Today is my dad's birthday. It's the first one I've had to deal with. The anticipation of facing it has driven me crazy with raw emotion this month- robbing me of all kinds of joy and making me have conversations with him in my head.
Specialists recommend writing a letter directly to that person. I've always thought that sort of silly since I don't think my dad reads my journal, or my blog whereever he is :) But I've decided it may be healing, so here it goes....
Dear Dad,
Today is your birthday. You remember that your first grandson was actually due on this day! I prayed hard that I would have him either before or after- anything but on this day.
It's weird how this has never been my favorite day of the year. You and mom made it so hard. It was the one day a year I had to call both of you, one after the other. Two peas in a pod- too perfect for each other, stubborn as all get out. Crazy as bats. Weird ailments. You even shared your birthdays! Talking to you the last year of your life would drain me of all energy - you were so very sad. So very mad. We had to walk on eggshells.
Last year, on your birthday, we had just gotten the new job offer and were house hunting in Michigan . We sent a card but after much thought and wrestling, I decided not to make that dreaded phone call to you.
I knew I would have to explain that we were moving further away. I knew that you would be upset at not only that fact, but also the fact that I was moving somewhere further from you and with winters that were long and cold- thus dashing any hope of having you come to live close so we could help you more.
I know that not getting that birthday call probably broke your heart in two. Was it the last straw that made you start planning your own death? The police told me that they could tell you put much thought and preparation into your suicide. You had studied up on where exactly the bullet needed to go so that there was no chance you'd live. You carefully planned the spot so that the mess would be less for us to clean up. You planned it in a spot you would be found quickly. You planned and planned, and planned. I can't help but wonder all these months since your death, if my phone call would have given you a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of love. A glimmer of the life and the people that you'd be leaving. A glimmer, just a speck even, of Jesus.
Alas. We both know I talked myself out of the phone call by telling myself I really had no time. (I did, after all, only have 3 days to find my family a home to move into!)
I talked myself out of it by telling myself that you really didn't want to hear from me anyway. I know you loved hearing the stories from your grandchildren, but they were scattered around at friend's houses while we house hunted. And I talked myself out of it by telling myself that you were so mean, so angry at the world... and I just didn't have the energy to deal with it.
I've spent the last year thinking often of decision I made. You made it clear in your note that I had indeed hurt you. You made it clear that your decision to die was a decision you hoped would hurt me. Dad, my decision NOT to be self-less, but instead to be self-ish is a choice I'll regret for the rest of my life.
I'm so very sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I never made that call. I'm sorry I didn't humble myself but instead became more stubborn. From the perspective that I have now, my choice to not call is like a knife slicing through my heart. I'm sorry I didn't offer you a light- a hope when you needed it the most. I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted or unloved. You, even in your hard hearted ways... were dearly loved. Terribly wanted.
We loved your smile dad. I miss seeing your tattoos. We hated when you popped in for overnight visits unannouced, but we loved your company and your attempts to (sometimes) clean up your dirty lanuage in front of your sweet grandchildren. They miss hearing you fart at the dinner table, and I miss you being so thankful for all of my cooking. We miss your conversations of "bait" to try to get into an argument about the Bible. We miss you. The good parts, the annoying parts, the silly parts, and the weird parts.
Happy Birthday dad. We love you.
All my love,
Your daughter
Working to NOT regret, and holding onto this word from God: "The Lord says forget about what happened before. Do not think about the past. Instead look at the new thing I am going to do. Isaiah 43:18-19
Specialists recommend writing a letter directly to that person. I've always thought that sort of silly since I don't think my dad reads my journal, or my blog whereever he is :) But I've decided it may be healing, so here it goes....
Dear Dad,
Today is your birthday. You remember that your first grandson was actually due on this day! I prayed hard that I would have him either before or after- anything but on this day.
It's weird how this has never been my favorite day of the year. You and mom made it so hard. It was the one day a year I had to call both of you, one after the other. Two peas in a pod- too perfect for each other, stubborn as all get out. Crazy as bats. Weird ailments. You even shared your birthdays! Talking to you the last year of your life would drain me of all energy - you were so very sad. So very mad. We had to walk on eggshells.
Last year, on your birthday, we had just gotten the new job offer and were house hunting in Michigan . We sent a card but after much thought and wrestling, I decided not to make that dreaded phone call to you.
I knew I would have to explain that we were moving further away. I knew that you would be upset at not only that fact, but also the fact that I was moving somewhere further from you and with winters that were long and cold- thus dashing any hope of having you come to live close so we could help you more.
I know that not getting that birthday call probably broke your heart in two. Was it the last straw that made you start planning your own death? The police told me that they could tell you put much thought and preparation into your suicide. You had studied up on where exactly the bullet needed to go so that there was no chance you'd live. You carefully planned the spot so that the mess would be less for us to clean up. You planned it in a spot you would be found quickly. You planned and planned, and planned. I can't help but wonder all these months since your death, if my phone call would have given you a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of love. A glimmer of the life and the people that you'd be leaving. A glimmer, just a speck even, of Jesus.
Alas. We both know I talked myself out of the phone call by telling myself I really had no time. (I did, after all, only have 3 days to find my family a home to move into!)
I talked myself out of it by telling myself that you really didn't want to hear from me anyway. I know you loved hearing the stories from your grandchildren, but they were scattered around at friend's houses while we house hunted. And I talked myself out of it by telling myself that you were so mean, so angry at the world... and I just didn't have the energy to deal with it.
I've spent the last year thinking often of decision I made. You made it clear in your note that I had indeed hurt you. You made it clear that your decision to die was a decision you hoped would hurt me. Dad, my decision NOT to be self-less, but instead to be self-ish is a choice I'll regret for the rest of my life.
I'm so very sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I never made that call. I'm sorry I didn't humble myself but instead became more stubborn. From the perspective that I have now, my choice to not call is like a knife slicing through my heart. I'm sorry I didn't offer you a light- a hope when you needed it the most. I didn't mean to make you feel unwanted or unloved. You, even in your hard hearted ways... were dearly loved. Terribly wanted.
We loved your smile dad. I miss seeing your tattoos. We hated when you popped in for overnight visits unannouced, but we loved your company and your attempts to (sometimes) clean up your dirty lanuage in front of your sweet grandchildren. They miss hearing you fart at the dinner table, and I miss you being so thankful for all of my cooking. We miss your conversations of "bait" to try to get into an argument about the Bible. We miss you. The good parts, the annoying parts, the silly parts, and the weird parts.
Happy Birthday dad. We love you.
All my love,
Your daughter
Working to NOT regret, and holding onto this word from God: "The Lord says forget about what happened before. Do not think about the past. Instead look at the new thing I am going to do. Isaiah 43:18-19
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