Post Script: Some Words on Creating Art After Loss

Post Script: Some Words on Creating Art After Loss

It was the boxes that set me off. Four arrived from Washington state, lovingly packed by my dad and my aunt and filled to the brim with treasured items from my grandparents’ apartment. Both of them passed recently after 75 years of marriage – Grandpa on January 28, and Grandma on March 2. The boxes’ arrival conveyed a finality that words never could.

It had been a tough day already. I’d had to delete the reminder that kept popping up on my phone.

Call Grandma and Grandpa” hurt me every time I saw it.

That task was a perpetual one. Call every week or two, just to check in. Make a little statement of love to span the distance between my hometown of Annapolis, and theirs – Seattle.

Life around here is probably like yours. Activities to get to, people to care for. My kids were the reason for that reminder. Time spent on homework, sports, music lessons, meals, and sweatpants and socks gone M.I.A. gets frittered away so easily, and my mind unravels bit by bit. I need a ‘ping’ now and then to keep me on track – to help me stay the course for ‘to-dos’ of eternal value.

And besides, I looked forward to our conversations, especially the ones between just Grandma and me.

“Tell me about the children,” Grandma always began, and I’d fill her in on the latest. I know she asked because she wanted to hear, but I also know that she asked because she knew that my kids hold my heart, and talking about them brings me joy. Grandma was savvy; she could see what was important and what wasn’t.

But yesterday, there was no need for the phone reminder anymore. The void in my heart caused by their absence is reminder enough.

How can a void be filled?

You can try to stuff it with meaningless stuff, but that’s not what we learn in Scripture.

“In the beginning…the earth was a formless wasteland, and darkness covered the abyss…Then God said, ‘Let there be light,'” (Genesis 1:1-2).

You know the rest of the story.

Voids can only be filled by one thing: the power of the Creator doing what He does best – create.

My faith has been carrying me steadily, but riding the emotions is an important part of grief.

I’m thinking about this when my husband comes home from work to find me crying.

Fear has gripped me. What if something happens to the few recordings I have of their voices? What if I can’t tell their story? The bigger fear is this: What if I forget….the way they spoke to me, the feel of their hugs, the sound of their laughter….And oh my gosh, we laughed so much because they embraced life fully and radiated happiness.

It’s what they wished for me – for all of us – even as Grandma whispered in each of my children’s ears the very last time she hugged them. “Have a happy life,”she said to them, one by one.

How can I create anything of meaning and joy when fear and sadness press in?

Look again at the picture in this post. See my daughter playing piano in the background? She’s using her God-given gifts to compose a piece that tumbles like thunder and shakes the floors of our home. She presses into it, telling me that it’s helping her prepare to play a similar song called “Seascape,” that conjures up waves rolling on a sandy shore.

There’s a lesson in this moment.

To cover an abyss we must plod through darkness, leaning into the Source of all power to do the art of creating life in the now. We trust in faith that we will be given what we need, and that promised joy will indeed come. 

So play the song, write the book, take the trip, make the call, and see and speak and push through the pain to make something new out of a formless phase.

Bringing Love to Family History – Step 1 of a Journey

Bringing Love to Family History – Step 1 of a Journey

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I was reaching for hand lotion that I keep by the kitchen sink, and I almost missed the little miracle. Do you see it?

It’s a moth. Camouflaged on the granite countertop.

Perfectly still.

But very much alive.

Moth on the counter.

I’m embarking on a journey of writing a book about my family history, and considering it is a lot like contemplating this moth.

In the frozen life of family snapshots, there is a movement of people with vibrant personalities and stories to tell.

Yet many of them – the real people and their stories – are hidden.

And just like the ornate moth, each one deserves more than a glance.

Look closely at one thing for awhile and you’ll eventually see the myriad shades of gray and brown which cover it. The explosion of subtle colors are its essence and truth.

So it is with us and our lives. Nothing is straightforward. Nothing is one-sided.

Our perceptions and memories of events, people, and places are incomplete, mere shadows of the full picture.

This book – however hard I try to be accurate – will be nothing more than impressions of the people I write about.

But should I despair?

No.

I talked to my grandma just 4 days before she passed; 48 hours before she couldn’t speak any more. And after she thanked me for speaking at my grandfather’s memorial service the previous week, I told her I’d thought of things I could have said and didn’t. She replied (and I wrote it down verbatim),

“We do that…When we think back, we think, ‘Why didn’t I say that or do that?’ It’s not productive.”

