My memories of my dad come in hues of blues and shades of green and vibrant warm reds and oranges. In one of my favorite young adolescent novels, The Book Thief, death is the narrator. He states at the beginning of the story:
“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spot blues. Murky darkness. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.”
Death brings about the living vibrant colors of a person’s life. I recall moments with Dad and the shades hidden within the spectrum and beyond bring forth a man that was large in love, loyalty,faithfulness and strength.
I see iridescent fluorescent blue:
Dad sitting on the carpet in the Woodland HIlls house, that spot between the L shaped couch, ankles crossed one foot lifted on top of the other, his big toe scratching a itchy spot, clad in his white t-shirt invariably stained with chilli dog,watching Late Night with Johnny Carson waiting for his girls to come home.
I see fresh-cut-grass green with early morning dew:
Dad driving his bank Oldsmobile listening to NPR on the way to Winketa Park for Saturday soccer, the traditional breakfast stop at McDonalds… he never missed one game.
My four year old self standing akimbo on the mid line in opposition but obedience to my daddy who told me to go after the ball but no further than the midline.
And dad, through college, my biggest fan and greatest coach, standing on the sideline of my hospital bed after knee surgery, helping to me to see myself as a young woman apart from my soccer identity.
I see brilliant orange and faithful sacrificial red:
Dad collecting every single story written and every email exchanged from my time in China. Binders full. The pride of his father’s heart when he spoke of each of us girls.
Dad, hobbling out to the dance floor in desperate need of hip surgery, yet swinging me around in my white wedding gown dancing the movement of a father and a daughter’s love.
I see soft sweet heavenly baby blue:
Waking to nurse my newborn, my house the sacred quiet of an untouched night save the click of computer keys coming from the kitchen where the screen illuminates Dad’s face. “Hey kiddo,” he says. He coos at his grandchild and with his daughter speaks of the sweetness of life and the miracle of a child.
The dad of my childhood was big not only in physical presence but in love. His squeezes along with his sneezes called for attention.When he would come home from work, we would attach ourselves to his feet and he’d drag us around the rooms and into the kitchen asking mom where the girls had gone. His handsome suits and the smell of Old Spice and his freshly shaven face before he left for the day never missed a chance to give us a kiss… In all ways, the big and the small he was faithful.
Before I left for China, I had snuck onto the closed soccer field at Wheaton College, late at night. I needed a sacred place to pray and the pitch had become that for me. I was hesitant of what was ahead in my life, I was afraid of making the wrong decision, I didn’t know if my faith and my love were strong enough.. I asked God in his fatherly tenderness, in his love, to grant me a covenantal sign, something that when I saw it, I would be reminded that He was with me, always. And just as I finished praying the words, a train. Not an approaching train in the distance, but a train instantly passing furiously fast on the tracks next to the field.
A train, by no accident, has been the symbol my God’s love and presence in my life. And it goes without saying you can see the connection...
My mom and dad gave us girls such priceless gifts: a beautiful home to grow up in, a steady marriage of 48 years, family meals together, wonderful vacations, a college education, beautiful weddings….but the greatest gift, the one I am most thankful for, is the strength and humility to love and be loved, to love God and be loved by Him.
The month dad was on the final leg of this journey, the Hallmark Channel was featuring Christmas in July. The simple overstated yet addicting love stories of the season played in the background as I held my dying dad’s hand. I was taken back to our Woodland Hills home where on Christmas Eve we would always sing Happy BIrthday to Jesus. Although Dad’s passing came in July, according to Hallmark and I believe the Gospel story, it is always Christmas time for in Christ’s birth, God’s Incarnation, Dad’s death is a birth. A rebirth. A New Life.
Happy birthday, Dad. May your memory be Eternal.
Theory of Colours – Goethe observed that colour arises at the edges, and the spectrum occurs where these coloured edges overlap. Theory of Colours (German: Zur Farbenlehre) is a book by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe about the poet's views on the nature of colours and how these are perceived by humans.
Researchers have long known that the mantis shrimp eye contains 12 color receptors, but they had no idea why. Humans and most other animals use three color-receptors to see the spectrum of light.
