It's been hard to pick up these moodlings for the past month because I couldn't imagine how to write about my beloved dad, a man who preferred understatement. He didn't want a eulogy! But on the weekend, I met a friend who follows my moodlings and who didn't know that my dad had died. I realized that maybe there are a few other readers wondering about him, and that I shouldn't put it off any longer, even though I'll cry the whole time I write.
Just before midnight on June 16th, my dad's run to the finish line ended. The damage from a serious stroke on May 25th was more than his body could take, though he tried his best to make a comeback. No question, he "ran the good race." His sense of humour and his appreciation for his caregivers in IMCU Unit 41 never left him. We all spent time with him the day he died, and I am so grateful that I had the chance to tell him that I loved him, that everyone loved him, that afternoon. None of us expected him to cross the finish line that evening, so just two of us were with him.
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| Dad, just over a year ago |
It was raining when he died, and it didn't stop raining for two days. On the way from the hospital to Mom's after he left us, we decided to have a toast to Dad. And wouldn't you know it, he left me just enough of his last bottle of Glenlivet 14-year-old Scotch Whiskey to drink a toast to his face-to-face meeting with God.
The ten days between his death and his Celebration of Life (yes, it was definitely a celebration) were a whirlwind even though he did a lot of the legwork for us. He chose his own songs and readings, and wrote a brief memoir that helped us to compose an obituary (click here to read it). It's a eulogy that none of his three daughters would be able choke out, but his brother and sister did well in improving and delivering it.
People came from far and wide and everything came together really beautifully on June 26th. The sun even shone, though rain was forecast (with quite a thunderstorm that night). I'm full of gratitude for all who were present, and feel a lump in my throat whenever I think about the full church, the many hugs, and how those who gathered sang (with gusto) all the songs Dad had chosen for his send-off. "Trust in the Lord, you shall not tire..."
If you've been following these moodlings for a bit, you might remember that my word for 2026 is "wonder." And there has been an abundance of wonder in me since Dad's stroke, mostly at how people were with us so gently as we "walked our dad home." It's a list of wonders too long to moodle here, though it's all in my journal from the past month.
And there are many wonders before that, in so many memories:
Singing in the car together on long trips when we were kids, learning to hold the melody when Dad sang harmony, and finally asking him, "How do you do harmony like that, Dad?" "Try singing other notes and listen for the ones that sound good. You'll get it."
All the conversations while he drove us to and from activities. Working for him, our first boss, at Universal Church Supplies, and growing up surrounded by music, books, and other "churchy stuff." Enjoying family time with our big extended family, often with homemade music.
Frisbee, tennis, badminton. Bike rides. Ball games. His immediate forgiveness of my fiance when he slid into second and broke my dad's wrist. His welcome of my husband into a family that had been made up of him and four women. Singing with Dad's good tenor voice in our family music group.
Camping with Dad in Radium Hot Springs for many years running, us kids, and eventually his grandkids, all golfing together at Edgewater one summer. He welcomed everyone's friends, and had a way of making strangers feel seen and less strange, a way of sidling up to people to make them smile with a side-hug and his attention.
Covid's regular family video check-ins (now a habit that continues this long after the epidemic) with Dad cracking us all up with his often "unfiltered" observations about various things.
The confidence he placed in his kids as we learned and grew and found our way in the world, his willingness to help us out in so many different ways, his joy in our successes and his prayers in our times of struggle. His love and daily prayers for his grandkids.
But what probably stands out most for me is his love for Mom. I can't think of another marriage as good as theirs. Did they ever fight in their 60+ years together? I can't recall even once. Every time I was alone with Dad in hospital, he asked for her, and lit up when she walked in. The solidity of their relationship gave us all a good grounding in life and multiplied Dad's capacity to love, so that many people felt its ripple effects -- as evidenced by the crowd at his final celebration. The church was so full of the community he gathered around him, a holy thing.
There's much more I could write, but Dad would be embarrassed by this much. He preferred less fuss.
But Dad, I am so, so grateful for all that you were and for all the love you gave to those of us who love you, and other people besides. I am grateful to know that you're in the communion of saints, watching out for us and praying us home, to be with you one day. We will sing together again...
But until then, I will always love and miss you. And that's an understatement.
