The Card of guilt

Today is my dad's 3rd birthday since he left. I'm only counting because this day had monumental meaning on the day when I walked into his office after his death.
I woke up this morning choking back tears. It seems the heavens are weeping with me today as the sky is shrouded in dark, grey clouds. The heavy, wet drops continue never ending- just like they won't stop coming from my eyes. Yes, I think perhaps God weeps with me today.

My dad had carefully arranged things on his messy computer desk. Intentionally making sure all would see that letter scribbled in such anger and hopelessness. The will. The glasses. All taking up residence next to his mousepad and moniter... sitting silently until someone made the discovery of what he had done. Right on top of that stack of paper and clutter, lay the card.

 The smiling, happy birthday card written with love yet some reservation, by us, just the month before his angry last grip on that gun. My dad had been changed for months before his death. He had given up on life. He had pushed me away. I didn't understand it then, but now I do. People who take their own life sometimes unconsciously push their loved ones away in an effort to shield them from the pain of what lays ahead.
I had indeed pulled away from our relationship as a result. After trying to reason with him about his enraged look on life, I too had given up. He wasn't going to change. All I could do was slowly pull back and love him the best I knew how.

The birthday card was my last correspondence to him. It represented the last thing I got to say, and he had put it out for me to see. The kids and I had wrote blessing to him. Reminded him of our love, and how much we missed him. But that's all I did. I didn't call, a statement that my dad had made to his brother. I didn't ever call.

3 years later, the card.... no, the birthday,  has left me with my head hung low in guilt. Tears welling in my eyes, my heart aching. Why didn't I just make the stupid call?  Every year I'm left pondering over and over in my mind the would- have's and could- have's if I had just lowered my pride and called. Maybe if I had made more of an effort he would have understood that he was loved, cherished and needed. Maybe he would have thought twice before allowing that darkness to close in on his mind.

I'll never know. But today, I weep. God weeps. And I try to break free from the guilt card that still has it's hold on me.

No, dear brothers and sisters, I have not achieved it, but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us. Philippians 3:13-14

Happy Birthday Dad

                                               (Me and my Dad, many moons ago!)

Today marks your 60th birthday. I wish you were here to celebrate it. To be honest, when I first blinked my eyes open this morning, I had thoughts of buying a party hat. Putting it on your ashes (that still sit in my home-UGH!) and singing to you. Morbid and wrong I know- but don't judge! I just felt like I needed to somehow give you the honor I didn't give when you were alive.

Yesterday was a bad day. I was overcome by tears on more than one occasion brought on by the looming date of today.

I'm sure had you died any other way, this day would still be filled with sorrow and mourning. But today, for me, I also battle the gut wrenching guilt. It's something I believe.. no, I know, that every person ever touched by suicide in anyway, deals with. It's part of the nature of healing, of losing, and of loving.

Most of the last 2 years I have sought to be free from the guilt (and the shame) of being a child of a dad who didn't want to live. Today, as I've been bogged down, deeply pondering, it occurred to me that yes- guilt is bad. It's a stronghold of unforgiveness and unforgiveness toward anyone, even ourselves, turns to bitterness and anger in our hearts. It tears us apart. Makes us feel unworthy.

However, another thought I've been contemplating is that some feelings of "guilt" can lead us to change- and are therefor, good. "Church folk" like myself call this conviction. The guilt I've worked hard to shake these past two years has indeed been unrelenting. One day I think I've mastered it. I've repented to God for my rash and wrong behavior, and the next day- SWOOSH! I'm swept away once again in heartache, wishing I could turn back the time on this clock of life. the conviction comes from reading God's words to me. Recently, God has been using 1 Peter to talk to me. In it, Peter talks a lot about what is expected of one who follows Jesus, and if I am to take an honest assessment of my life before my father's suicide, I see that I fell short in loving him as I should have.

While I'm determined to live in self-forgiveness (as I know God already worked a miracle for me on that cross so I don't have to pay a debt for my behavior and sin), I'm equally as determined to live in a new light of love.
I can't turn back the clock on what happened to my dad the day he decided to take his life. I can't be responsible for his decision, but I can move forward in my own life paying much more attention to the wounded and hurting people I meet on a daily basis. I can make enough leeway in my life to help those people who are desperate and troubled. I can bring relief and hope to someone who may really need it today. I can refuse to turn away from the suffering and I can bring encouragement instead.

So... what will I do today? Smile at the grouchy lady or man at the store? Say a kind word to the cashier who is slow and seems angry? Take a meal to someone who is sick? Get involved in an outreach to the homeless? Volunteer to watch the kids for a mommy stuck at home? Take food to people who are stuck at home and need a friend like Meals on Wheels? Choose to keep my mouth closed when I am angry or have been wronged?

Whatever it is, I just pray that everyday, I'll live it to make an impact, to love, and perhaps save a life.

Happy 60th Birthday Dad. 