She was right, of course.

It’s not productive.

Wishing things were somehow different is not helpful.

It’s not productive to belittle ourselves in the now for what we couldn’t or didn’t do then. We can only work with what we have, and when we sit and reflect in gratitude, we always find we have enough.

Because what we have, what I have to give in this endeavor, is love in the telling.

I will lay out my plan for this book in posts to come, but for now I’m ruminating on the need for family history to be – first and foremost – an excavation of the sentiments and values that bind us together, no matter the personalities or circumstances involved. Any details which might devalue a person in a reader’s eyes must be sifted and viewed in the way the One greater than ourselves views us. That is, with love and tenderness. A person’s mistakes and trials should never become fodder for our gossiping minds, but instead be seen for what they were or are: the struggles which lead to the development of character.

I am excited about this journey into my family history. I am eager to see what’s hiding in plain sight.

The Little Bluebird of Happiness Speaks to Me

The Little Bluebird of Happiness Speaks to Me

“I remember this,” I said to Grandma, “I always liked it.”

I sat on the floor of my grandparents’ dining room, knowing it was likely the last time I’d ever be in their home. It was February 2016, and the property had been sold to a home builder who valued the land more than the house itself. My grandparents had gracefully accepted their transition to a retirement home, but were still returning to the house to clean out more than 6 decades worth of accumulated possessions. Grandma sat on a chair while I pulled items out of the hutch and packed them into boxes.

“It’s a bluebird of happiness,” she said wistfully. “Take it.”

The glass bluebird had been in my grandparents’ kitchen window for as long as I could remember, but was now hidden among other trinkets, ready for a move. I made a mental note to ask Grandma later about its significance, but I never did. After she passed, I took it down from a shelf in my home and examined it more closely.

“Leo Ward 1983,” reads the etching on the bottom, and a quick Google search reveals that many of these bluebirds were created in the 1980s. They sell on Ebay for about $10.

But monetary value holds no value at all when it comes to memories.

Even on rainy Seattle days, my grandparents’ kitchen was always bright, sunny, and smelling of fresh fruit. A few potted plants on the windowsills surrounded the table and chairs in the cozy corner, where two large windows met and overlooked the fenced-in backyard.

We sat down to a set table for every meal. Placemats and cloth napkins, even at breakfast. Milk for cereal in its own pitcher. Everything that would be needed was before us in the center. No one would eat alone or hopping up and down to retrieve items.

And what’s the significance?

I felt honored in my grandparents’ home. Not because of what I’d been doing in my life, but because there was literally a space carved out just for me, three times a day, where my presence was anticipated and cherished.

In modern life, we are so consumed with what we accomplish in a given day. I run from one activity to the next, feeling pushed to make my choices count. But meals together can slow this all down to allow us moments of sanctifying grace.

When I look at the bluebird, I am taken back to the table, where I remember being accepted, encouraged, affirmed, strengthened, and deeply loved.

The bluebird of happiness tells me that – even now – there is always time to hear the heart, and that connection to and gratitude for one another is what truly brings us joy.

When I Think of Her

When I Think of Her

I think of her most often when I’m doing the everyday tasks. So that’s all the time.

Folding laundry.

Combing a child’s hair.

Setting a table.

Sweeping the floor.

Making dinner.

Piano music is playing on the radio and I’m doing this last thing – crushing ground beef against the side of a pot to ensure that it browns evenly – when I start to cry.

Grief is like that. It sneaks up on you at the strangest moments.

I turn the stove down and wander into the family room, letting the meat rest until I can slow the sobs.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Something she can’t do anymore.

I cry harder.

I have faith. I trust that all is well.

But sadness is…It just is.

How many days did my grandma move in a trance around her home mourning the people she’d loved and lost?

Oh, stakkars liten” I hear her say, as she called me when I was a child. It’s Norwegian for “poor little one.”

We carry these precious pieces with us – the knowledge that we were loved, even as love was shown in the words chosen to comfort us in our everyday distress.

And this is just a small part of what I want to write about.

Some of you are aware, and others are just hearing, that I want to undertake a new challenge. I’d like to write a book for my kids about how love and grace have shown up throughout generations of their family, as it has in all our families, if we look closely enough.

