As I mentioned in my last post, my beloved father passed away on August 18 of this year. His transition was peaceful and beautiful, and I miss him like crazy.

I read somewhere that grief is like the wake behind a moving boat on the water. Initially, the wake is large and aggressive, and it will likely swamp the vessel if it slows down. But, as time passes and the momentum grows, the wake becomes more manageable and calm. 

I am still waiting for my boat/grief to temper and slow.

The months following his passing have also provided a bright spot in the way of remembering treasured stories and connections.

My dad was a man of few words, but he had a great sense of humor. The Valentine’s Day Card he gave my mother years ago shows his personality. My mom found it not long after his funeral as she was going through the house reading every card she had gotten as a way of coping with her own grief.

Dad may have been a man of few words; however, he had no trouble speaking up for himself and us. If something needed to be said, he was direct and addressed it.

He expressed himself best through writing letters, and I’m fortunate to have a few of them still.  The first letter he wrote me was the day before my birthday, when I was just 16 years old and had been miraculously placed at Western Carolina University only days earlier.

I did take his letter to heart. A week or so after that letter, my dad called to check on me, and I was miserable. If it weren’t for my dad, I wouldn’t be here. My dad was humble and didn’t give himself enough credit for the faithful man he was.

An excerpt from a letter I’d like to share is one Dad wrote to my brother Brian and me after his mother passed in 2009, around the same time he retired from the phone company. Significant events like the loss of a loved one often lead us to reflect deeply on our hopes and desires. The end of his second letter is his message:

I am writing this letter so that you, Brian, and Melissa (AND FAMILY and FRIENDS here today) will put God first in your Home. There is nothing wrong with sports, working, or dancing. But keep your priorities in order. If you are too busy for God, you are too busy.

Love, Dad.

Since his passing, I have taken in all that has been shared from the immediate family about Dad. 

My daughter, Makensie, also had beautiful words to share at his celebration of life.

My grandpa, David, worked a lot when I was young, and by the time I was older, Parkinson’s had already taken its toll. After I graduated from high school and went off to college, I often wondered if we would have ever had the kind of talks I had hoped for. I grew up around many women, including my mom, who’s a therapist, so I was accustomed to emotional, heart-on-the-sleeve conversations. My grandpa was different. He was more rational, more reserved.

But what he always gave me was his presence. He listened. And he was a good listener. And sometimes, that’s the most powerful gift a grandparent can give: to make you feel seen, to make you feel heard, and to love you in their own way. In 2009, my grandpa took a day off work, which was very rare, and that ended up being the only day we ever spent together. I will never forget it. It was meant for me to be with my grandpa that day.

We were running around with papers, and we went into two business buildings. At both places, the people at the front desk knew everything about me, my pageants, my dance, and they had even seen pictures. My eight-year-old mind was blown. I remember thinking, “Oh my goodness, my Grandpa talks about me. My grandpa brags about me. At eight years old, I thought I was pretty awesome, but at that moment, I realized my grandpa thought so too.

Makensie also wrote that funerals and celebrations of life are not just about saying goodbye. They are about honoring the love we shared, supporting one another, and finding space for healing.

Keep God First, He is always there.