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Father's Day 2011

Father’s Day 2011

Father’s Day is Sunday.

You probably knew that. But I didn’t. I really didn’t. I think it must be some sort of automatic coping mechanism to help protect my heart from hurting.

Last Father’s Day I held my Dad’s hand, kept him comfortable, and slept by his bedside. He died the next day.

Father’s Day is Sunday. I want to run from it—even hide from it. But I can’t.

If I want to heal, I must face it with a brave heart.

To have a brave heart doesn’t mean to suck it up and become emotionally apathetic. To have a brave heart is to courageously feel everything that flows through my heart—even the hard stuff.

What will a brave heart look like for me this Sunday?

I predict it to look something like this:

I will take many deep breaths. I will not hold back the tears. I will be intentional to engage with my emotions.

I will turn on the Somewhere in Time soundtrack—a favorite—and light the blue candle to remember the color of his eyes. I will pull out my Dad Box and sit on my floor looking through old photos, letters and cards he’s given. I will weep as I watch this and this video I made for him. I will touch the ink on his words and remember how fond I was of his handwriting—and strangely this will bring me comfort.

I will make three phone calls—one to each of my Dad’s brothers. I will hold tight to the phone and tell them what I want to tell my own Dad that day—Happy Father’s Day. I will probably cry and need to hang up quickly.

I will sip on my Starbucks and leave his out for him. I will open the card I bought and read it out loud. I will show him the oil paintings I have of his, and the art I’ve done. I will tell him how big the boys are getting and how well they are doing in school. I will assure him Gerhard is taking good care of me and I’m going to be okay—I really am. I will tell him thank you for being so good to me and for believing in me.  And then in that moment I will remember nothing—nothing—has changed.

I am still his daughter—and he will forever be my dad.

I love you Dad.


May your heart grow ever brave along the journey,


Here or somewhere…be real. Share your story.

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