I don’t know how long this will take. It could be quite a long process. But I will document it here on my blog and share how it goes with you, while offering what I hope will be useful observations so that if anyone else should like to undertake a similar adventure they can learn from my experience.

If you haven’t done so already, I invite you to sign up to receive updates by email. Look for the green box in the sidebar above. Thanks for joining me.

What Makes a Couple Truly Beautiful?

What Makes a Couple Truly Beautiful?
My grandparents, Allen and Hazel, who celebrated their 75th wedding anniversary January 18, 2017. He passed into eternity on January 28, and she followed on March 2.

It seemed like a dream as I pressed the receiver to my ear and heard my dad’s voice.

“Grandma is no longer with us. She’s with Grandpa now.”

She passed late Thursday night. Her decline had been swift. Just 11 days earlier I was in Seattle for my grandfather’s memorial service and she had seemed frail but steady.

But when you lost your spouse of 75 years just weeks ago, and you’ve held out for one final trip down memory lane in the company of family and friends, perhaps you just decide once and for all that enough is enough.

At a certain point, the body won’t hold a soul that wants to go where a body simply can’t.

She was one half of the most beautiful couple I have ever known.

I said on their 70th wedding anniversary that it was my right to put them on a pedestal, and I still believe that it is. Their relationship exuded a quality I seldom see – a quality they would never have thought described them, but then, most people who have this deny it out of sheer humility.

That quality is holiness.

Too often, holiness is associated with religiosity, and this, my grandparents were emphatically, not.

Holiness is something so much more sublime. Divine. An intention of the heart.

As I wrote on their 75th wedding anniversary, which we celebrated together in January:

It has been said that the purpose of marriage is not to make us happy, but instead, to make us HOLY.

I’ve been considering this statement for the last several years. And even if a person does not submit to the idea that our universe – and all that lies within it – is here for a divine purpose, namely, so that we can learn how to live like the Creator – a force of Love with a capital “L” that gives so freely He even wants to live through each one of us….Yes, even if someone does not agree with this heartfelt belief of mine, there is value in considering holiness as a purpose for marriage. And here’s why.

The process of becoming holy is the refinement of a person. It is a gradual sloughing off of all that is flawed in order to move toward perfection in goodness and righteousness – like placing rocks in a crucible and burning away impurities to reveal hidden gold or silver.

When I think about the ideal marriage, this is exactly what happens for the 2 individuals involved.

When it works well, marriage does several things to us and for us. It brings us joy. It brings us love. It brings us companionship for life’s adventures.

Most importantly though, it helps us to understand the long-term benefits of practicing a myriad of virtues such as acceptance, compassion, consideration, flexibility, generosity, humility, kindness, and forgiveness….

A good spouse encourages us, and calls us back toward the best version of ourselves. Over the long haul, there is benefit to both people in choosing:

patience over edginess,

service over self-centeredness,

understanding over egoism,

honesty over deceit,

and unity over division.

Was the path my grandparents took an easy one? Almost certainly not. I’m sure they faced tests and struggles that the rest of our family never knew about. But they passed through those fires and came out stronger and purer because of them.

My grandparents taught me by example what the path of holiness looks like. In their quiet way, they kept faith in God and lived as servants to one another. This, more than any other, is their enduring legacy to me.

Yes, they have left me beautiful memories, family I love deeply, and a few precious mementos, but it’s the love and honor they gave each other that I value the most.

Perhaps that’s why I can’t think of one without the other, and why Grandma couldn’t stay with us any longer than she did.

“Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.”
John Donne

 

How to Know When Following Your Heart is Right

How to Know When Following Your Heart is Right

I lost my grandpa this week. The pain is new and deep, and I know that I will miss him for the rest of my life.

Memories comfort me, yes, but so does something else. The knowledge that I told him on so many, many occasions that I loved him. I did not let key opportunities slip by.

Just a week before my grandpa passed, my family and I had gathered in his retirement home in Seattle, WA, to celebrate his and my grandma’s 75th wedding anniversary. They were married in January 1942, just a month after the attack on Pearl Harbor, when Grandpa realized he’d be entering the Army Air Corps and knew he couldn’t go without his love. Allen and Hazel were high school sweethearts who truly grew up into adulthood together. As Grandpa said just a few days ago, “We met in May 1939, and I knew she was the one for me.”

