I introduced him to everybody because I wanted everybody to know him. Never once in my life did I wonder how Dad would treat someone I introduced him to.
Like his family.
I always knew that's how he'd treat them.
I watched Dad take men addicted to drugs out to eat and treat them like sons. I saw Dad show women working in prostitution the pure love of a father. I listened to him joke with Muslim men. Amongst people who live in trash in the Philippines, Dad scooped kids up in his arms and made them laugh. No matter who Dad was with, he was loving them.
He once summed up his life advice in two words; "Love much."
There's an obvious lack of good dads in the world. So Dad did what he could to love as many people with good dad-love as possible.
A missionary Dad loved in Thailand writes, “He loved my family well, let my kids call him Grandpa Randy, sent gifts to my children, sat at our dinner table and told great stories. He was the perfect example of the love of God: humble, kind, gentle, and abounding in love...The loss of your dad is felt around the world.”
A friend who spent a summer at our house in junior high remembers the clothes Dad bought her, the love she felt from him as he treated her as his own.
A lady from Uganda who Dad helped move into a new home on a hot sweaty day; “Can't just forget that day. We were very tired but Dad was always making us not feel it. Jokes were his nature. RIP Dad."
He made people feel seen, important, loved.
For the three of us lucky enough to be raised by him, we never once wondered if he loved us. He made it clear every day.
A week before my wedding, Dad asked, “What if I don’t want to give you away?” He was joking, sort of, and after a discussion, he decided it was best if he let Dylan have me.
When he walked me down the aisle, he escorted me with his left hand, while with his right, he held my hand that was tucked into his arm.
That’s a good picture of how he made me feel all the time.
Held. Protected. Safe.
He took me scuba diving in the Philippines, on a father-daughter vacation to Mexico, he made multiple trips around the world to visit me in Hong Kong and India, and he stayed by my bed while I recovered from a brain injury in Thailand.
The big adventures with Dad were gifts God gave me, but so were the normal everyday days.
The handholding, the coffee dates, the pulling out my phone to jot down the clever funny thing that had just come out of his mouth so I could share it with my brother and sisters. The everyday is what I miss the most.
Dad was an everyday wonder. In a simple but most wonderful way, he made every day better. Consistently, day after day, calling his daughters, taking his family to the movies, chasing his grandkids through the house while yelling in a deep very non-scary monster voice then tackling them in a tickle fit, the early morning notes scribbled on paper plates left for us on the kitchen counter saying things like this one I recently found, "I'm going to get my oil changed. Love love love you!", the sincere and constant interest he showed in us, the recent cute thing a grandkid had said that he'd replay in his mind on repeat, talking about it with all of us several times; I feel wonder at having been given such a Dad.
Every year on his birthday, we’d read his birthday Psalm together. His last, birthday number 63, we read Psalm 63 while we drank coffee.
His relationship with my mom.
He appreciated the stars.
And American history.
And architecture.
And every word that came out of his grandkids’ mouths.
He was so good at conversation. His word choices were creative and descriptive and entertaining. I often looked forward to what he’d say next.
I drug branches to Dad’s backdoor from all over the earth and asked him to make earrings out of the wood. He always did. I then handed them out to friends all over the earth.
He never met most of the people he made earrings for. Ladies in Uganda, Thailand, South Africa, China are wearing earrings made by Dad. One such earring receiver in LA, “It just seemed like he had no prejudices. Like he loved everyone.”
My kids won’t meet my Dad.
That’s one of my saddest thoughts.
He was thrilled that I’d moved back to my hometown a few months ago, 6 miles down the road from him. He talked about it often. And man, he was going to be real thrilled when I started having him some grandkids that he could hold every day.
I'm discovering I'm no grief expert. "How are you doing?" gets answered by me muttering something about being sad and I'm usually crying by the time the sentence is over. So. I'm not sure how I'm doing. But I'm together with the rest of my crying family and we're loving each other and eating a lot of food. And I keep asking God to show us what Heaven's like. And to help us think about Heaven all the time.
My Grandma Nita made it to Heaven last week, too. And she was also a rare and wonderful human being. I'm guessing she's hanging out with Dad and they're probably discussing how they somehow managed to enter Heaven within 27 hours of each other and asking God to help all our hearts recover.
Forever.
We're here for a forever rendezvous with our Maker. Dad's rendezvous has begun. So has my Grandma's. It's my best thought these grieving days, and the other non-grieving days; God wants forever with us. That's why we're alive.
Thankful Dad did such a grand job living his life.
Thankful he did such a grand job showing me, and many others, what God is like.
I hope you have a very merry Christmas, think often and true thoughts about Heaven, remember that life is short, squeeze your family often, and know God became a Baby so we could be with Him forever.
“What are we doing today? Should I just wear this? So people can see me?” (as he posed in a neon shirt)
“They say you can smell better when you’re pregnant. Couldn’t prove it with me. But that’s what they say.”
“When I was in school, the Cold War was going on. So we had drills for a nuclear attack. Get under your desk. Like that’s gonna help."
“Minks will chew your face off. I ain’t kiddin' ya.”
“It’s tasty. Really tasty. They make this stuff to taste, to really taste." (at Wendy’s)
“It’s something I really look forward to” as he dipped his honey out into his coffee
"Thanks for calling and telling me things."