Oh, Daaaaaaaaaaaaadddddd...
Hey, Dad. I can't believe it's almost Christmas again. Wow! Remember that one time we were so mad at the rest of the family that you, me, mom, Bob, Amy, Ron and Jerica had our own Christmas? You told mom that was the best Christmas you ever had. I can't even remember what we got each other for gifts, but I do remember a lot of good food and a lot of laughing.
Another Christmas is going to pass with us really far apart. Nebraska and Heaven aren't exactly next door, although some would argue that during a clear Nebraska Spring day. I've been missing you extra hard lately. I dreamed about you the other night. It wasn't a visit, though, up until the end. I dreamed that you bought my car from me because it had totally quit on me, and you were telling me to buy a new one. I was telling you I was mad at Ron and you were telling me to get over it. At the end, when we were sitting next to each other in a different car, I looked to you and said, "You have no idea how much I miss you." You put your arm around me and said, "We're not that far apart." What's that mean, Dad? Are you close to me, or am I close to you? Is it a little of both? I hope I'm not preventing you from enjoying Heaven by tethering you to this world with my sorrow and grief. Some Native American tribes believe that if a dead person is mourned too much, their spirit gets trapped here on earth. I don't believe that, because you've told me differently in my dreams. I just don't want you leaving the glory of Heaven to spirit around me all the time. I'd give up every second of it if it meant you were having to be pulled back down here. I am pretty sure that's not the case, though.
I've been in a state of panic/anxiety/sorrow/angst/tears for a couple of weeks now, and I just figured out why. The holidays are especially hard for me since you've been gone. And, others, too, but this is my blog and I want to throw my tantrum right here. I can remember the first Thanksgiving without you, a whole month after you were gone. I walked into Dave and Marilyn's house, saw Terri, and just broke down. I was tired of trying to be strong. Tired of trying to hold it all together for everyone. I can remember that Dan was on the phone from Africa, and he was talking to me, and I couldn't even utter a word. I was so sad. I, for some reason, never expected everything to come rushing back like that. I talked to Dan for about 5 seconds before the lump in my throat got too big, and I had to hand the phone back to Terri. I found out later that Dan was disappointed, because he really wanted to talk to me, but I just couldn't stop the gagging feeling. I'm the person who can't talk when they cry. My throat closes up completely. I remember Terri telling Dan that I just couldn't talk now. He understood. He was there for your funeral. He saw what a mess I was, even though I was trying to be strong.
I have decided, dad, that there are times where I just don't have to be strong. Today at work, I got a nosebleed from hell, and I went into the bathroom to exsanguinate. While I was in there, I just kind of leaned against the wall and thought of you. (I can hear you now: "Great, Kid. That's where I really want you to be thinking of me. In the can. With a bleedin' nose."). But, it was a weird moment and I almost felt you being there with me, with your EMT training. I was about in tears because truthfully, I couldn't get the blood to STOP, and I just felt like you were there telling me to calm down. Oddly enough, after 15 minutes, 3 boxes of Kleenex, and scaring 1/2 the people in my department, the nosebleed stopped about 1.5 minutes after I went into the bathroom and let you treat me. Thanks, Dad. I didn't know how much more I could have bled before I came to meet you in Glory.
When days get bad for me, like these days around Christmas get, I think of meeting you in Heaven when my time comes. I know from what you told me that Jesus will probably greet me when I die, but I know that he will let me see you, Dad. And, it may have been 50 years since you left here, but I will know you like I knew you before. It will seem as if no time has lapsed. That's the funny thing. I sit here, with tears streaming out of my already burning eyes, and I just think that SO MUCH freakin' time has passed since you died. It's been three years, but it seems like 300. I feel like I've had to go so long without you. God, nothing hurts like that. The pain is physical. I know you remember from when your parents died. You had the good fortune of having them around a lot longer than I had you around. Your mom was 86 when she died. That was 32 years from your age. I buried you both 10 years apart.
Someday, though, I will reunite with you, grandpa Charlie, Grandpa Roy and Grandma Edna and all those who will go before me. We will laugh, eat, talk, and do other stuff that people in Heaven do. God promises us our own room in the Kingdom of Heaven, and you all will be welcome in mine. I may have the music up too loud, and it may not be spotless, but it'll be my room.
Tell Jesus happy birthday on Christmas, dad. I love Him, and I love you. I'm so glad you read these posts because sometimes I just have to communicate with you this way. Sometimes I get mad at myself in my dreams because I make sure I tell you how much I miss you and I ask how Heaven is, but I never seem to remember to tell you all the things I can tell you in these posts. Thanks for helping stop my bleedin' nose. Every day I go on is a testament to your legacy. Every day I do good is a testament to your legacy. Every day is a testament to your legacy. Know I think about you all the time, and I will see you again someday.
