Tag Archive | I miss you dad

Miss You Dad – Happy Father’s Day

I hope you are having a good time in Heaven, Dad.

I do think it was you who tickled my feet the other night when I was asleep – you always did like tickling my feet.

I miss those bike rides we used to go on when I was a kid; miles long rides out to the lake or wherever, starting when I was so small that I sat in that seat mounted on the back of your bike.  Then later when I had my own 10-speed, the one you bought from the Police auction.  I remember the day you took the training wheels off my bike at the park, then let go of the back when I wasn’t paying attention.  I rode on my own until I realized you weren’t back there anymore, and then crashed into that parked car.  Oops.  Even as an adult, we sometimes went for a bike ride at Grandma’s house, even though there wasn’t much to bike to in the middle of small town Michigan.

I miss sitting at the dinner table and talking about investments, current events, or what was going on at work.  I’m grateful that I lived close enough that dinners were possible on a random Tuesday night.  I miss teasing you about the way you said, “onion,” or the fact that you liked your steak super-dead…

I was thinking the other day about that summer that we laid all those bricks for your patio.  That was a lot of work, but the dinners afterwards were good, and I always enjoyed talking with you.

I have always been grateful that you taught me to be really good with money.  I hope I get to retire early like you did; that’s my plan anyway.  Work only as long as I have to, then take off and see more of the world.  I always loved hearing about the trips you took with my mom, and the emails you would send to the family about your adventures.

I wish you would have taught me more about fixing stuff around the house.  I miss those days when you would come over to help me prune my fruit trees; I’ve never been tall enough to reach those higher branches very well.

I miss watching you sit with your sisters on trips to Michigan, talking about growing up on the farm.  I hate that I will never again see you laugh so hard that you cry – I always loved that.  No one could make you laugh like your sisters could.  I loved seeing you happy.

I’m still kind of mad at you for leaving us with no warning, Dad.  I’m so grateful that you didn’t suffer from some long illness, but I’m still so sad that we never had a chance to say goodbye.  I saw you at least every few weeks, but I still feel like I should have been around more.  I guess that’s what happens after someone is gone – we second guess everything we did or didn’t do.  That part sucks.  It is still difficult to comprehend that I’ll never get to talk to you again, or help with a project, or just sit and watch the news with you.  I’ll never get to sit around the fire pit and have smores with you again, or sit next to you on a plane on a family trip to Michigan.

I love you and miss you something fierce, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day.

Two Months Gone

It’s been two months since my dad died.  Life goes on – in many ways it speeds by faster than we ever expect or even want it to.

I still miss him terribly and think about him everyday.  I think about the new job that I will never talk to him about.  I think about the financial things I can’t ask him for advice on.  I think about how much I know my mom misses him and I hurt for her.

I don’t cry every day anymore, but I still cry.  It hits me at unexpected times.  Sometimes I think I’m doing ok, and then I’m suddenly not.  Like writing this post – although I suppose that could have been expected.  His marker at the cemetery niche arrived two weeks ago and when I went to visit him, I cried harder than I have in a while.  There wasn’t any new, fresh realization that he is gone, just a fresh wave of pain.

Blogger Lauren Herschel summed grief up pretty well with a theory she heard from her doctor.  The ball in the box.  The ball starts out being a really big ball in the box, and there is a pain button on the side of the box.  When it bounces around, it hits the side of the box all the time and causes pain.  Gradually, the ball gets smaller, and it doesn’t hit the side of the box quite as often.  When it does though, it still hurts just as much.  Grief is like that.  You can read about it, because she does a better job explaining it (with pictures).

So as time marches on, I find myself smiling again, and laughing.  There is joy and happiness in life, and I don’t want to miss that.  But I still miss you dad.