Over the years, our family gathered from across the U.S. to celebrate 4 of their major milestone anniversaries: 60, 65, 70, and 75. At the 60th, I hardly said a word about the love and pride I was feeling. But something changed by the 65th, and today I suddenly realized why.

It was January 2007. I was midway through the 8-month process of learning and discernment that is required of people who wish to enter the Catholic Church – smack dab in the middle of the longest stretch of time I had ever spent considering God’s Word and thinking about His role in my life. And since we often can see with clarity in hindsight those things which seem muddled in the moment, now I know that God was working in my heart and gently coaxing me on to joy in the pursuit of His purposes.

Not everyone is comfortable expressing love in words, and the truth is, it wasn’t always that way for me. On the flight out to the West Coast in 2007, I wrote a letter to my grandparents that I planned to read at the anniversary dinner. I was full of adrenaline as my pen shot across the pages, charged with emotion as I lay down memory after memory, puffed with happiness at the thought that I would be able to share them with Grandma and Grandpa. And when the time came to read, I was shaking all over. It wasn’t seamless, but I got through it, word by word, my voice faltering and cracking.

My family praised me, but what meant the most was the knowledge that my words were a gift my grandparents truly treasured. Grandma called me over with a gentle wave, held my hands in both of hers and said, “Gretchen, dear, have you ever thought about being a writer?” She knew I wrote nonfiction educational materials, but she was talking about something more. She was urging me forward. “Yes, Grandma. It’s actually what I think I want to do.” “You should do it.” She nodded slightly to indicate her seriousness and squeezed my hands. “You should do it.”

Me reading to Grandma and Grandpa at their 75th Wedding Anniversary Celebration, nearly two weeks ago.

I had reservations and told her so – that I didn’t think I had any worthy material, had no idea what to write about. She listened lovingly and nodded understandingly, but my grandma encourages regardless of fear. She is a quiet repose of strength and confidence.

I would go on to write another letter for their 70th, and deliver it with less anxiety than I had on the 65th. And when last weekend came, I was filled with calm and a deep conviction that I was doing the right thing, regardless of whether the thoughts I expressed were the same thoughts as those of others in the room. It turns out I was right – Grandpa was just a couple days from meeting his Creator, and this was my last chance to pour out my heart to him.

How can we know when we’re on the right path? How we can know we are saying or doing what we should? For me, there are a few indicators:

1) I ask who I’m serving. Who am I doing this for? If my actions are born of love, a desire to be in community and relationship with others, and above all, if I’m aiming to please God with all my mind, heart, soul, and strength, I’m probably headed in the right direction.

2) I consider the voices I’m hearing. Encouragement and gentleness come from Love (with a capital “L”). He does not chastise or tell me I’m an unworthy, useless, untalented wanna-be. If negative voices are dominating my thoughts, I must call them out to fight with the blinding light of Truth. God is Love. He is Light. There is no hate and no darkness in Him. And He alone can give me the strength and confidence I need to move forward, if I surrender to His good will and love for me.

3) I remember in faith that I am not an accident. The desires of my heart to do good work in my life were planted there by the One who loves me more than I can comprehend, and wants me to enjoy life to the fullest. My desires are part His divine plan.

In His Word, God tells us how to live joyfully, and He promises us that we are all given gifts. Don’t we believe that He’ll help us to use those gifts? Don’t we know without having seen that Love is real, and therefore we can step out with our talents, trusting in that Love to see us through? We move in faith, believing that He has blessings in store for us if we work with Him, if we don’t give in to the lies that plague us.

“Today if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts.” – Hebrews 3:15

When My Daughter Didn’t Want to Be the Explorer

When My Daughter Didn’t Want to Be the Explorer

Kids never cease to surprise, and my daughter gave me a real gem today!

She and one of her best friends happen to be working on an in-class team assignment this week. It entails researching a famous explorer. By Friday, the two girls are to have prepared a short presentation for their peers, and at least one of them is to have a basic explorer ‘costume’ which can fit over the school uniform.

The explorers were chosen for the students. The girls ended up with Sir Francis Drake (1540-1596).

Sir Francis Drake (1540-1569).
Sir Francis Drake (1540-1596).

Today, on the car ride home, my daughter said to me, “So we had this idea for our presentation.”

“Yes?” I inquired.

“Well, Francis Drake had two wives. So we thought we’d dress up like them.”

