My Dad died. One year ago. 365 days if we're keeping track. If a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like a day in heaven, he's spent just a few seconds there. Yet I've missed him every second of this last year.
It seems like I've said, "man, I miss my Dad" or "I wish my dad was here" more times than I can count. Although I wouldn't want him back here the way he was.
Dad died on a Sunday and I spent the night the Friday night before at my mother's. Everyone had gone to bed. My mom had fallen asleep in her chair. The house was quiet, save the oxygen machine for my Dad.
I pulled a recliner as close as I could to Dad's bed. I tried to monkey with the settings of his bed to make the levels even with the recliner and at the same time, not wake my Mother up. I laid in the recliner, pulled a pillow close to him and held his hand; my thumb skimming the back of his hand. My mind catching the irony of how our roles had reversed. Every once in awhile I'd check his chest to make sure he was breathing.
I hummed old hymns that we use to sing together, I whispered stories about my kids, tears spilling down my cheeks, into my ears and onto my pillow. I told him about my relationship with the Lord, my hopes, my dreams, my fears.... just as if he could respond. Then I hummed some more. I rubbed his arm and my eye caught his tattoo. It sagged across his upper arm. It was a picture of a bulldog with U.S.M.C. underneath. He was always ashamed of it while I was growing up. Always covering it up; trying to hide it. He said he had gotten it while he was drunk when he was in the Marines, before he knew the Lord. However, I didn't know that when I was a child. All I saw was, well, blue mush that sort of looked like a dog with letters underneath. I told my friends at school that my dad had a tattoo of his dog that died named Usmc.
However that night, that tattoo represented that my dad was once a man. A strong man. One that proudly served in the United States Marine Corp. Who lied about his age just so he could serve his country. I didn't see any shame in that tattoo, I saw honor. I saw valor. I saw a glimpse of who my dad use to be.
He wasn't an old man that was reduced to a shriveled skeleton with skin on...a mere 70 pounds. He was Ivan Gerald Christianson. My father. Bigger than the world. Who could do anything, was afraid of nothing and could love everyone.
I turned 39 last Friday. It was profound to me because that's the age Dad was when he had me. It made me think of how in the end our roles had reversed. I had wiped his eyes clean. Helped carry him. Helped change and bathe him... brush his hair, put his shirt on. How many countless times did he do that for me? Most dad's in the early 70's were "hands off", but my dad was in the delivery room, and took care of me just like a little mama. I remember sitting on his lap in church, playing with his silk tie, sucking my finger and just feeling...safe. I wonder if dad felt that way when I held his hand that last Friday stroking his hand. Did he feel safe? I remember being afraid after a bad dream and wandering out of my bed seeking comfort from my mom and dad in their room. Before I could reach it, I saw the back of my Dad in the living room strumming his guitar and humming old choruses and hymns. It soothed my heart and brought me comfort. I went back to bed without anyone knowing. I wonder if that Friday while I was humming those old choruses did it soothe his heart and bring comfort?
I rememeber coming back from my voice and piano lessons in Madison with Dad and he was sharing some of his ideas and dreams for Special Kids N Us (mom and dad's ministry). He got all excited and sped up on the Interstate. It made me feel special that he would share such intimate thoughts and dreams with me. I wonder if Dad felt special when I shared with him about my children, my hopes and dreams, my fears and doubts? Or if he heard me at all?
But that's the thing about my Dad, just when you think he's not listening, he squeezes your hand, or winks at you or tells your story to someone else. The last day of Dad's life he sang with me. Not with his voice, but he mouthed it. He was listening the Friday before... that was one of my hopes. I prayed for that.
He accomplished much in his life. He had a long, loving marriage, 16 kids, a ministry to special needs children, 100+ foster children.... yet his greatest accomplishment was his relationship with the Lord. That's his legacy. That's what he wanted to pass down to every one of his children. Not money. Not possessions, not heartache...but a true knowledge of Christ. Everyone needs to work out their own Salvation. I know that. But Dad pointed us in the right direction. He was the compass that pointed us to Christ. That was his gift to us. I pray I can be the kind of parent that he was to me.
I'm so proud to be his daughter.
