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The writing assignment I never hoped for—my dad’s eulogy.

I set aside being a writer, speaker, blogger and trying to impress anybody and simply wrote from my daughter’s heart. And, yes…I was intentional to keep my words in present tense–because he is still  very much alive to me.

Much of what I will write these days will flow from a daughter’s heart. I hope in some way my journey will intersect with yours and draw you close to the One who eternally calls you son or daughter. 

I felt the best way to ease back into blogging the journey was to post what I shared at my Dad’s memorial service.

Thank you for reading.

For days I thought about what I could possibly say to bring honor to Dad in these moments. I suppose I could tell you lots of information… [but] I wanted to share more than just the info of Dad’s life. I hoped for words—eloquent and profound words—to express what Dad meant to me.

But really all I could come up with is this:

I love being his daughter.

I love the way he has his own special name for me: LA and Toons.

I love his phone calls, and text messages that always end in:

“ I love you LA”

I love that if he hung up without saying I love you—he’d call back.

I love the way he plays with my boys and banters with my husband.

I love that he will complain about Facebook, but end up clicking “like” when I have posted a photo of him and me.

I love how he makes me feel special—always.

I love how he understands the importance of the environment while watching a movie. The room must be dark, volume turned up loud and lots of hot popcorn to last.

I love hearing the same Navy stories over and over again.

I love how he is okay to sit in the silence and just be together. No words necessary.

I love that for a season he and I both understood the importance of visiting Starbucks everyday.

I love the way he pats me on the head as he passes by and says, “How ya’ doin’ LA”

I love the way his eyes twinkle when he greets my boys with bags of coins and bubble gum balls.

I love, yes love, his advice on financial security—because he’s always right.

I love when he shares deep heart felt moments about his childhood.

I love his melancholy moments—because then I know there is someone just like me.

I love his open arms.

I love his laugh.

I love when he tells me my boys will be okay—without wearing helmets during a golf cart ride.

I love that he agrees one can never have too many black Sharpies in the house.

I love his handwriting—Always in cursive and always dotting the“i’s” with those little circles.

I love the joy that overwhelms me when he introduces me as his daughter.

I love when he calls and has nothing to say—except that he loves me.

I love that he can easily nod off into a nap and jolts wide awake from the sound of his own snoring.

And apart from his brilliant blue eyes—I love that I look just like him.

I love how he brings me into his side for a hug and doesn’t let go—I love not letting go.

I love his kisses on my forehead.

I love the sound of his voice.

I love he was a witness to my first breaths on earth—and I was a witness to his last.

I love Dad

And I love and will always love being his daughter.

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