I held my breath and stifled a disbelieving giggle.

“Was he married to them both at the same time?”

“No. One died.”

This quick answer zapped my funny bone, so I leaned down over the wheel as I steered through downtown Annapolis, desperately trying to make sure my daughter couldn’t see me laugh in the rear view mirror. A comic classroom scene was running amok in my imagination and it just couldn’t be contained.

I asked,”Was one of you planning to stage your death during the presentation?”

Then she laughed, and belted out, “No! But that’s pretty good, Mom!”

The whole car was guffawing now.

She continued, “We were going to dress up one of our American Girl dolls as Francis Drake, but the teacher said ‘No,’ it has to be one of us. He had a beard, Mom. Ick.”

“Oh.”

I didn’t really know what to say just then. I was a little deflated for her. I understand that the point of the assignment is to talk about the explorer’s achievements. I get that. And I don’t want to diminish him or other men in any way.

But I also saw something else in the motives of these two girls – something altogether innocent and lovely: They like being girls. And they thought they could still tell the story – as girls.

There was a time when these thoughts might never have even entered into their minds.

But that wasn’t the case today. Today they wanted to dress up as two women who were there in the wings of history – women who were every bit as real as Sir Francis Drake.

Something about that is good news to me.

Like the lily among thorns, so are you, my love, among the daughters.

-Song of Solomon 2:2 (AMP)

Why My Kids’ Shocking Post-Playground Behavior Is Good News

Why My Kids’ Shocking Post-Playground Behavior Is Good News

After school today, my youngest two kids and I visited the playground and then dropped into the church for a bathroom break before heading home. As we made our way toward the parking lot, my 6-year old son said, “I’m going to go for a walk in the Mary Garden,” and my 10-year old daughter said, “I’m going into the Adoration chapel to say the Lord’s Prayer.”

Huh? A slight wind could have blown me over.

“Uh…I stammered. Ok – no running,” I said to my little guy,” as he stared at me with a perplexed look. He had, after all, said he was going for a walk. I watched him disappear around the heavily pruned bushes.

I turned to my daughter. “And uh, remember, there will be someone in there. The Host – the Blessed Sacrament – is never left alone. Be quiet and respectful.” “Of course, Mom.” She drew in a breath, probably wondering if I was losing my mind, and withdrew into the room without a sound.

I just stood there, dumbfounded. They had sought quiet time. Unprompted. In places designed for contemplation with God.

Good God.

Yes, Good God. That’s what He is.

I wandered around for about 3 minutes and soon, my son emerged from the other side of the hedge and climbed onto the lap of a statue of Blessed Francis Xavier Seelos C.Ss.R. I told him to sit next to the statue (which he agreed was more comfortable), and while he was telling me he had been studying a squirrel at play, I snapped this picture of him in all his innocence. taran-by-blessed-seelos-statue

Not long after, my daughter came out and said she’d prayed not only the Lord’s Prayer, but a decade of the Rosary – the first of the Luminous Mysteries.

By the time we got in the car I had collected myself and asked them, “Do you guys know why you wanted to spend that quiet time in the garden and the chapel today?”

“No,” they said.

“Because the Holy Spirit prompted you to. Anytime you feel invited to come spend a little time in quiet, just being at peace with God, it’s because He is seeking you. He’s your best friend and He loves you. He wants to spend time with you. I am so very glad you both listened to Him today.”

My daughter said she felt like she’d like to go again soon – maybe before school during the week sometimes.

Now that is some astounding and really good news.

Why Ugly Decorations Are Good

Why Ugly Decorations Are Good

Two unofficial members of our household made their seasonal debuts at our home yesterday, so I thought I’d take a moment to introduce them to you on this, day four of my Month of Good News 2016.
This is Lucy, Guardian of the Front Porch.

lucy

She’s been with us for about a decade. I think I got her at Michael’s craft store for about $6, back when I was trying to make sure our oldest son gained an awareness of the changing seasons. He and this little scarecrow were about the same size, but she didn’t acquire a name until my daughter came along and dubbed her ‘Lucy.’ The name stuck, and now our youngest son has an oddly strong attachment to her.

And this is Cheese.

cheese

I don’t know who named him. But he is a remnant of my brother-in-law’s surprise Halloween-themed 40th birthday party, which was held in 2001. My husband insisted that we keep this lovely trinket as a souvenir. Once, I suggested we get rid of it – an idea for which I was nearly tarred and feathered.

