled on some warm work clothes, back to the corral and started digging. Lord it was cold, and in short order, we were soaking wet to boot. My feet were numb, my nose felt like it was burning with a cold cold fire, and my fingers were frozen to the shape of a shovel handle. I kept thinking “Why are we doing this now? How does he put up with this crap? Can't we wait until it gets warmer in a couple of days?” He just kept chipping and digging until we found the break. I looked at him at one point, and his nose was running so much little drops of snot were collecting on the end of his nose. It was (to a 15 y/o) gross, and I waited for him to wipe it off. His nose was as frozen as mine, so it took him a bit to feel that stuff hanging off the end of it, but when he finally did, he just gave a little snap of the head to flip it off, and kept on digging. I can see him as clearly as if it were yesterday, runny nose, breath fogging the air, muddy up to the knees.

My older brother was away at college, and his car broke down. Daddy and I drove to Abilene to try and fix it, but it was more than could be done in the dorm parking lot. We had to flat tow the thing 220 miles back home. It was winter (again) and cold and of course the broken down car had no heat, so he bundled me up in his coat on top of mine, a blanket around my legs and feet, and off we went. We stopped every half hour or so to check the chains. At one stop, it was so cold my teeth were chattering and I could barely speak, so he tried to rig the chains so I wouldn't need to steer the towed car. I rode with him in the pickup just long enough to get warm again, but the car was jumping around too much on the bumps, so we pulled over and I climbed back into that icebox on wheels. “I know it's cold, but I need you to steer the Mustang. If you get too cold back here, flash your lights and I'll pull over and warm you up for a bit.” I knew he needed to get home so he could get a little sleep before work the next morning, so I just toughed it out. We finally pulled into the driveway, pushed the Mustang out of the way, and he helped me into the house. Mom had kept the fire going in the big Franklin stove in the den, and we warmed up for a bit in front of it before going to bed. Before I stumbled my way to the bedroom, he gave me hug, long and hard, looked down at me and said “Danny, I couldn't have done this without you. You did a good job.” Hours of fatigue and aching cold melted away in an instant. I can remember that hug and those words to this day. Like it was yesterday.

He was never shy about giving hugs, I suspect because he had had a difficult childhood with an alcoholic dad (a mean drunk to boot) and wanted to make sure we would always know how much he loved us. Because of that example, us boys weren't shy about giving hugs either. It was a normal thing, all the way through the teen years, to give him a hug in the evenings when he got home from work. One time I had come home from college for the weekend, got back in town early, and went by his work to see him. I walked in the front door, found him sitting behind the counter working on an order. When he saw me come in he got up, came around the counter and we gave each other a hug. “Hi Daddy.” “Hi there, Dandy!” (He gave nicknames to every one that he knew and liked. Long after the rest of the family started calling me Joe Dan, because it sounded more grown up, he still called me Danny, or sometimes Dandy. You might think I hated it. You'd be wrong.) We talked briefly, and I hugged him again before heading to the house. When he got home that evening, he told me that after I had left his boss came up and told my Dad how much he envied him. “I have 3 daughters” he said, “and I can't bring myself to hug them the way you just hugged your grown son.” I can remember to this day how astonished we both were, and how we thought it was so sad that his boss couldn't hug his children as easily as he did us.

For years he drank enough coffee, every day, to float a boat. He had always had allergies, and after a round of tests he discovered that he was allergic to coffee, among LOTS of other things. He tried substituting with hot tea, with mixed results. It's not that he didn't like the tea, it just wasn't coffee. One time we were on a weekend trip to Bonito Lake near Ruidoso, camped near a stream. The rest of the family was off on a walk, and Daddy and I were sitting around the fire while he cooked supper. He took a sip of his hot tea, sighed deep, and looked at me. "Danny, there's something about being here in the mountains, sitting by the fire, supper cooking, the wind blowing in the trees, and (through clenched teeth now) drinking a cup of hot tea that just isn't right!" Man, can I relate to that.

