Dear Dad,

Remember that day you got your arm pinned between the spout of the feeder wagon and the silo? I had gone to the barn to clean the hog floors and you promised to yell when you needed my help with something. I had barely thrown a few forkfuls of dirty hay out the door when I heard you calling my name. So soon? I ran up to the silos to find you hopelessly stuck. 

"Pull the tractor ahead without letting it roll backward," you instructed – something I had never done successfully. Not once. Was I 10? 12? I had to stand on the clutch with both feet to put that stubborn Oliver tractor into gear – which meant I didn’t have a foot to put on the brake to stop a backward roll. And one hand for the throttle on the steering column? I can still see it in my mind. Certainly I was going to make a mistake and take off your arm – wouldn’t you rather I went to get someone else? My mom, my older brother, a neighbor, anyone? 

“You can do it,” you coached me. I revved the throttle and popped the clutch – the tractor practically leaped forward, freeing your arm. And then… back to the barn to clean the hog floors.

You are a great dad, a good coach and I love you. Lynn

Dear Dad,

Today I was thinking about the overflow room at church where we helped to fold and stuff the bulletins when it was your turn to usher. On those Sundays, being allowed to ring the church bell by pulling on the big rope in the closet – what a thrill! Sitting in the back or in the balcony when farm chores made us late for church –how embarrassing! You taught us to say “amen” in our heads whenever Pastor Mentick took a breath during his long, dull (for me) sermons. Eventually, he would say “ amen” out loud at the same time I said it silently and we would be free at last – the rest of the service was an easy downhill slide from there. 

The habit of showing up at church week after week whether we wanted to or not sustained me through some hard times when God seemed distant or absent. Your leadership and your faith have been so important to the mission of that church – thank you for that. What an example you and mom set for all of us. I hope that your faith and our deep love for your will carry you through this time until you rest fully in God's waiting arms. 

Love, Lynn

Dear Dad,

I was in second grade when you took me to the bank to get a checking account so I could pay for my own piano lessons out of my allowance. It was always fun and a little awesome to watch you doing business with the bankers and tellers. Was there a serious one with glasses named MaryLou? I didn’t really understand how farming worked – sometimes taking out loans, sometimes buying things for next year at this year’s prices, the big checks we would bring home from Dubuque after riding up with Grandpa Gray and a load of cattle, your “bookwork” laid out on the table for weeks before going to see your tax person, listening to Max Armstrong on WGN doing the farm market reports, your distinctive handwriting on the checks. You’re so smart. I hope you’re enjoying the boys today. 

Love, Lynn

Living the Dream

"I had a dream about you." 
For good reason, I am wary of conversations with parishioners that begin this way. I have dreams about them, too - mostly anxiety dreams in which I can't locate my sermon, forgot it was Sunday or neglected to wear pants for worship. In one such dream, I hastily fashioned a dress for myself out of a large brown trash bag I found under the sacristy sink. Cinched with an extension cord I unplugged from the wall, no one seemed to notice my makeshift apparel or my extreme embarrassment.

"Actually, it was a dream about your dad."
Whoa, that hardly seems fair - he rarely appears in my dreams since his death last August. As Dad's health declined but before he was so miserable I had stopped praying for more time, I did dream about him - whole and healthy, thin and weak, laughing and too silent, living and already dead. In the last year, I have been surprised by the breathtaking completeness of his absence. Going to the cemetery, walking in his footsteps, eating peanut butter kisses, listening to a Chicago Cubs' game - nothing works to conjure a feeling of closeness.

"I'm supposed to tell you to write down your stories. It might help."
What to make of this dreamy beyond-the-grave declaration from a church friend? Writing has been complicated by grief - pulling together a sermon or newsletter article or sometimes a single good sentence demands more time and energy than it used to.

On the eve of All Saints' Sunday, a day we remember and celebrate our place among the saints of all time and all places, I think I'll try. When Dad was dying, it was my goal to send him a note every day - something I remembered, something I was grateful for, something that made me laugh or something I deeply regretted. Perhaps I will start there. Stay tuned.