Missing you, Dad

Dennis Nelson, RIP October 10, 2007

Little did I see your departure coming, Dad. But God gave me the grace to make it through those weeks and year following your death. And He still is, to this day.

Sometimes I wonder if living off of the memory of you is enough. Like a car running off fumes. When I think about all that lies before me, I am very intimidated. If only you were here to take some of the pressure off.

But then I think, it's OK that you aren't here. God is keeping me, just as He kept you. I think by far the hardest challenge to me in my life, Dad, as I live out the rest of my days, is to trust God more. I don't know why I am reluctant sometimes, after all the good He has done in my life, after all the ways He has proven His love. I wish you were here to tell me so. But I have friends who remind me always of God's faithfulness, abundant supply of grace, His strength in our weakness.

Dad, I want to remember you today, to pause my life and examine if it is honoring you. For the most part it is, but there are areas I can improve in, too. I know that as my father you would be gently leading me towards strength and goodness. You made a peaceful life possible for me, and I thank you for that.

How do I continue your legacy? The positive things you did your successes as a father? You did do much right. Today, I want to remember what you did, what you said, but most of all, how you loved.

* the watch you went to repair before I returned to Columbia
* the way you always wanted to have me home and spent time with me
* the comfortable day-to-day life we shared when I lived at home
* the incredible way you managed to let go of me when I went off to college
* your contagious hopes for my future
* your well-read-ness, transferred down to me
* the calm sanctuary you kept, providing me with a home (imperfect as it was at times)
* dinners you cooked
* hugs you gave
* jokes you carried on through the years
* softball and lacrosse games you attended
* gentle but firm discipline of your teeneaged Jemmer
* newspaper clippings of stories you thought I would care about
* educating me, loving me, knowing me, like few others do.