I thought I saw someone today

I thought I saw someone today. Well, I did see someone today, but it wasn't the someone that I thought I saw. It couldn't be. That person is gone. He died years ago. And the one person who knew him like I did isn't in my life anymore.

So what do you do now?

If you are an introvert, who internally processes things, this might not be a dilemma for you. You might just think about it, or retreat to meditate, or journal about it. That's not how I work. I mean, it's how I will have to work since I don't have any other options, but preferably, I want to talk to someone. I want to reminisce. I want to be reminded of his quirks and funny stories. I want to connect with someone who knows what I'm talking about. I want to talk with someone who remembers what he looked like.

However, that's not an option for me. So I will do the only thing I can do. I will remember for myself and do my best to tell you what a great man the world lost.

He wasn't my dad, but he called me his kid.
He worked hard.
He had the best raspy laugh.
He refused to go through drive-thru's because he said that human interaction was becoming extinct.
He lived alone in his tiny apartment, but always had people over.
He didn't need anything fancy to be happy.
He smoked way too much.
He talked about his daughter constantly and how he wished he could have had a relationship with her growing up.
He made up for that lost relationship by spoiling me. (Is that fair? I don't know, but it was fact.)
He loved Classic Rock.
He never ate sweets.
He drank way too much, which was ultimately what killed him.

We connected in a special way. I desperately wanted a relationship with my dad and he desperately wanted a relationship with his daughter. We weren't the puzzle pieces that fit, but bandaids that helped ease the sting for a while. Until he was gone.

He had gone to the hospital for some testing on some swelling he was having in his legs. I was going to go visit him when I got off work, but he told me not to. He said there was no point because the doctors were releasing him the next day. But the next day we got a call from his sister. She had been notified by the hospital, and when she looked through his phone, we were the people he talked the most to and the last people that he had contacted.

He had to know more than he told us. There had to have been some heads up from the doctors about his condition. Did he choose to die alone? Or did he slip away suddenly to the surprise of even the medical staff? Did he know how many people cared for him? Did he just not want us to see him struggling and in pain? I don't know. I may never know.

I remember the day I found out. I was told in my office while I was working. My office manager and others burst into tears and I just sat there. When I could form cohesive sentences, I just asked everyone to leave my office.

Shock is the best way to describe it, I guess. A knot formed in my stomach and I thought I was going to be sick. I had to power through. I needed to work. I needed a task. I needed a distraction. I didn't actually cry until a couple days later at his funeral. I walked into the room and saw the casket and just broke down. It was him, but not really him. It was his body, but not his life and spirit. The spunk was gone. The twinkle in his eyes. The wrinkles that formed when he laughed would never be seen again. He was gone.

The best closure that I could possibly get was getting to meet his daughter. It was hard to form words that sounded like something other than blubbering tears. But I had to. She had to know how much he loved her. I don't know if it made a difference or if she ever thinks about him. I don't know every little detail behind what happened between him and his daughter, but she had to know that there was not one day that went by that he did not mention her or show me a picture. Maybe it did more harm than good, I may never know that either. Maybe it was more for me than her. Maybe I went and talked to her because I felt like he would have wanted me to. I just wanted her to know that she was never forgotten or thought ill of. I wanted her to know that was deeply cherished and loved, and that it would have meant the world to him to know that she was there.

Several other people followed behind me to say things along the same lines. They gave her pictures of him and told her funny stories. She was between laughing and crying the whole time. I left before the line was up of people to talk to her. Either way, I'm glad that she got to hear how great he was. I hope she was able to sort through the ideas she had of him and the stories that we told. Another thing that I may never know.

What I do know is that I have a deep appreciation for this life I live. Every day, every breath, every moment, every memory. Every thing that happens will be a memory by tomorrow. So will it be a good memory or a bad one? It's not what happens that matters, but how we respond. How we respond to waiting, or crisis, or misjudgement, or even good things that happen will leave the mark. Ashes don't tell you what the structure was before it burned, but they do tell you that something indeed burned. As the years go on, the details of the incident are forgotten, but how we felt, how we reacted, how we treated other people, how we commemorated the event, how we spoke, how we handled our emotions, will last.

At his funeral, we didn't talk about his political preferences, bad habits, or theological beliefs. We talked about who he was and how every day was better with him in it. I want to make today count. I want people at my funeral to have good memories, funny stories, and tales of an open heart of untamed love to remember me. Whether I go out in blazing flames, or slip silently away at the end of a burning wick, I want you to remember this one thing: The greatest love and fulfillment that you couldn't even dream of is available to you for a price that has already been paid; the greatest price: life.

I hope I don't have to die for people to know this about me. I hope that while I live, I can love in a way that shows that I have been given the truest love there is. I hope that I handle hurt and pain in a way that shows the vast mercy I have received. I hope that I have a joy that is contagious, and that my confidence can be centered in my great God who has set me apart for something great, but not hindered by pride. I hope that I convey in some shape or form that that great love is not emptied with me, but over-flowing in abundance for you, exactly where you are, how you are.

I hope that you accept it and live exceedingly greater than you ever thought was possible for you.
Because you can.