He worked for years selling truck parts, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the Cummins parts catalog. It was a rare occasion that he had to consult the microfiche (!) to look up a number for an order. He was a square shooter too, and his customers knew that if Daddy told them something, they could take it to the bank. He would not lie to or cheat a customer, and they knew it, so much so that the other parts men would be standing around looking at the line of customers that wouldn't let any one but Daddy wait on them. After years of waiting for a decent raise or promotion and not getting it, he left that job to start up a new branch office for a Cummins distributorship. I worked there with him for a while, and we had a wonderful time together. I moved on, and after a time that Cummins distributor was bought out, and they laid off most of the sales force, Daddy included. After 20+ years selling Cummins parts, he was out of prospects. But Daddy was not one to accept defeat. He worked for a while selling cars (he was good at that too) but the money wasn't very good, so he went to work in the pot ash mines. The money was much better, but he hated the job, and with his sinus problems the underground work was not healthy. So in his 50's now, he and mom started over. They sold the house in Hobbs and moved to Plano, partly for the job market and partly so they could be closer to us boys (we had all ended up in the Dallas suburbs over the years). He worked as a temp for a while, and one of his assignments was in a warehouse for EDS. They liked him so much they offered him a permanent job, and he worked there until his death. The office was in Carrollton, and there was a little pond nearby that he used to go fish on his lunch hour. He had one of those little plastic pontoon boats, and he took it to work a few times to put it in the pond, but I think the cops made him quit that. We used to talk about going fishing together, but never seemed to get our schedules worked out. Man, I wish I had made time to drop a line in the water with him.

He was good with his hands. You know the verse “Whatsoever thy hand find to do, do it with thy might?” That was Daddy. He could fix or build just about anything. It was a very rare car problem that he couldn't diagnose and repair, he could handle just about any kind of construction or remodeling work, he could do appliance repair (he had once been a certified Maytag man), he and my maternal grandaddy rebuilt an old Massey-Harrison. I can remember a couple of spectacular kitchen remodels. And he loved wood-working, making all sorts of shelves, cabinets, little tables, potato bins, all kinds of home décor stuff. He would build it, and then he and Mom would paint or finish it. Sometimes they would pester me until I helped out. I always protested at first, but somehow found myself enjoying it in the end (I would never have admitted it at the time though). I still have a head board he built. Nothing fancy, just a simple pine plank headboard with posts, stained a beautiful dark honey color. If there's ever a fire, I don't know how I'll get that thing out, but it's coming out with me.

These are just the things that spring immediately to mind. There's so much more.

We took him back to Hobbs. The little chapel at the cemetery was overflowing. They had 30+ years of friends in Hobbs, and I think they were all there. His bosses at EDS flew in for the funeral. Old co-workers from as far away as California sent flowers and condolences. A pretty big deal for a man that the world would see as a simple truck parts salesman. But he was so much more than that. I learned from him what it was to be a Godly and caring man, not so much from his words as from watching him as he moved through this world, sometimes struggling, sometimes succeeding, always working. They played “Daddy's Hands” at the service, because as my younger brother remarked, he was always doing something with his hands, and it was always for us. Soft and warm when I was crying, hard as steel when I'd done wrong, there was always love in Daddy's hands. I still tear up when I hear that song.

It's been 16 years. 16 years, and there's not a day go by that I don't think of you Daddy, and measure myself against you, and come up short. You were the greatest man I ever knew. You were, and still are, my Hero.

I miss you Daddy. 16 years, and I miss you like it was yesterday.

Under our feet...

Hat to tip to my very good friend Richard Morris. This is cool stuff! Would that we remember this always.

Phantom pain

“The death of a beloved is an amputation.” 
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

It's a Sunday, and I'm on shift away from church and family, so I decided to pass the time getting lost in C.S. Lewis Quote-land. 

What's that you say? You've never heard of C.S. Lewis Quote-land? Oh, too bad. It's a lovely place, one of my very favorites. Still and all though, it's best not to visit too often; one can get lost there for hours.

I'm sure you've heard of phantom pain. It's the very odd phenomenon where a person that has lost a finger or limb continues to experience the sensation of it. They might feel a tickling or discomfort or even real pain, in an appendage that is no longer there. I'm not sure researchers have found a real, solid explanation for it; it may be out there, but I'm too lazy at the moment to Google it. This is the first blog post I've done since Christmas, and I don't want to get sidetracked...

(Btw, I myself have experienced something very much like this, "phantom Blackberry syndrome". It happens when, while NOT wearing your cell phone or pager, you never the less feel it vibrating at your side. Very strange. And I'm only half-joking.)

AAaargh! What did I say about getting sidetracked?

Phantom pain...

My wife and I were having burgers and fries with friends last night after English Country Dancing (don't ask right now, I'm trying not to get sidetracked). The conversation wandered hither and yon, eventually turning to family, and the loss of those close to us. It was a bit of an emotional moment, not terribly so, but mi esposa mentioned that it is completely normal and understandable that we should continue to feel grief for the loss, even after much time has passed. And that we ought not be surprised if that grief pops up at the most unexpected times. Both of our fathers have died, mine many years ago, hers only a few, but, said she, thoughts of both good men will well up at the most surprising moments, and the tears will often well up with the thoughts.

