A Slow Boat to Normal-ish

You know things are sort of feeling like they are getting back to a little bit like normal, whatever that is. We ran in late to church today. Got my tires rotated and balanced. Put up a carrot on the front door for Easter. The kids have had some playdates. I’ve cussed at a few insane drivers. Normal-ish stuff. Though all of these “normal” things came with a face mask in my clutches, hand sanitizer at my hip, and a weight on my heart.

I glanced at my watch on the way to church this morning because I needed to calculate how many seconds we would have to slide in to the doors of the church before the preacher started talking, and I gave pause. It wasn’t the time that did it, (’cause y’all know I ain’t never been scared of no time constraint) but the date that barbed my eye and made my heart sort of twinge. It’s been 3 months today…why that weight is hanging there on my heart.

It’s sort of an anomaly to me. It takes nine months for our lives to form in the comforts of our own private water bed but a breath for them to be taken away. We wait for what seems like eternity to greet a new life, only to have that life gone in a whisper for an eternity. It’s a truth I’ve been feeling on a personal level and has been unfolding on me these past three months, when my Daddy took his last breath on this side of life.

You know, he would have loved his funeral. The people he loved most were there, though distanced, and we had his bud Bo Henry play a beautiful acoustic version of This is My Father’s World. The sky was perfectly blue, and his fourth grandchild was baptized at his service. It was the most perfect illustration of the circle of life. But I know he already knew that. I imagine he called up all his family and friends with him to have them listen to THE Bo Henry playing just for him, and I suppose that W.T. pulled up a chair and said, “That’s MY boy,” and I feel certain that the Lord himself was pleased as it is, indeed, His world. And then I imagine they all stayed around to watch my precious niece be promised to God by her precious parents, and that’s when my Daddy said, “That’s MY boy,” as he looked down at my brother and the wonderful Daddy he himself has become.

He would have loved to watch MY boy play ball on the ball field being coached by his Daddy right now. It’s three strikes and you’re out now and there’s nary a tee in sight. It’s big time, at least to my son. He’s been in a little bit of a hitting slump, but he’s getting better. They’re the A’s this year, and W is lucky #7, and he loves this game so, so much. There’s even hamburgers being sold at the concession stand with one or two cute Parrish girls grinning and selling them to you. I’m keeping the book again because I actually like it. I do. It’s just an all around family affair at the field. But my Daddy already knows that. I can see him as a shadow-his tall, lanky, self- following behind as my Mama comes to be a cheering section of one for this little man of theirs. Add in my in-laws, and it really IS a family affair. All of us together.

I’ve taken to quoting my Dad more. I was, after all, his little protege for many years of life and no I’m not telling you how many years because that’s my business. A couple of days ago, I used one of his infamous sayings with a beloved coworker of mine who just happens to teach my child and happens to understand my humor because she has a beautiful sense of one herself. However, I couldn’t even believe I used it, and I don’t shock myself easily. While recalling the story to my mom, she chagrined and groaned and I think I heard my Dad smile his goofy grin he always did when he thought something was really funny and especially when he knew he had horrified my mother. But he already knew I was going to say that because he saw exactly what the meal was that we had been served. I imagine Dad then thanked God face to face that food like that wasn’t served at heaven’s buffet. And if it ever was, rest assured Dad would let God know…

One day not too long ago, I was feeling a little heavier than normal, and not just from all those Cadbury eggs I’d been consuming. Just moving through the paces of life knowing my Dad wasn’t a phone call away anymore, thinking about my Mom being alone. It was hurting my heart in a particular spot that day. I was just missing him and thinking about really real his death was. While letting myself sort of feel a way, I started tidying up my classroom to keep me from staying that way. There was a pile of CD’s that had been bothering me and so I figured it was time to get them looking better. As I was placing the bootlegged discs in their respective sleeves (yes, I’m a teacher and yes, I’ve ripped off a few CD’s, but only for personal use, I promise, but again, I’m a teacher and that’s what we do) one caught me that was adorned with sharpie marker and John O’Brien font. “We All Live Together,” was written on it and it gave me pause. That Greg and Steve album (Sorry Greg. Sorry Steve. I do own some of your originals, so there’s that.), burned many years ago by my Dad, would serve as a message to me all these years later. Those four little words comforted me and confirmed my very imaginings: We are all living together. Though some not in the realm the eye can see, they are here. Where the heart can feel.

We all live together. Man, that makes me feel good.

But my Daddy already knew that.