Abrieanna has another migraine tonight. Second one in a row. It seems like our family is plagued with them. All three of my children get them. I’ve had a headache every day for nearly fifteen years, and migraines frequently all my life. Many on my father’s side of the family have migraines as well; including my father.
I remember the pain gripping him so violently that the only relief he would find would be the utter darkness of his bedroom. He’d come out the next day with broken blood vessels in his face from vomiting so forcefully.
Last night, then again tonight, I rubbed Abrieanna’s temples and head, brushed her hair back with my hand, then pressed an icepack to her forehead… all the while whispering to her, telling her not to cry… knowing that the tears will come, but knowing that it hurts even more when they do.
As I sat there, I prayed for her; asking God to take the pain away; to break this family curse; to have him transfer that pain to me. It’s a horrible feeling to see your little one writhe in pain, crying your name, telling you that it hurts… and there’s not one thing you can do about it. It sucks.
I remember my dad telling me one time when I was a kid, after I had a seizure, “If I could take your pain, I would.” Well, now I know how he felt.
It seems since he died, a million stories, quips, memories or lessons have popped into my head. I know I’ve said it a million times, but he really was a great dad.
I just miss him. Even though we knew his death was imminent, we all knew it was coming and thought we were prepared, none of us really were.
The strong man who swung me in the air and flung me to his shoulders when I was little, and the even stronger man who crumbled to his knees in prayer is no longer here. I know it sounds silly, but if I could talk or write about him, then he was still alive. I knew I could still go and visit him. I could go and wrap my hand around his small, boney one and kiss his pale, freckled head. He was still here.
So now all these memories flood up. Like, a couple weeks ago I was putting on a pair of new strappy heels. The buckle needed to be adjusted and as I was doing that a memory popped in.
I was suddenly five and just came home with the family from shopping at Maxwell Street Days in Cambridge. Darla and I got our new Buster Brown shoes for school. I had these rust colored ones and the buckle needed adjustment. The strap needed a new hole so Dad took an awl and made a new one for my awesome rust shoes.
Why that’s significant? I don’t know. But it made me cry.
Or when I was watching a commercial for a denture cream and it made me think of the time when my dad sneezed in the van while he was driving when I was a teenager and his upper plate flew out of his mouth, hit the steering wheel, ricocheted off the dash and into the well of the door. It was seriously the funniest thing I had seen up to that point in my life. I was doubled over in laughter and as he awkwardly fished his teeth out of the well AND PUT THEM BACK IN HIS MOUTH he gummed, “it’s really not that funny.” Um, yeah it was.
Or when I was coming home from work, I grabbed a tube of lipstick out of my purse and dragged it across my lips. I heard my dad’s voice echo in my ear, “you’re beautiful the way you are. Lipstick only cheapens a woman.”
Or him showing me the engine of the van and how dirty it was. Then showing me the engine of Rich’s suburban and how clean it was. “I can’t get over how clean he keeps his vehicle. He’s a good man, Becka.”
I saw a pile of flip flops on the floor and it made me think of camp at Spencer Lake when I was a kid. We had to wear them in the shower at camp.
Or when Fruit Roll-ups had just come out. Dad took one out of the cabin and was heading out toward the tabernacle. He kept chewing and chewing. And chewing and chewing. Here he had opened the package and put the whole thing in his mouth and didn’t take the cellophane off. It had all his denture imprints on it though!
The kids are on a mission’s trip this week. I was thinking back to when I was on tour; I was a little older than Micayla and was so very homesick. I called home and Dad answered the phone. After many tears on both sides he said, “when you hang up, go outside and look at the moon and know that I’ll be looking at the same moon with you.” Makes me a little misty even now…
Dad has made me a better mother. I think of the lessons that he taught us: to pray above all else. To trust in the Lord….whatever His choice may bring… no matter what. To remember that God is faithful. God will provide.
I remember mom and dad praying over the washing machine because they didn’t have the money to buy another one or fix it. And it worked. God provided.
And the music… oh the music. We were watching a stupid tv show and this guy strummed an old steel guitar and BOOM, I was a little girl again. I can so vividly see my dad strumming his electric guitar in the “good” living room at home. You know… everyone had a room in their house that was reserved for pastors, out of town guests and social workers. Wait. Is everyone’s mom and dad foster parents?
Oh the hugs! He’d crush you in a bear hug. With the little ones, he’d shake them like a paint shaker at Home Depot. You’d have to check to see if you had any teeth left after that. It’s funny, because I guess I’ve been shaking up the little ones with my hugs. I didn’t realize I was doing it as much until little Ellie said, “shake me, Aunt Becka, shake me.” So I guess I’ll be passing that legacy on.
My father never graduated from high school, may not have had the highest education that we have today, but he was the smartest man I know. The wisest.
Throughout Dad’s sickness people have come up to me and asked about him. They inevitably tilted their heads to the side, got a twinkle in their eye and said, “You know Ivan...” and had a great story to tell. Every time.
There’s a song by Ray Boltz called Thank You. Part of the lyrics are:
One by one they came
Far as the eye could see.
Each life somehow touched
By your generosity.
Little things that you had done,
Sacrifices made,
Unnoticed on the earth
In heaven, now proclaimed.
And I know up in heaven
You're not supposed to cry
But I am almost sure
There were tears in your eyes.
As Jesus took your hand
And you stood before the Lord.
He said, "My child, look around you.
Great is your reward."
I had the privilege of being there the moment my dad took his last breath. My mom, one of my sisters, Sally, and I sang “I Will Enter His Gates With Thanksgiving In My Heart...” and “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.” It was a precious moment to see dad slip so peacefully into eternity.
After a few moments, with Sally on one side and I on another we started to think of what Dad was doing at that exact moment. Sally said, “I imagine him throwing his head back and laughing. Running his hand over his hair.” I said, “He can remember. He remembers that He loves the Lord with all his heart. Imagine what he sees.”
A couple of days before he died he looked me right in the eye. I remember singing "It Is Well."
Now picture this: my dad hasn't spoken. Can't talk. Hasn't eaten or drank anything for days. Just looks me in the eye with that bright blue eye of his... k. Got it? So I'm singing "It Is Well." I get to the chorus: "It is well..." Then it has the little harmony part "it is well" And he mouths it!! I come UNDONE! But I keep going.
Me: "with my soul."
Dad: "with my soul."
Together: "It is well, it is well, with my soul."
Oh. my. goodness. I sobbed and snotted all over the place. There was no noise. No sound. He just mouthed it. Meanwhile, the whole time during this chorus, my arms are going like pinwheels trying to get my mother's attention to see it. It was such a miracle to me.
The Bible says the Lord will never leave us or forsake us. To the outside world looking in, dad’s body and mind had died a long time ago... but the Holy Spirit was still holding on. He never left him.
All of my life, dad was a man of integrity, a man of great honor and trust. A man who put others first, who literally took the coat off his back and gave to others (literally happened), gave till his wallet was empty, (many times), taught me everything I know about the Lord... and continued to do so even after he was sick. Yes, I think it’s safe to say that after the very long line of people that are waiting in heaven to greet dad and thank him for having an impact on his life, the Lord is going to come up to him, wrap him in a hug, shake him till his teeth shake too, then hold him back out, look Dad directly in the eye and say, “Well done, son. You did good.”