And that, with the Lewis quote that I found in my wanderings, made me think. 

The loss of a loved one results in something very like phantom pain. Parents are the legs upon which we stand, a husband or wife is a strong right arm, and while we can lose an arm or leg and survive, and even thrive, the loss never goes away. Like phantom pain, years after saying goodbye to my Dad, I'll feel an ache in a limb that is no longer there, and hasn't been for years. I've seen the same in my wife too. No pain medication can fix it; it can only be tolerated until it fades, only to come back at some point or another.

More from the inestimable Professor. In The Problem of Pain Lewis says "God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” None of us like the experience of pain. It is, well, painful. And yet, we would be much worse off without it. How would it be if you were to inadvertently lay your hand on a hot surface and not realize you were being harmed until the smell of roasting skin assaulted your nostrils? The damage would be terrible, would it not? And I've read that the loss of the pain sensation is why lepers lose fingers and toes, and often go blind; they suffer an injury to an eye, or finger or toe, and not feeling pain, don't realize the injury until the damage is irreparable. Col. David Hackworth used to say "The more sweat on the training ground, the less blood on the battleground". And we've all heard the phrase "No pain, no gain."

So pain, while it is a Very Bad Thing, is a necessary part of life. We see that, even if we don't particularly like it.

And so what are the lessons we learn from this phantom pain, this amputation of the loss of a loved one? The most obvious of course, so obvious that it seems trite to say it, is that we should make the most of the time we have with our parents and spouses and children; they won't be here forever. But Lewis' megaphone metaphor has me thinking of something else. Something a little more hopeful, I think. For the Christian, at any rate.

I believe that we will certainly know each other in Heaven. There are certain instances in the Bible where a person still living, upon seeing a loved one who had died, recognizes that person. The most obvious of these are the post-resurrection appearances of Jesus; Mary recognizes Him, Thomas too. When He appears to the disciples as they are fishing, they know Him as Jesus, not just "some guy who somehow knew where to let down the nets". Even the 2 men on the road to Emmaus eventually know Him, though not until He prays over the evening meal (must have been a heck of a blessing!)

The Bible also speaks of the final day, when the dead in Christ shall rise, incorruptible. Called out of the grave, does it make sense to think of them arising as something other than what they were, as some weird, feature-less creature resembling a department store mannequin? No, not to me at any rate. While the Bible leaves some questions unanswered, I believe that we will know each other in heaven, not in the same way as here, but still know each other. And that thought gives me hope.

I will see my Dad again. My wife will see her father too. Unless Something Really Big happens in the next 40 or 50 years, my wife and I will precede our children, but you know what? That won't be the end of it. We'll see each other again, and it won't involve marital spats, or lectures over chores, or any of the mundanity of this life. I think we'll remember the relationships we had here, but that's all it will be, a memory (I picture my reunion with Daddy thusly: "Hey, I remember you. You used to be my Dad!" And he'll say "Yep. And you used to be my son. Come on, there's some people you'll want to meet, and some things you REALLY need to see!)

One of the verses I hang my hat on is 1 Corinthians 13:12. For now we see in a mirror, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know fully even as also I was fully known. There's a megaphone in that verse; on that day, all the stupid crap that makes no damn sense AT ALL will be understood. On that day all the times I've looked up to the heavens and said "I believe, but I sure wish I knew what the heck you think you're doing" will  be made clear. And on that day, we will know each other as we will know Him; completely, purely, perfectly. No emotional baggage, or hurt feelings, no missed words or words that should have been missed. We will know Him, and each other, fully. Completely.

And that phantom pain, the amputated limb of a father or mother or wife or husband or son or daughter? Maybe it's to remind us that there's something more going on. Someplace vastly better ahead. Maybe it's to keep me from getting too fond of this world, so that I lose sight of the world Where I Belong.

That thought doesn't make the phantom pain go away. But it does help me understand it, and put up with it.


Feeling like a refugee
Like it don't belong to me
The colors flash across the sky

This air feels strange to me
Feeling like a tragedy
I take a deep breath and close my eyes
One last time
One last time

Storms on the wasteland
Dark clouds on the plains again
We were born into the fight

But I'm not sentimental
This skin and bones is a rental
And no one makes it out alive

Until I die I'll sing these songs
On the shores of Babylon
Still looking for a home
In a world where I belong

Where the weak are finally strong
Where the righteous right the wrongs
Still looking for a home
In a world where I belong

Where I Belong by Switchfoot. Jon Foreman, Tim Foreman and Mike Elizondo, writers