 ^"Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing." 1 Peter 3:8-9

God heals using time

 (My dad, a cousin, me, my grandma, my dad's bother, my dad's dad, and my dad's sister and her husband enjoying my grandfather's home in the mountains of Utah 1970's )

It's been a while since I last posted on this blog. My dad has now been gone for 1 1/2 yrs. Sometimes, it seems like a lifetime ago, and other days the grief creeps up on me as if it were yesterday.

Memories aren't fading, and we are working to keep a legacy alive of grandpa in our home. I desire my kids to have reflection on their grandpa for more than how he died... but unfortunately, that is legacy he left on our family... and was has been burned into our hearts and our minds.

It's impossible for anyone to talk or reminisce about him without having his suicide come into the mind and the conversation- got to love kid's unedited words!

There's a new movie out, and I'm not going to lie, it's a little bit of a B film but the message it proclaims loud and clear is that we DO leave a legacy on our children and our children's children- for generations, be it good or bad.
Recently, because of the film and study, I've had to reflect on the legacy that was left to me. It's something that I can't ignore, or pretend it hasn't impacted us. Clearly, it has.

My dad left a legacy much like that of his father before him. My grandpa was grumpy. He had a hard time showing his love. He often allowed his mouth to say thins that would cut to the heart.

My dad never liked those attributes in his own father, and he worked as hard as he could to be a better dad to me than what his dad was to him. However, much of that unflattering legacy was still imparted in his parenting. My grandpa and father also left some positive legacy's. My dad was passionate. Whatever he did he did with gusto. He was stubborn. Coming out in me that can be both good and bad :)  He was a hard worker. And he loved what he did.

I'm thankful that God has started anew with me, and although I am not a perfect parent by any means, I know God has broken several unhealthy cycles in my family. (And I'm a work still in progress- He's busily wiping away, gently polishing me like a piece of old brass.)

His suicide left a dent. That's true. In all of us. My kids know the pain it has caused, and like to use that to hurt. The phrase "Maybe I'll just kill myself" slips from tiny tongues in an effort to cut to the bone... and it works. I'd lie if I said I wasn't afraid of my dad's life (and therein his death) to influence our lives without allowing it to dictate.

I know that if I allow God to, He will leave a legacy bigger and better than anything I can imagine on my children, and my grandchildren.


 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.  For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers,  nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:37-39

The hug

(My paternal grandmother, me, my uncle, and my father at Disneyland- my dad used to live right next door!)

I've been pretty exhausted lately. I don't know why but my energy seems sapped! As I nestled down into my soft pillow last night I was asleep almost before my head hit my bed.

What happened next I will never forget. I dreamed I was running with my family through an airport. (Something we have seen a lot of lately due to a mission trip we took to the islands of Trinidad and Tobago.) We were bogged down with what seemed to be hundred of suitcases- and we were about to miss our flight.

As we struggled to pull, lift, and carry all of our bags, I felt the rush of urgency that we needed to go- NOW! Right before we came to the security area, there was a door to walk through. We thought it strange, but bolted through it anyway... and then stopped dead in our tracks. I slowly looked around. We were standing in a small room painted with a light blue color. Big black overstuffed couches filled the room. It was my dad's house! We were all very confused, but decided we still had a lot to do to clean up his home and move him out so we all began going through his things.
A heavy, husky voice startled us-"What are doing with my stuff?" I turned to see my dad. I stood in shock and tears began streaming down my face as he came over and gave me a big hug. The hug I've been desiring since the minute I realized he was dead. This hug felt so real! His arms, all covered in tattoos where strong and warm. As he embraced me I asked how this could be, since he had killed himself. He said he was sorry and must have been high.
(That didn't answer my question since I wanted to know how he was alive!)
Before I knew it the loving moment was over and I had to say goodbye as we were going to miss our flight.
For me, saying that goodbye was as painful as it had been 1 year and 2 months ago. My kids and hubby also gave kisses as the urgency of missing our plane ensued.... and off we went hustling again.

In that moment I was roused from my dream, out of breath, and my face, cheeks and pillow soaked by my tears. I had not had a dream about my dad in at least 8 months, and all of them that preceded this one were more like nightmares about his death or last minutes of life.

As a Bible believing Christian I don't believe in ghosts, but I do believe God works in mysterious ways and I can't help but wonder if God allowed me this dream, last glimpse of my father as flesh and bone, in order to give me the desire of my heart. The one last hug, and glimpse of his arms that I have longed for since his death. This dream was so real it literally took my breath away!

One final note. As a Christian who puts my life solely in the Bible, I believe it from cover to cover- without error, written by the authors who were flesh and bone yet directed by the Holy Spirit. Since I believe every word in the book is true I believe that unless you are born again, you will not enter into heaven.
John 3:3 "No one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again."-Jesus Romans 10:9 If you declare with your mouth Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
I have struggled since my dad's death not knowing if he had claimed the saving grace of Jesus since his life showed no sign of a man free from his bondage of sin. He read his bible a lot, and loved to argue about Jesus... but had he given his life, all that he was, to Christ? I have only hoped that before he made the choice to end his own life, he made peace with his maker, since he had the luxury that many of us don't have: he knew in moments he would be standing before the throne of our Creator.

