Farewell, Dad

First of all, I just want to say how amazing I think it is that we all were able to be 100% honest about my Dad and his impact on the world at his funeral. None of what was said was a stretch of the truth because he was just that great of a man, and he truly did shine God’s light everywhere he went. He, like all other humans, wasn’t perfect, but I’m trying to think of anybody he might’ve had a negative impact on, and I really can’t think of one from what I saw of him and his interactions.

I have so many special, unique stories I could share as his son, and I just might share more if I feel led to, but I’ll start with one really special one. When I was diagnosed with Friedreich’s Ataxia at age 16, my parents looked it up and knew what it was before I did. I was completely clueless when my parents called me in the room with gloomy eyes and told me about the disease that would take over my body in the coming years.

It made so much sense- it explained everything I was feeling. At the same time, it was exactly what I didn’t want to hear. I was devastated, terrified, anxious, lost. I had no words to say, only tears, which is really odd for me. From that night on, I have felt like a dry well. I just don’t cry. I get sad, yes; a lot, but I just stay quiet and keep the sadness inside. In fact, that’s what I’ve done most of this week. I cried my eyes out in our hotel room the night he passed, similar to the night of my diagnosis, but right now I can’t find tears. It doesn’t mean I’m not grieving or I’m not sad. Maybe something inside me broke that night that I found out about FA. 

I’ve only cried one time that I can remember in between those times: when my dad played a song in the car that he wrote for me called “Sing For You.” I don’t know quite why, but the song was not something I was ready for, and it hit me in the heart. I knew he loved me, and he was my biggest supporter, but to hear it put into song- I just couldn’t handle it. I don’t know how my Dad took it, but I hope he knows I loved the song. Even though I didn’t deserve that kind of love and support: he was always there to give it, and I think all my tears really meant were “thank you Dad. I love you, too.”

I will never have to wonder if my Dad loved me. Here is a grand example of why. Back to the night of my diagnosis report: while I went quiet as my parents explained my diagnosis, my Dad knew exactly what to say. 

“If I could take it all from you and take it on myself, I would,” he said with teary eyes. I knew he meant it; that was no empty statement to fill the silence. He is one of the very few people on earth I would fully believe after saying such a thing. He would do anything for me, and that includes wearing an Auburn hat to Jordan-Hare Stadium, as my mom pointed out. If that doesn’t show you Christ, I genuinely don’t know what will. 

As time moves on without my Dad here with us, times will undoubtedly get tough. I’m sure my tears will make a reappearance sometime. I will be missing him a whole lot either way. 

I love my mom. I love my sister. I love my brother. No one was ready for this in any way, and I don’t know how to make that better. His memory is never leaving. My prayer is that I can figure out how to be there for our family half as well as he did. 

I just realized I need a new proofreader for my writings, so I guess I’m hiring. But I know he would encourage me to share this, so here goes nothing.