My Dad

There is nothing that I could do to give my dad the honor he deserves from me. Even the little memories haunt me because I took (and take) so much for granted. I keep thinking if I could have one more conversation with him that I could tell him everything I want to say. But I realize this could never happen and even if I knew it were our last conversation he would have filled the time with all of the things he wanted me to know. I guess the hardest part of losing dad for me is that I still have so much to say. I catch myself taking my phone out of my pocket intending to call him and it kills me. I miss him so much. I've decided to blog memories every once in a while under the title "My Dad" because there is so much I want to express. If you think that is a little strange or awkward you do not have to read on. But the main reason I started blogging was because dad read them to keep up with us. When I went home to be with him I found pics printed out from our blogs (mine, Leigh's and Shellee's). I know that he is not going to read these and that Jesus is infinitely more beautiful than anything I could ever say, but in an attempt to honor my dad for the man that he is, My Dad (Part 1):

One time when I was around 12 or 13 I slung a fishing lure out of the water and straight into my arm. The barb was beneath the skin and I could not get it out. As I came running up to my dad with a lure dangling from my arm I am sure he had to suppress a smile. He looked it over in a way that only my dad could and began to lead me into the house. Back in his bathroom he started to gather the tools that he would need to surgically remove the hook from my arm (pliers, wire clippers, alcohol, etc.). As I began to protest dad explained to me that my other option was to be taken to the hospital (which was worse than death to me) and that he knew what he was doing (He really did. This same sort of thing, only worse, had happened to Shellee.). The first thing he did was cut the hook free from the lure and since it was a treble hook he had to cut off the other two hooks. Once he had it cut down to where he could get a good grip on it he looked me in the eye and said, " This is gonna hurt pretty bad, do you trust me?" I did. So gently but firmly he pulled the hook back through my arm, cut off the barb and pulled it back out. A little alcohol for germs, a band-aid for blood and I was on my way.

You may think that story is an odd memory but I am pretty sure that is the first time I really understood what it meant to trust. Dad was a trustworthy man and if I ever needed to trust him I always could. He taught me how to trust and he taught me how to be trustworthy and for that I am grateful.