I love you, Dad.
Me.
Another Christmas is going to pass with us really far apart. Nebraska and Heaven aren't exactly next door, although some would argue that during a clear Nebraska Spring day. I've been missing you extra hard lately. I dreamed about you the other night. It wasn't a visit, though, up until the end. I dreamed that you bought my car from me because it had totally quit on me, and you were telling me to buy a new one. I was telling you I was mad at Ron and you were telling me to get over it. At the end, when we were sitting next to each other in a different car, I looked to you and said, "You have no idea how much I miss you." You put your arm around me and said, "We're not that far apart." What's that mean, Dad? Are you close to me, or am I close to you? Is it a little of both? I hope I'm not preventing you from enjoying Heaven by tethering you to this world with my sorrow and grief. Some Native American tribes believe that if a dead person is mourned too much, their spirit gets trapped here on earth. I don't believe that, because you've told me differently in my dreams. I just don't want you leaving the glory of Heaven to spirit around me all the time. I'd give up every second of it if it meant you were having to be pulled back down here. I am pretty sure that's not the case, though.
I've been in a state of panic/anxiety/sorrow/angst/tears for a couple of weeks now, and I just figured out why. The holidays are especially hard for me since you've been gone. And, others, too, but this is my blog and I want to throw my tantrum right here. I can remember the first Thanksgiving without you, a whole month after you were gone. I walked into Dave and Marilyn's house, saw Terri, and just broke down. I was tired of trying to be strong. Tired of trying to hold it all together for everyone. I can remember that Dan was on the phone from Africa, and he was talking to me, and I couldn't even utter a word. I was so sad. I, for some reason, never expected everything to come rushing back like that. I talked to Dan for about 5 seconds before the lump in my throat got too big, and I had to hand the phone back to Terri. I found out later that Dan was disappointed, because he really wanted to talk to me, but I just couldn't stop the gagging feeling. I'm the person who can't talk when they cry. My throat closes up completely. I remember Terri telling Dan that I just couldn't talk now. He understood. He was there for your funeral. He saw what a mess I was, even though I was trying to be strong.
I have decided, dad, that there are times where I just don't have to be strong. Today at work, I got a nosebleed from hell, and I went into the bathroom to exsanguinate. While I was in there, I just kind of leaned against the wall and thought of you. (I can hear you now: "Great, Kid. That's where I really want you to be thinking of me. In the can. With a bleedin' nose."). But, it was a weird moment and I almost felt you being there with me, with your EMT training. I was about in tears because truthfully, I couldn't get the blood to STOP, and I just felt like you were there telling me to calm down. Oddly enough, after 15 minutes, 3 boxes of Kleenex, and scaring 1/2 the people in my department, the nosebleed stopped about 1.5 minutes after I went into the bathroom and let you treat me. Thanks, Dad. I didn't know how much more I could have bled before I came to meet you in Glory.
When days get bad for me, like these days around Christmas get, I think of meeting you in Heaven when my time comes. I know from what you told me that Jesus will probably greet me when I die, but I know that he will let me see you, Dad. And, it may have been 50 years since you left here, but I will know you like I knew you before. It will seem as if no time has lapsed. That's the funny thing. I sit here, with tears streaming out of my already burning eyes, and I just think that SO MUCH freakin' time has passed since you died. It's been three years, but it seems like 300. I feel like I've had to go so long without you. God, nothing hurts like that. The pain is physical. I know you remember from when your parents died. You had the good fortune of having them around a lot longer than I had you around. Your mom was 86 when she died. That was 32 years from your age. I buried you both 10 years apart.
Someday, though, I will reunite with you, grandpa Charlie, Grandpa Roy and Grandma Edna and all those who will go before me. We will laugh, eat, talk, and do other stuff that people in Heaven do. God promises us our own room in the Kingdom of Heaven, and you all will be welcome in mine. I may have the music up too loud, and it may not be spotless, but it'll be my room.
Tell Jesus happy birthday on Christmas, dad. I love Him, and I love you. I'm so glad you read these posts because sometimes I just have to communicate with you this way. Sometimes I get mad at myself in my dreams because I make sure I tell you how much I miss you and I ask how Heaven is, but I never seem to remember to tell you all the things I can tell you in these posts. Thanks for helping stop my bleedin' nose. Every day I go on is a testament to your legacy. Every day I do good is a testament to your legacy. Every day is a testament to your legacy. Know I think about you all the time, and I will see you again someday.
I love you, Dad.
Me.
posted by Nebraska Angie @ 8:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home