The day I was born, my dad was fifty one.
My mom was thirty one.
As a child, I never really noticed that my parents were different from other couples.
I simply thought, as most children do, that our family was just the way that every family was.
My dad had jet black hair, he never dyed it. In fact, he never had a strand of grey until his early sixties.
He always smiled, had a hearty and infectious laugh.
He had an opinion on just about everything, and was never shy about sharing it.
He enjoyed few things more than a good debate.
He loved to read his bible, he carried around a pocket size green New Testament like a child with their favorite toy.
I write in the past tense, because it seems that my daddy, the one who wrestled with me and my sisters on the floor, who sang hymns in the most powerful voice, is gone.
His heart still beats,
But my daddy was taken from me,
And what remains is a shell of who he once was.
I feel robbed.
I feel angry.
Everyone who knew him only on the surface marvels at his recovery.
They all say he is doing great!
They are all blind.
It’s not the worst it could be, I am so grateful that it’s not worse.
After all strokes paralyze people,
They kill people.
My dad is still here, in a distant sense,
But when I look in his eyes I see someone so different from the man that I love.
He does not sing anymore, even in church.
My father always reminded me of a song bird, his voice was strong and passionate and filled with joy. He loved to sing. Now his lips are silent.
He does not debate or spark up conversations anymore, he sits in silence.
His eyes seem vacant, when he speaks he is confused.
I feel as though I lost him, that I have been losing him for several years now.
I feel as though our time together is slipping through my fingers like tiny grains of sand.
The harder I try to hold onto each moment, the faster it slips away.
We went for a walk today, and every conversation attempted fell flat, yet somehow I was so grateful just to be walking next to him, to spend those few sweet hours together.
Our days truly are numbered, The reality of which is hitting me like a ton of bricks over the last few months.
I feel robbed.
I am only twenty one.
I should get more time with him that this.
His life, his legacy was so great, and I am only getting to experience the finale.
I supposed there are so man ways that I should count myself blessed,
But it is so difficult to do that when I see how frustrated and unhappy he is.
I think he feels himself slipping away too, and he doesn’t know now to make it stop.
We cannot slow the clock, we have no control over our own lives.
We think we do, but the reality is that only God decides how the story plays out.
That is the scariest part of it all, that in the end, none of what we want really matters.
All we can do is trust God for the strength to take that next step,
To climb that next mountain with our heads held high.
All we can do is hold on for dear life, with our faith to guide us, knowing in the end, God knew what was best when we didn’t.