I miss you, Dad.
It seems like I've said, "man, I miss my Dad" or "I wish my dad was here" more times than I can count. Although I wouldn't want him back here the way he was.
Dad died on a Sunday and I spent the night the Friday night before at my mother's. Everyone had gone to bed. My mom had fallen asleep in her chair. The house was quiet, save the oxygen machine for my Dad.
I pulled a recliner as close as I could to Dad's bed. I tried to monkey with the settings of his bed to make the levels even with the recliner and at the same time, not wake my Mother up. I laid in the recliner, pulled a pillow close to him and held his hand; my thumb skimming the back of his hand. My mind catching the irony of how our roles had reversed. Every once in awhile I'd check his chest to make sure he was breathing.
I hummed old hymns that we use to sing together, I whispered stories about my kids, tears spilling down my cheeks, into my ears and onto my pillow. I told him about my relationship with the Lord, my hopes, my dreams, my fears.... just as if he could respond. Then I hummed some more. I rubbed his arm and my eye caught his tattoo. It sagged across his upper arm. It was a picture of a bulldog with U.S.M.C. underneath. He was always ashamed of it while I was growing up. Always covering it up; trying to hide it. He said he had gotten it while he was drunk when he was in the Marines, before he knew the Lord. However, I didn't know that when I was a child. All I saw was, well, blue mush that sort of looked like a dog with letters underneath. I told my friends at school that my dad had a tattoo of his dog that died named Usmc.
 |
| The only photo I have of his tattoo |
However that night, that tattoo represented that my dad was once a man. A strong man. One that proudly served in the United States Marine Corp. Who lied about his age just so he could serve his country. I didn't see any shame in that tattoo, I saw honor. I saw valor. I saw a glimpse of who my dad use to be.
 |
| Love a man in uniform =) |
He wasn't an old man that was reduced to a shriveled skeleton with skin on...a mere 70 pounds. He was Ivan Gerald Christianson. My father. Bigger than the world. Who could do anything, was afraid of nothing and could love everyone.
I turned 39 last Friday. It was profound to me because that's the age Dad was when he had me. It made me think of how in the end our roles had reversed. I had wiped his eyes clean. Helped carry him. Helped change and bathe him... brush his hair, put his shirt on. How many countless times did he do that for me? Most dad's in the early 70's were "hands off", but my dad was in the delivery room, and took care of me just like a little mama. I remember sitting on his lap in church, playing with his silk tie, sucking my finger and just feeling...safe. I wonder if dad felt that way when I held his hand that last Friday stroking his hand. Did he feel safe? I remember being afraid after a bad dream and wandering out of my bed seeking comfort from my mom and dad in their room. Before I could reach it, I saw the back of my Dad in the living room strumming his guitar and humming old choruses and hymns. It soothed my heart and brought me comfort. I went back to bed without anyone knowing. I wonder if that Friday while I was humming those old choruses did it soothe his heart and bring comfort?
I rememeber coming back from my voice and piano lessons in Madison with Dad and he was sharing some of his ideas and dreams for Special Kids N Us (mom and dad's ministry). He got all excited and sped up on the Interstate. It made me feel special that he would share such intimate thoughts and dreams with me. I wonder if Dad felt special when I shared with him about my children, my hopes and dreams, my fears and doubts? Or if he heard me at all?
But that's the thing about my Dad, just when you think he's not listening, he squeezes your hand, or winks at you or tells your story to someone else. The last day of Dad's life he sang with me. Not with his voice, but he mouthed it. He was listening the Friday before... that was one of my hopes. I prayed for that.
He accomplished much in his life. He had a long, loving marriage, 16 kids, a ministry to special needs children, 100+ foster children.... yet his greatest accomplishment was his relationship with the Lord. That's his legacy. That's what he wanted to pass down to every one of his children. Not money. Not possessions, not heartache...but a true knowledge of Christ. Everyone needs to work out their own Salvation. I know that. But Dad pointed us in the right direction. He was the compass that pointed us to Christ. That was his gift to us. I pray I can be the kind of parent that he was to me.
I'm so proud to be his daughter.
I miss you, Dad.
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