Little did I know that Cheese would become our children’s all-time favorite Halloween decoration. It moves around the house throughout October as the kids desperately try to recreate the famous “Great Shriek” scene of a few years back, when Cheese was placed in my bed. I encountered it unwittingly and responded accordingly.

As you can see, I have a love/hate relationship with Lucy and Cheese. We have other knickknacks that are better looking, and they are displayed as well. But when the kids begin to feel festive in October, these are the two decorations they are most excited to see. From now until January 6, there will be many kinds of holiday embellishments in our home. Thus, Lucy and Cheese ring in the holiday season – Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year.

Today I was looking for a quote about holidays and found this one from Philip Andrew Adams, an Australian humanist, social commentator, broadcaster, and filmmaker:

“To many people holidays are not voyages of discovery, but a ritual of reassurance.”

I don’t know Adams, so I can’t say whether we’d agree on other topics, but I do think holidays are a time of reassurance, especially for the young and young at heart.

The traditions we keep – like putting out certain decorations – remind our spirits that there is a continuity that cannot be shaken. This speaks Truth to our souls, in a time when we need solidity and comfort. 

For this, I am grateful. Because even if they are ugly, decorations show we have reason to celebrate and give thanks. Good news, for sure.

Rock Steady Dad

Rock Steady Dad

It was like I had been kicked in the gut by a World Cup player. My abdomen was screaming and I couldn’t turn in any direction.

I felt cold (why are hospitals always cold?), and must have mentioned it to someone in the room, because the 49-year old man at the end of the bed was gently putting socks on my feet and tucking blankets around my legs while telling me a story in his soft bass voice – that one voice that always soothed me more than any other.

I don’t know what he was talking about, exactly. My eyes were growing heavy. But I was faintly aware of a smile on my face.

“Jim – I don’t think she’s following you,” said my mom.

“That’s ok,” said Dad, looking away from me for just long enough to give Mom a grin and a nod. He continued in a lilting sing-song way. “It’s not the words that I say that matter. I’ll go on talking like this for as long as I need to.”

It was January 1995 and I was lying in New York University Hospital after an emergency appendectomy. I was 22 years old, 8 months out of college, and living in New York City when I was gripped with acute stomach pain that mystified doctors for three days because I failed to have the normal appendicitis symptoms. (That’s a whole ‘nother story. Since NYU is a learning hospital, let’s just say we all still wonder if they’re keeping my appendix in a jar somewhere, filed under ‘bizarre cases.’)

My folks had been divorced for more than a decade. Mom had driven 100 mph from Philadelphia the day before and Dad came up by train from Washington, D.C. that morning when I was in surgery. I will always be grateful that after their divorce they could come together gracefully whenever necessary for the sake of my sister and me.

I can count on my dad to be a voice of calm when I’m upset, fearful, or hurting. He is like a shelter in the storm – a steady presence who knows that a willingness to listen and sympathize is most often the first thing people need to make it through a tough time.

Dad and me. New Orleans, 1991.
Dad and me. New Orleans, 1991.

He’s ready to serve – ready to help – and in the most self-effacing kind of way. He’ll happily do whatever is needed for whomever asks. I’ve seen him spend hours patiently fixing broken appliances, detangling necklaces, and running small errands because he knows it will make life easier for the family he loves. He doesn’t need the flashy job that would garner applause from others; he’ll do the one that’s most necessary, no matter how unglamorous it is. And he’ll do it with a grateful, loving heart.

And that’s really the point of this post.

Today is my dad’s 70th birthday. I knew it was his birthday when I woke up this morning. I mailed his gift to Texas earlier this week, and I plan to talk with him today. But he isn’t a guy who demands attention in any sort of way. He’d never in a million years ask you to throw him a party. And we’ll hopefully be getting together in the next couple months.

So – to be totally honest, I forgot this birthday was a milestone.

70 years. Seventy decades of being the rock that so many people who love him rely on, and KNOW they can rely on because he is the most dependable, good-hearted guy around. The kind of guy who deserves a standing ovation, and is probably the least likely to get one.

Dad – today I just want to thank you. For being the father I could always count on. For being there. For doing what was necessary, whenever necessary, for me. For being someone who loves without limits. May your reward in heaven be spectacular, because God knows we all fall short of loving you enough here on earth.