For me this dream gave me hope. Hope that my dad is perhaps enjoying eternity in the presence of God and Jesus, dancing in a new body. It gave me contentment, since I have now once again seen my father's arms and had them hold me in a big warm hug. And it gave me thankfulness, that I have a God who cares enough about me to give me the desires of my heart- even if it is just a hug in an abstract dream!

Father's Day minus you

Today is the first Father's Day without you. It's weird not having you to E-mail, to talk to, or to send a card to.

When I woke up this morning, one thing was stuck in my head: That first moment I walked into your home after your death. You had purposely left several things on your desk before you walked out onto the porch to end your life... only 3 days after Father's Day. One of the things that I found (and the police left) was our Father's Day card to you. I've agonized over your last moves for nearly a year now, and this card has remained a mystery that is seeded in the depths of my heart... I wish I knew what your purpose was for leaving it.

Your grandkids had written endearing notes and drawn amazing pictures (I'm a bit partial of course), and I had poured out my heart and my profound love for you in it. I hope that you read it and allowed it to sink into your heart. I can only wonder if you had it out there as a reminder of how much you were leaving behind?

Since it has been nearly a year since that dreadful day, I decided that I've dawdled long enough and it was time to go through your things. Your life (or what's left of it) has been encased in cardboard sitting on the shelves of my basement. I really had to push myself to pull the first box down and set it on the floor. Everything in me wanted to push pause, to rewind, to put the cardboard back on the shelf and leave it for another day. My heart wanted to put it back, but my mind knew I needed to push on.

As I peeled back the first 2 pieces of the box, I got a whiff of a familiar smell that literally knocked me to my knees and left me sobbing. The smell was you. One of a kind, and followed you everywhere. A mixture of pungent leather, sweat, tobacco and grease from your motorcycles. This box was filled with it, with you. Nearly 1/2 hr of deep weeping passed before I decided I could go on, and slowly I began lifting my memories out one by one. The old metal cigarette sign you hung in your living room and called "art". The sleeveless jean vest that you had worn since before I was born and never washed.... so fragile now. The bag of leathers from your long explorations across the country on your 2 wheeled friend, Harley.

It didn't take me long to realize once again that this stuff is all I have left of you, and I simply can't let it go yet, as I feel like to do so would be to let go of you.

One at a time the kids heard the deep breaths and "silent" sobs and came to join me by the box. I enjoyed the comforting hugs they gave and assured them I was Ok despite the running nose and tears that stained my face. The kids mentioned how it smelled just like you and we went through your things together for a while. They each picked out a few things they would like to use. Sabian grabbed out your favorite ball cap. So sweat stained and gross, yet dare we wash it?

They found a cool temporary tattoo (and we all had a good laugh as we presented our theory for why you had the need for one of these in the first place?!) One was already used from the pack, so we decided it made sense that you probably stuck it to your forehead as a joke to your friends.

At the end of the day, I piled most your things back into the box, slowly took one more deep breath as I inhaled the smells and memory of you, closed the lid and carefully placed this box back onto the shelf.

Dad, I wish that you were here today to share our lives with us. I wish I didn't have to obsess over your things, and read your letters to me looking for answers. I wish last Father's Day you had allowed our love to penetrate your heart. I wish that you hadn't pulled that trigger. But you did, so we are learning to live with joy again, to smile at our memories instead of cry, and to appreciate those who are in our lives today since we never know if there will be a tomorrow.

My day today was made fantastic through a phone call to my other dad. Never have I appreciated being able to call and talk to him more!

Let love be genuine. Abor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Romans 12:9-10

Happy Birthday dad

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

Nearly 9 months

I'm not going to lie. The last 9 months have been some of the hardest I've ever had to face. (And if you know my life, that's saying a lot!)
First off, my dad is sitting in my closet. Seriously. I just don't know what to do with his remains, and I can't quite let go of him. The closet has always been the place I go in troubled times, to seek peace, tranquility, and catch my thoughts when they are zooming past faster than on a Nascar track. Now my dad sits there. In a black square case. I go in often, crying, yelling, hoping he can hear me, perhaps see my broken heart?
I used to think it was my precious time with God. Now it's my time with God..... and my dad. which is weird. Can he see me? Does he know or even care about the pain he has caused?

The last 9 months have been, of course, littered with thoughts of my dad. I wish I could talk to him about such and such. Why did he have to be so mean about that? How proud he would be about his grandchildren just now.

The regrets threaten to swallow the peace I have. The ashes threaten to ruin my alone time with God. I can only hope that one day soon, I'll feel like I can indeed let my dad go. Until then I hold on to the ashes that are so very dear. He never chose to say goodbye.........